Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant

THE MASSACRE AT SCIO.3

Weep not for Scio's children slain;Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed,Sends not its cry to Heaven in vainFor vengeance on the murderer's head.Though high the warm red torrent ranBetween the flames that lit the sky,Yet, for each drop, an armèd manShall rise, to free the land, or die.And for each corpse, that in the seaWas thrown, to feast the scaly herds,A hundred of the foe shall beA banquet for the mountain-birds.Stern rites and sad shall Greece ordainTo keep that day along her shore,Till the last link of slavery's chainIs shattered, to be worn no more.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT

An Indian girl was sitting whereHer lover, slain in battle, slept;Her maiden veil, her own black hair,4Came down o'er eyes that wept;And wildly, in her woodland tongue,This sad and simple lay she sung:"I've pulled away the shrubs that grewToo close above thy sleeping head,And broke the forest-boughs that threwTheir shadows o'er thy bed,That, shining from the sweet southwest,The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest."It was a weary, weary roadThat led thee to the pleasant coast,Where thou, in his serene abode,Hast met thy father's ghost;Where everlasting autumn liesOn yellow woods and sunny skies."'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,That shod thee for that distant land;'Twas I thy bow and arrows laidBeside thy still cold hand;Thy bow in many a battle bent,Thy arrows never vainly sent."With wampum-belts I crossed thy breast,And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,And laid the food that pleased thee best,In plenty, by thy side,And decked thee bravely, as becameA warrior of illustrious name."Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passedThe long dark journey of the grave,And in the land of light, at last,Hast joined the good and brave;Amid the flushed and balmy air,The bravest and the loveliest there."Yet, oft to thine own Indian maidEven there thy thoughts will earthward stray —To her who sits where thou wert laid,And weeps the hours away,Yet almost can her grief forget,To think that thou dost love her yet."And thou, by one of those still lakesThat in a shining cluster lie,On which the south wind scarcely breaksThe image of the sky,A bower for thee and me hast madeBeneath the many-colored shade."And thou dost wait and watch to meetMy spirit sent to join the blessed,And, wondering what detains my feetFrom that bright land of rest,Dost seem, in every sound, to hearThe rustling of my footsteps near."

ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION

Far back in the ages,The plough with wreaths was crowned;The hands of kings and sagesEntwined the chaplet round;Till men of spoil disdained the toilBy which the world was nourished,And dews of blood enriched the soilWhere green their laurels flourished.– Now the world her fault repairs —The guilt that stains her story;And weeps her crimes amid the caresThat formed her earliest glory.The proud throne shall crumble,The diadem shall wane,The tribes of earth shall humbleThe pride of those who reign;And War shall lay his pomp away; —The fame that heroes cherish,The glory earned in deadly frayShall fade, decay, and perish.Honor waits, o'er all the earth,Through endless generations,The art that calls her harvest forth,And feeds th' expectant nations.

RIZPAH

And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and they hanged them in the hill before the Lord; and they fell all seven together, and were put to death in the days of the harvest, in the first days, in the beginning of barley-harvest.

And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until the water dropped upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest upon them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.

2 Samuel, xxi. 10.Hear what the desolate Rizpah said,As on Gibeah's rocks she watched the dead.The sons of Michal before her lay,And her own fair children, dearer than they:By a death of shame they all had died,And were stretched on the bare rock, side by side.And Rizpah, once the loveliest of allThat bloomed and smiled in the court of Saul,All wasted with watching and famine now,And scorched by the sun her haggard brow,Sat mournfully guarding their corpses there,And murmured a strange and solemn air;The low, heart-broken, and wailing strainOf a mother that mourns her children slain:"I have made the crags my home, and spreadOn their desert backs my sackcloth bed;I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks,And drunk the midnight dew in my locks;I have wept till I could not weep, and the painOf the burning eyeballs went to my brain.Seven blackened corpses before me lie,In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky.I have watched them through the burning day,And driven the vulture and raven away;And the cormorant wheeled in circles round,Yet feared to alight on the guarded ground.And when the shadows of twilight came,I have seen the hyena's eyes of flame,And heard at my side his stealthy tread,But aye at my shout the savage fled:And I threw the lighted brand to frightThe jackal and wolf that yelled in the night."Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons,By the hands of wicked and cruel ones;Ye fell, in your fresh and blooming prime,All innocent, for your father's crime.He sinned – but he paid the price of his guiltWhen his blood by a nameless hand was spilt;When he strove with the heathen host in vain,And fell with the flower of his people slain,And the sceptre his children's hands should swayFrom his injured lineage passed away."But I hoped that the cottage-roof would beA safe retreat for my sons and me;And that while they ripened to manhood fast,They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the past;And my bosom swelled with a mother's pride,As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side,Tall like their sire, with the princely graceOf his stately form, and the bloom of his face."Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart,When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart!When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed,And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid,And clung to my sons with desperate strength,Till the murderers loosed my hold at length,And bore me breathless and faint aside,In their iron arms, while my children died.They died – and the mother that gave them birthIs forbid to cover their bones with earth."The barley-harvest was nodding white,When my children died on the rocky height,And the reapers were singing on hill and plain,When I came to my task of sorrow and pain.But now the season of rain is nigh,The sun is dim in the thickening sky,And the clouds in sullen darkness restWhere he hides his light at the doors of the west.I hear the howl of the wind that bringsThe long drear storm on its heavy wings;But the howling wind and the driving rainWill beat on my houseless head in vain:I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scareThe beasts of the desert, and fowls of air."

