Chapter VIII: Song of Indian Women

The Dark eye has left us, The Spring-bird has flown; On the pathway of spirits She wanders alone. The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore Mat wonck kunna-monee![6] We hear it no more!

O dark water Spirit We cast on thy wave These furs which may never Hang over her grave; Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

Of the strange land she walks in No Powah has told: It may burn with the sunshine, Or freeze with the cold. Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore: Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

The path she is treading Shall soon be our own; Each gliding in shadow Unseen and alone! In vain shall we call on the souls gone before: Mat wonck kunna-monee! They hear us no more!

O mighty Sowanna![7] Thy gateways unfold, From thy wigwam of sunset Lift curtains of gold!

Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

So sang the Children of the Leaves beside The broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide; Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell, On the high wind their voices rose and fell. Nature's wild music,--sounds of wind-swept trees, The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze, The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong,-- Mingled and murmured in that farewell song.

1844.