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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.
Down a broad river of the western wilds,
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe
A woman stood: upon her Indian brow
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair way'd
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child,
Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream
Father of ancient waters, 5 roll! and bear our lives
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
He flings away the broken reed-roll swifter yet,
The voice that spoke of other days is hush'd within
But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let
me rest ;
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that
I cannot live without that light-Father of waves !
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
Smile !-to that wasting of the heart, my own! I
leave thee not ;