  I heard a chant and a wailing, Among the wooded hills, From an Indian hut where they carried away A man from his earthly ills. The black-garbed women were chanting The weirdest song I have heard— An Indian lamentation, Till nature itself seemed stirred. And my heart was filled with pity, As I saw that band forlorn, Its poverty and sorrow— On that bright September morn. And I thought of their ancient story, When the country was all their own, A splendor to us unknown— The glory of forest and prairie, A-teeming with herds and game, And the rivers and streams and glittering lakes— For food but another name. When they were lords of the realms they surveyed, And lived to their heart’s content, Till the white man came and robbed them Of all but their rotting tent. And the chiefs sat down in the ashes Mid the hearth-stones of the past, And a race of pride and adventure Stood round with eyes downcast. And the songs of the chase and the battle, And the ballads of joy were hushed— But the death-chant is still remembered, By hearts that are sad and crushed. And it seemed like the wail of a people Whose sun upon earth has set— The chant of the weeping women, And the men to burial met. |
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