CHEQUERED CLOUD.
THE AGED SIOUX WOMAN.
I would tell you of a friend of mine:
She's neither rich nor fair;
The snows of many winters
Have bleached her raven hair.
The brightness of her large black eye
Has been dimmed for many years;
And the furrows in her cheek were made
By time and shedding tears.
She is an Indian woman,
And me has often told
Traditions of her native land,
And legends sung of old;
Of battles fiercely fought and won,
Of the warrior as he fell,
While he tried to shield from a fearful death
The wife he loved so well.
Ask her whence her nation came:
With a smile she will reply,
"The Dacotas aye have owned this land,
Where the eagle soars so high;
Where Mississippi's waters flow,
Through bluffs and prairies wide;
Where by Minesota's sandy shore
The wild rice grows beside."
Ask her of her warrior sons,
Who rose up by her side—
Enah! in the fearful battle,
And by sickness they have died—
And of her gentle daughter:
See the tear steals lowly down,
As the memory of the slaughter
Of that frightful night comes on.
Many have been her sorrows,
While ever to her breast
Sickness or want or suffering came,
Like a familiar guest.
Yet, she says there was a time
When her step was light and free,
And her voice as joyous as the bird
That sings in the forest tree.
I said she was my friend:—
I am not one of those,
Who from the wealthy or the great
Companionship would choose.
The soul that animates her frame
Is as gifted and as free,
And will live for ever,—like the one
That God has given me.
She worships the Great Spirit,
Yet often does she tell
Of the fairies that inhabit
Mountain, river, rock, and dell.
She will say to kill a foe
Of religion is a part;
Yet underneath her bosom beats
A kind and noble heart.
She has ever loved to listen
To the savage shout and dance;
To see the red knife glisten
O'er the dying Chippeway's glance.
To watch the prisoner, burning,
Confronting at the stake
His enemies, who vainly strive
His spirit proud to break.
Judge her kindly,—and remember,
She was not taught in youth
To bend the knee and lift the heart
To the God of love and truth.
"Love ye your foes," said He who brought
To us the golden rule;
But "eye for eye," was the maxim taught
In the ancient Jewish school.
We know it was a beggar
Who in Abraham's bosom slept,—
And, haply, her ancestors
By Babylon's waters wept.
While poor, like Lazarus, it may be,
From Israel's stock has come
The red man, tracing out on earth
His God-forgotten doom.
Well I knew, when last we parted,
That, if ever we met more,
'Twould be when life's sweet sympathies
And painful cares are o'er.
She said, while down her aged face
The tears coursed rapidly,
"Many a white woman have I known,
But you were kind to me."
Not half as dear to the miser
Is the yellow gold he saves,—
Or the pearl, to the venturous diver,
Which he seeks beneath the waves,
Or the summer breeze, to the drooping flower,
Fresh from the balmy South,
As those grateful words which slowly came
From the Indian woman's mouth.
She has struggled with the ills of life;
For her no parent's prayers
Have risen to the throne of God,
To sanctify life's cares.
But God will judge her kindly:
He sees the sparrow fall;
And, through his Son's atoning blood,
May he mercy show to all!