INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG. An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi toward a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's Expedition to the source of St. Peter's River. INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG. Non, je ne puis vivre avec un coeur brisé. Il faut que je retrouve la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de l'air. Bride of Messina, Translated by MADAME DE STAEL. Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman. The Prairie. Down a broad river of the western wilds, Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair wav'd In its bright slumber, to her beating heart, And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile Above the sound of waters, high and clear, Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream and free! Father of ancient waters, 5 roll! and bear our lives with thee! The weary bird that storms have toss'd, would seek the sunshine's calm, And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to the woods of balm. Roll on!--my warrior's eye hath look'd face, upon another's And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moon beam's trace; My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper to his dream, He flings away the broken reed-roll swifter yet, thou stream! The voice that spoke of other days is hush'd within his breast, But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let me rest; It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is gone, I cannot live without that light-Father of waves! roll on! Will he not miss the bounding step that met him from the chase? The heart of love that made his home an ever sunny place? The hand that spread the hunter's board, and deck'd his couch of yore? He will not!-roll, dark foaming stream, on to the better shore! Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright land must flow, Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory of this wo; Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath. may waft away The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day. And thou, my babe! tho' born, like me, for woman's weary lot, Smile to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee not; |