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL

I saw an aged man upon his bier,His hair was thin and white, and on his browA record of the cares of many a year; —Cares that were ended and forgotten now.And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.Then rose another hoary man and said,In faltering accents, to that weeping train:"Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead?Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain,Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,Nor when the yellow woods let fall the ripened mast."Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,And leaves the smile of his departure, spreadO'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head."Why weep ye then for him, who, having wonThe bound of man's appointed years, at last,Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done,Serenely to his final rest has passed;While the soft memory of his virtues, yet,Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set?"His youth was innocent; his riper ageMarked with some act of goodness every day;And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage,Faded his late declining years away.Meekly he gave his being up, and wentTo share the holy rest that waits a life well spent."That life was happy; every day he gaveThanks for the fair existence that was his;For a sick fancy made him not her slave,To mock him with her phantom miseries.No chronic tortures racked his aged limb,For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him."And I am glad that he has lived thus long,And glad that he has gone to his reward;Nor can I deem that Nature did him wrong,Softly to disengage the vital cord.For when his hand grew palsied, and his eyeDark with the mists of age, it was his time to die."

THE RIVULET

This little rill, that from the springsOf yonder grove its current brings,Plays on the slope awhile, and thenGoes prattling into groves again,Oft to its warbling waters drewMy little feet, when life was new.When woods in early green were dressed,And from the chambers of the westThe warm breezes, travelling out,Breathed the new scent of flowers about,My truant steps from home would stray,Upon its grassy side to play,List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn,And crop the violet on its brim,With blooming cheek and open brow,As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.And when the days of boyhood came,And I had grown in love with fame,Duly I sought thy banks, and triedMy first rude numbers by thy side.Words cannot tell how bright and gayThe scenes of life before me lay.Then glorious hopes, that now to speakWould bring the blood into my cheek,Passed o'er me; and I wrote, on high,A name I deemed should never die.Years change thee not. Upon yon hillThe tall old maples, verdant still,Yet tell, in grandeur of decay,How swift the years have passed away,Since first, a child, and half afraid,I wandered in the forest shade.Thou, ever-joyous rivulet,Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet;And sporting with the sands that paveThe windings of thy silver wave,And dancing to thy own wild chime,Thou laughest at the lapse of time.The same sweet sounds are in my earMy early childhood loved to hear;As pure thy limpid waters run;As bright they sparkle to the sun;As fresh and thick the bending ranksOf herbs that line thy oozy banks;The violet there, in soft May dew,Comes up, as modest and as blue;As green amid thy current's stress,Floats the scarce-rooted watercress;And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen,Still chirps as merrily as then.Thou changest not – but I am changedSince first thy pleasant banks I ranged;And the grave stranger, come to seeThe play-place of his infancy,Has scarce a single trace of himWho sported once upon thy brim.The visions of my youth are past —Too bright, too beautiful to last.I've tried the world – it wears no moreThe coloring of romance it wore.Yet well has Nature kept the truthShe promised in my earliest youth.The radiant beauty shed abroadOn all the glorious works of God,Shows freshly, to my sobered eye,Each charm it wore in days gone by.Yet a few years shall pass away,And I, all trembling, weak, and gray,Bowed to the earth, which waits to foldMy ashes in the embracing mould,(If haply the dark will of FateIndulge my life so long a date),May come for the last time to lookUpon my childhood's favorite brook.Then dimly on my eye shall gleamThe sparkle of thy dancing stream;And faintly on my ear shall fallThy prattling current's merry call;Yet shalt thou flow as glad and brightAs when thou met'st my infant sight.And I shall sleep – and on thy side,As ages after ages glide,Children their early sports shall try,And pass to hoary age and die.But thou, unchanged from year to year,Gayly shalt play and glitter here;Amid young flowers and tender grassThy endless infancy shall pass;And, singing down thy narrow glen,Shalt mock the fading race of men.

