Lo! by the river-shore Wenona weeping,

Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping,

While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying,

Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing.

Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing?

Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing?

Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely,

Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only.

Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry,

Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby.

Sleep on, my warrior son!

Ne'er to his childhood's home,

Waiting our greeting smile,

Will thy brave father come.

Shouting the loud death-cry

With the grim warrior band,

Singing the giant's songs,

Dwells he in spirit land.

Turning from brave to brave,

See his keen eye

I knew when he left me,

(The strawberries grew

On the prairies green,

And the wild pigeon flew

Swift o'er the spirit lakes,)

Then o'er my heart

Came a dark shadow

Ne'er to depart.

I watched, from the door

Of my tupee,18 the band

As they turned from their home

To the Chippeways' land.

I watched and I wept,

As thy father, the last

Of the many tall braves,

From my tearful gaze passed.

Wake not, my young son,

For thy father sleeps sound,

And his stiffened corse lies

On his enemy's ground.

Wake not, my brave child,

Thou wilt wrestle, too soon,

With the miseries of life,—

'Tis the red man's dark doom.

O'er the fate of the Indian

The Great Spirit has cast

The spell of the white man—

His glory is past.

Like the day that is dying

As fades the bright sun,

Like the warrior expiring

When the battle is done.

Soon no more will our warriors

Meet side by side,

To talk of their nation,

Its power and pride.

'Tis the white man who rules us

And tramples us down;

We are slaves, and must crouch

When our enemies frown.

Sleep on, my young son,

I'd fain have thee know

As the warrior departs

Did thy brave father go.

He feared not the white man,

While the Chippeway knew

He could boast when he scalped

The Dacota he slew.

Sleep on, to our desolate

Tupee we go;

Soon the winter winds come,

And the cold and the snow.

I have listened full oft,

As the white woman told

Of the city of life,

Where the bright waters rolled;

Where tears never come,

Where the night turns to day,—

I gladly would go there,

But know not the way.

Ah! ye who have taken

From the red man his lands,

Who have crushed his proud spirit,

And bound his strong hands;

If ye see our sad race

In ignorance bowed down,

And care not to see it,

Ye have hearts made of stone.

Sleep on, my young son,

For soon will we know

If to the heaven of the white man

The Dacota may go.

We are children of earth,

We must meekly toil on

'Till the Great Spirit call us,

My warrior son!