"Take me away," said one they called the "Drooping Eye,"

"Bear me where stoops the deer to drink at eve."

She would behold the clouds of heaven float gently by,

And hear the birds' sweet song ere earth to leave.

Close is the wigwam,—oh! give her light and air;

Say, can her spirit wing itself for flight,

Losing the perfume borne from flowers fair,

As comes on them and her the gloom of night?

On them and her,—but they will bloom again,

When breaks the day on earth, by sleep spellbound,—

Refreshed by morning winds, or summer's rain,

Gilding with colours bright the dewy ground.

Oh! bear her gently; lay her feeble form

Close by the lake, where beam the waters bright:

Oft has she watched from here the coming storm,

And oft, as now, the glow of evening's light.

Why weep her friends that fails her parting breath,

That cold the pressure of her powerless hand!

Well do they know the fairies of the lake,

That with its waves have mingled oft her tears,

Here would she nature's solemn silence break

With the death-song of woman's hopes and fears.

I go,—I go,

Where is heard no more

The cry of sorrow or pain;

I will wait for you there,

Where skies are fair,

But I come not to earth again.

Mother, you weep!

Yet my body will sleep

Right near you, by night and by day:

And, when comes the white snow,

You will still weep, I know,

That the summer and I've passed away.

When the storm-spirit scowls,

When the winter-wind howls,

Oh! crouch not in cowardly fear.

Not unwatched, then, the form

That with life once was warm,—

My spirit will ever be near.

My sisters! full well

A dark tale I could tell,

How my lover in death slumbers sound:

My brother's strong arm,

Made the life-blood flow warm:

And he laughed as it covered the ground.

I heard his deep sigh,

I saw his closed eye,

I knew that life's struggle was past.

When his heart ceased to beat,

Then I wept at his feet,—

My first love, my only, my last.

Well my proud brother knew

That my heart was as true

To my love as the bird to its mate.

I go to him there,

Where flowers bloom fair:

Will his spirit the Drooping Eye wait?

Comes quickly my breath!

The dampness of death,

Oh! wipe from my brow with thy hand.

Earth's sorrows are o'er,

I may weep never more,—

Tears are not in that bright spirits' land.