Chapter XIII

‘O, Matachanna, o’er my life
‘A dark cloud spreads its shade,
‘And willingly would Metoka
‘Be in the green earth laid.
‘For then to that fair land where dwells
‘My spirit-mother, I should go:
‘But here abides no joy for me--
‘I cannot love Nemattanow.
‘And though rare presents he has brought
‘To win me for his bride,
‘And though he talks me very fair
‘When sitting by my side,
‘And though our father likes him well,
‘And says that I must wed,
‘I cannot love Nemattanow,
‘I rather would be dead.
‘They say that none among our tribes
‘Can draw so true a bow,
‘And none brings home so many scalps
‘As does Nemattanow;
‘And when the hunters’ spoils are shared,
‘His is the largest part;
‘But I cannot love Nemattanow,
‘He has a cruel heart.
‘I love to hear the wild-bird sing
‘Unharm’d in the leafy tree,
‘I love to see the gentle deer
‘Through the forest running free;
‘But ’tis Nemattanow’s delight
‘To slay them with his dart:
‘I cannot love Nemattanow,
‘He has a cruel heart.
‘He cares not for the sweetest flowers
‘That grow beside the spring,
‘He never saves a captive’s life,
‘But a scalp will always bring:
‘How could I live with such a man
‘In his cabin away alone?
‘His heart beats not with tenderness,
‘’Tis hard as any stone.’

XIV.

‘O, sister, do not grieve thee so,’
Young Matachanna said,
‘Our sire will never compel thee, dear,
‘Against thy will to wed.
‘_He_ is not _cruel_, who else may be;
‘His love we oft have tried;
‘And what we both have ask’d of him
‘He never yet denied.
‘I’ll put my arms about his neck
‘And tell him of sister’s wo,
‘And sure he’ll never compel thee, love,
‘To wed Nemattanow.’

XV.

Now in the monarch’s quiet lodge
Sleep comes its balm to bring,
And o’er the young and innocent
Spreads out its angel wing,
And fans the trembling tear away
From the closed lids at rest,
And steeps in soft forgetfulness
The day-dreams of the breast.