He slept! the dying Indian slept!

A balmy peace had o’er him crept,

And for the moment kept

His senses steeped

In calm and sweet repose,—

Such as the dying Christian only knows.

Consumption’s work was done;

Its racking course was run;

His flesh was wasted, gone;

He seemed but skin and bone,

A breathing skeleton—

Deep silence reigned—no sound,

Save the light fluttering round

Of scattered leaflets, found

Upon the frozen ground,

And the gently whispering breeze,

Soft sighing through the trees,

Was in the wigwam heard;

The voice of man, and beast, and bird,

Were hushed—save the deep drawn sigh,

And the feeble wail of the infant’s cry,

Soothed by the mother’s sobbing lullaby,

And bursts of grief from children seated nigh,

Waiting to see their father die.

Kindred and friends were there,

Gathered for prayer,

To soothe the suffering and the grief to share;

And Angel Bands were near,

Waiting with joy to bear

A ransomed spirit to that World on high,

That “Heaven of joy and love, beyond the Sky.”