MARCH

The stormy March is come at last,With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;I hear the rushing of the blast,That through the snowy valley flies.Ah, passing few are they who speak,Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak,Thou art a welcome month to me.For thou, to northern lands, againThe glad and glorious sun dost bring,And thou hast joined the gentle trainAnd wear'st the gentle name of Spring.And, in thy reign of blast and storm,Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,When the changed winds are soft and warm,And heaven puts on the blue of May.Then sing aloud the gushing rillsIn joy that they again are free,And, brightly leaping down the hills,Renew their journey to the sea.The year's departing beauty hidesOf wintry storms the sullen threat;But in thy sternest frown abidesA look of kindly promise yet.Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,And that soft time of sunny showers,When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,Seems of a brighter world than ours.

CONSUMPTION

Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shineToo brightly to shine long; another SpringShall deck her for men's eyes – but not for thine —Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,And the vexed ore no mineral of power;And they who love thee wait in anxious griefTill the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should comeGently, to one of gentle mould like thee,As light winds wandering through groves of bloomDetach the delicate blossom from the tree.Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain;And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.

AN INDIAN STORY

"I know where the timid fawn abidesIn the depths of the shaded dell,Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides,With its many stems and its tangled sides,From the eye of the hunter well."I know where the young May violet grows,In its lone and lowly nook,On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throwsIts broad dark bough, in solemn repose,Far over the silent brook."And that timid fawn starts not with fearWhen I steal to her secret bower;And that young May violet to me is dear,And I visit the silent streamlet near,To look on the lovely flower."Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walksTo the hunting-ground on the hills;'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks,With her bright black eyes and long black locks,And voice like the music of rills.He goes to the chase – but evil eyesAre at watch in the thicker shades;For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs,And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize,The flower of the forest maids.The boughs in the morning wind are stirred,And the woods their song renew,With the early carol of many a bird,And the quickened tune of the streamlet heardWhere the hazels trickle with dew.And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,Ere eve shall redden the sky,A good red deer from the forest shade,That bounds with the herd through grove and glade,At her cabin-door shall lie.The hollow woods, in the setting sun,Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay;And Maquon's sylvan labors are done,And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they wonHe bears on his homeward way.He stops near his bower – his eye perceivesStrange traces along the ground —At once to the earth his burden he heaves;He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves;And gains its door with a bound.But the vines are torn on its walls that leant,And all from the young shrubs thereBy struggling hands have the leaves been rent,And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent,One tress of the well-known hair.But where is she who, at this calm hour,Ever watched his coming to see?She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower;He calls – but he only hears on the flowerThe hum of the laden bee.It is not a time for idle grief,Nor a time for tears to flow;The horror that freezes his limbs is brief —He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheafOf darts made sharp for the foe.And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feetWhere he bore the maiden away;And he darts on the fatal path more fleetThan the blast hurries the vapor and sleetO'er the wild November day.'Twas early summer when Maquon's brideWas stolen away from his door;But at length the maples in crimson are dyed,And the grape is black on the cabin-side —And she smiles at his hearth once more.But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold,Where the yellow leaf falls not,Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold,There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould,In the deepest gloom of the spot.And the Indian girls, that pass that way,Point out the ravisher's grave;"And how soon to the bower she loved," they say,"Returned the maid that was borne awayFrom Maquon, the fond and the brave."

SUMMER WIND

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunkThe dew that lay upon the morning grass;There is no rustling in the lofty elmThat canopies my dwelling, and its shadeScarce cools me. All is silent, save the faintAnd interrupted murmur of the bee,Settling on the sick flowers, and then againInstantly on the wing. The plants aroundFeel the too potent fervors: the tall maizeRolls up its long green leaves; the clover droopsIts tender foliage, and declines its blooms.But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,As if the scorching heat and dazzling lightWere but an element they loved. Bright clouds,Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven —Their bases on the mountains – their white topsShining in the far ether – fire the airWith a reflected radiance, and make turnThe gazer's eye away. For me, I lieLanguidly in the shade, where the thick turf,Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,Retains some freshness, and I woo the windThat still delays his coming. Why so slow,Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earthCoolness and life. Is it that in his cavesHe hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,The pine is bending his proud top, and nowAmong the nearer groves, chestnut and oakAre tossing their green boughs about. He comes;Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!The deep distressful silence of the sceneBreaks up with mingling of unnumbered soundsAnd universal motion. He is come,Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,And bearing on their fragrance; and he bringsMusic of birds, and rustling of young boughs,And sound of swaying branches, and the voiceOf distant waterfalls. All the green herbsAre stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,By the road-side and the borders of the brook,Nod gayly to each other; glossy leavesAre twinkling in the sun, as if the dewWere on them yet, and silver waters breakInto small waves and sparkle as he comes.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS

