poems.
117
Joy in my heart. The white-man broke
The only flower which bloom'd for me
And left me but a blasted tree.
He came courag'ously to bear
The arrows he could well prepare.
Pride ever shone in his bright eye
To see by them the white-man die.
Twas on a dark and stormy night,
But fires made the prairie bright,
And the bold travellers who fought
Quick found the death they rashly sought.
But one escap'd, and as he fled
He met my boy and shot him dead.'
The only flower which bloom'd for me
And left me but a blasted tree.
He came courag'ously to bear
The arrows he could well prepare.
Pride ever shone in his bright eye
To see by them the white-man die.
Twas on a dark and stormy night,
But fires made the prairie bright,
And the bold travellers who fought
Quick found the death they rashly sought.
But one escap'd, and as he fled
He met my boy and shot him dead.'
A solemn silence reign'd around;
The chieftain rais'd him from the ground,
And leap'd with Odo o'er the brook,
And to the cave his way he took.
Oh, what a fearful scene was there!
Skulls strew'd the rock, and children's hair
Hung streaming in the gloomy wild;—
Deep horror struck the wand'ring child.
The Indian stamp'd, and quickly bore
Young Odo to the grave once more,
He drew his arrow from the bow
And plac'd it on the mound so low,
The chieftain rais'd him from the ground,
And leap'd with Odo o'er the brook,
And to the cave his way he took.
Oh, what a fearful scene was there!
Skulls strew'd the rock, and children's hair
Hung streaming in the gloomy wild;—
Deep horror struck the wand'ring child.
The Indian stamp'd, and quickly bore
Young Odo to the grave once more,
He drew his arrow from the bow
And plac'd it on the mound so low,
