Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL

"In the vicinity of Montrose, Wisconsin Territory, the only daughter of an Indian woman of the Sac tribe, died of lingering consumption, at the age of eighteen. A few of her own race, and a few of the pale-faces were at the grave, but none wept, save the poor mother."

—HERALD OF THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI.

A voice upon the prairies A cry of woman's woe, That mingleth with the autumn blast All fitfully and low; It is a mother's wailing; Hath earth another tone Like that with which a mother mourns Her lost, her only one?

Pale faces gather round her, They mark'd the storm swell high That rends and wrecks the tossing soul, But their cold, blue eyes are dry.

Pale faces gaze upon her, As the wild winds caught her moan, But she was an Indian mother, So she wept her tears alone.

Long o'er that wasted idol, She watch'd, and toil'd, and pray'd, Though every dreary dawn reveal'd Some ravage Death had made, Till the fleshless sinews started, And hope no opiate gave, And hoarse, and hollow grew her voice, An echo from the grave.

She was a gentle creature, Of raven eye and tress, And dove-like were the tones that breath'd Her bosom's tenderness, Save when some quick emotion, The warm blood strongly sent, To revel in her olive-cheek So richly eloquent.

I said Consumption smote her, And the healer's art was vain, But she was an Indian maiden, So none deplor'd her pain;

None, save that widow'd mother, Who now by her open tomb, Is writhing like the smitten wretch Whom judgment marks for doom.

Alas! that lowly cabin, That bed beside the wall, That seat beneath the mantling vine, They're lone and empty all. What hand shall pluck the tall, green corn That ripeneth on the plain? Since she for whom the board was spread Must ne'er return again.

Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden, Nor let thy murmuring shade Grieve that those pale-brow'd ones with scorn Thy burial rite survey'd; There's many a king whose funeral A black-rob'd realm shall see, For whom no tear of grief is shed Like that which fails for thee.

Yea, rest thee, forest maiden! Beneath thy native tree; The proud may boast their little day Then sink to dust like thee:

But there's many a one whose funeral With nodding plumes may be, Whom nature nor affection mourn, As here they mourn for thee.