It is the spot I came to seek —My father's ancient burial-place,Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,Withdrew our wasted race.It is the spot – I know it well —Of which our old traditions tell.For here the upland bank sends outA ridge toward the river-side;I know the shaggy hills about,The meadows smooth and wide,The plains, that, toward the southern sky,Fenced east and west by mountains lie.A white man, gazing on the scene,Would say a lovely spot was here,And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,Between the hills so sheer.I like it not – I would the plainLay in its tall old groves again.The sheep are on the slopes around,The cattle in the meadows feed,And laborers turn the crumbling ground,Or drop the yellow seed,And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.Methinks it were a nobler sightTo see these vales in woods arrayed,Their summits in the golden light,Their trunks in grateful shade,And herds of deer that bounding goO'er hills and prostrate trees below.And then to mark the lord of all,The forest hero, trained to wars,Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,And seamed with glorious scars,Walk forth, amid his reign, to dareThe wolf, and grapple with the bear.This bank, in which the dead were laid,Was sacred when its soil was ours;Hither the silent Indian maidBrought wreaths of beads and flowers,And the gray chief and gifted seerWorshipped the god of thunders here.But now the wheat is green and highOn clods that hid the warrior's breast,And scattered in the furrows lieThe weapons of his rest;And there, in the loose sand, is thrownOf his large arm the mouldering bone.Ah, little thought the strong and braveWho bore their lifeless chieftain forth —Or the young wife that weeping gaveHer first-born to the earth,That the pale race, who waste us now,Among their bones should guide the plough.They waste us – ay – like April snowIn the warm noon, we shrink away;And fast they follow, as we goToward the setting day —Till they shall fill the land, and weAre driven into the Western sea.But I behold a fearful sign,To which the white men's eyes are blind;Their race may vanish hence, like mine,And leave no trace behind,Save ruins o'er the region spread,And the white stones above the dead.Before these fields were shorn and tilled,Full to the brim our rivers flowed;The melody of waters filledThe fresh and boundless wood;And torrents dashed and rivulets played,And fountains spouted in the shade.Those grateful sounds are heard no more,The springs are silent in the sun;The rivers, by the blackened shore,With lessening current run;The realm our tribes are crushed to getMay be a barren desert yet.

SONG

Dost thou idly ask to hearAt what gentle seasonsNymphs relent, when lovers nearPress the tenderest reasons?Ah, they give their faith too oftTo the careless wooer;Maidens' hearts are always soft:Would that men's were truer!Woo the fair one when aroundEarly birds are singing;When, o'er all the fragrant ground,Early herbs are springing:When the brookside, bank, and grove,All with blossoms laden,Shine with beauty, breathe of love, —Woo the timid maiden.Woo her when, with rosy blush,Summer eve is sinking;When, on rills that softly gush,Stars are softly winking;When through boughs that knit the bowerMoonlight gleams are stealing;Woo her, till the gentle hourWake a gentler feeling.Woo her when autumnal dyesTinge the woody mountain;When the dropping foliage liesIn the weedy fountain;Let the scene, that tells how fastYouth is passing over,Warn her, ere her bloom is past,To secure her lover.Woo her when the north winds callAt the lattice nightly;When, within the cheerful hall,Blaze the fagots brightly;While the wintry tempest roundSweeps the landscape hoary,Sweeter in her ear shall soundLove's delightful story.

HYMN OF THE WALDENSES

Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flockCry to thee, from the desert and the rock;While those, who seek to slay thy children, holdBlasphemous worship under roofs of gold;And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airsThat nurse the grape and wave the grain, are theirs.Yet better were this mountain wilderness,And this wild life of danger and distress —Watchings by night and perilous flight by day,And meetings in the depths of earth to pray —Better, far better, than to kneel with them,And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn.Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder; the firm landTosses in billows when it feels thy hand;Thou dashest nation against nation, thenStillest the angry world to peace again.Oh, touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons —The murderers of our wives and little ones.Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forthUnveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth.Then the foul power of priestly sin and allIts long-upheld idolatries shall fall.Thou shalt raise up the trampled and oppressed,And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest.

