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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.


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
Swept with the current : fearful was the speed
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray
Rose with the cataract's thunder.-Yet within,
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone,
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast,
A woman stood: upon her Indian brow

Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair wav'd
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child,

In its bright slumber, to her beating heart,

And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile

Above the sound of waters, high and clear,
Wafting a wild proud strain, her song of death.

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


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


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


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;

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