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN.5

Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wildMingled in harmony on Nature's face,Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy footFail not with weariness, for on their topsThe beauty and the majesty of earth,Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forgetThe steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st,The haunts of men below thee, and aroundThe mountain-summits, thy expanding heartShall feel a kindred with that loftier worldTo which thou art translated, and partakeThe enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt lookUpon the green and rolling forest-tops,And down into the secrets of the glens,And streams that with their bordering thickets striveTo hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once,Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds,And swarming roads, and there on solitudesThat only hear the torrent, and the wind,And eagle's shriek. There is a precipiceThat seems a fragment of some mighty wall,Built by the hand that fashioned the old world,To separate its nations, and thrown downWhen the flood drowned them. To the north, a pathConducts you up the narrow battlement.Steep is the western side, shaggy and wildWith mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint,And many a hanging crag. But, to the east,Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs —Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbearTheir weather-beaten capitals, here darkWith moss, the growth of centuries, and thereOf chalky whiteness where the thunderboltHas splintered them. It is a fearful thingTo stand upon the beetling verge, and seeWhere storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall,Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the baseDashed them in fragments, and to lay thine earOver the dizzy depth, and hear the soundOf winds, that struggle with the woods below,Come up like ocean murmurs. But the sceneIs lovely round; a beautiful river thereWanders amid the fresh and fertile meads,The paradise he made unto himself,Mining the soil for ages. On each sideThe fields swell upward to the hills; beyond,Above the hills, in the blue distance, riseThe mountain-columns with which earth props heaven.There is a tale about these reverend rocks,A sad tradition of unhappy love,And sorrows borne and ended, long ago,When over these fair vales the savage soughtHis game in the thick woods. There was a maid,The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed,With wealth of raven tresses, a light form,And a gay heart. About her cabin-doorThe wide old woods resounded with her songAnd fairy laughter all the summer day.She loved her cousin; such a love was deemed,By the morality of those stern tribes,Incestuous, and she struggled hard and longAgainst her love, and reasoned with her heart,As simple Indian maiden might. In vain.Then her eye lost its lustre, and her stepIts lightness, and the gray-haired men that passedHer dwelling, wondered that they heard no moreThe accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looksWere like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said,Upon the Winter of their age. She wentTo weep where no eye saw, and was not foundWhere all the merry girls were met to dance,And all the hunters of the tribe were out;Nor when they gathered from the rustling huskThe shining ear; nor when, by the river's side,They pulled the grape and startled the wild shadesWith sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian damesWould whisper to each other, as they sawHer wasting form, and say, The girl will die.One day into the bosom of a friend,A playmate of her young and innocent years,She poured her griefs. "Thou know'st, and thou alone,"She said, "for I have told thee, all my love,And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life.All night I weep in darkness, and the mornGlares on me, as upon a thing accursed,That has no business on the earth. I hateThe pastimes and the pleasant toils that onceI loved; the cheerful voices of my friendsSound in my ear like mockings, and, at night,In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls,Calls me and chides me. All that look on meDo seem to know my shame; I cannot bearTheir eyes; I cannot from my heart root outThe love that wrings it so, and I must die."It was a summer morning, and they wentTo this old precipice. About the cliffsLay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skinsOf wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribeHere made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed,Like worshippers of the elder time, that GodDoth walk on the high places and affectThe earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had onThe ornaments with which her father lovedTo deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl,And bade her wear when stranger warriors cameTo be his guests. Here the friends sat them down,And sang, all day, old songs of love and death,And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers,And prayed that safe and swift might be her wayTo the calm world of sunshine, where no griefMakes the heart heavy and the eyelids red.Beautiful lay the region of her tribeBelow her – waters resting in the embraceOf the wide forest, and maize-planted gladesOpening amid the leafy wilderness.She gazed upon it long, and at the sightOf her own village peeping through the trees,And her own dwelling, and the cabin roofOf him she loved with an unlawful love,And came to die for, a warm gush of tearsRan from her eyes. But when the sun grew lowAnd the hill shadows long, she threw herselfFrom the steep rock and perished. There was scooped,Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave;And there they laid her, in the very garbWith which the maiden decked herself for death,With the same withering wild-flowers in her hair.And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribeBuilt up a simple monument, a coneOf small loose stones. Thenceforward all who passed,Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stoneIn silence on the pile. It stands there yet.And Indians from the distant West, who comeTo visit where their fathers' bones are laid,Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this dayThe mountain where the hapless maiden diedIs called the Mountain of the Monument.