But there is grief to-day.
A voice is heard within thy marble walls,
A voice lamenting for the youthful dead;
For o'er the relics of her forest boy
The mother of dead Empires weeps. And lo!
Clad in white robes the long procession moves;
Youths throng around the bier, and high in front,
Star of our hope, the glorious cross is reared,
Triumphant sign. The low, sweet voice of prayer,
Flowing spontaneous from the spirit's depths,
Pours its rich tones; and now the requiem swells,
Now dies upon the ear.
But there is one [Footnote: His cousin Hamlin.]
Who stands beside my brother's grave, and tho' no tear
Dims his dark eye, yet does his spirit weep.
With beating heart he gazes on the spot
Where his young comrade shall forever rest.
For they together left their forest home,
Led by Father Reese, who to their fathers preached
Glad tiding of great joy; the holy man my brother,
Who sleeps beneath the soil the Father Reese's labors blessed.
How must the spirit mourn, the bosom heave,
Of that lone Indian boy! No tongue can speak
The accents of his tribe, and as he bends
In melancholy mood above the dead,
Imagination clothes his tearful thoughts
In rude but plaintive cadences.
Soft be my brother's sleep!
At nature's call the cypress here shall wave,
The wailing winds lament above the grave,
The dewy night shall weep.
And he thou leavest forlorn,
Oh, he shall come to shade my brother's grave with moss,
To plant what thou didst love—the mystic cross,
To hope, to pray, to mourn.
No marble here shall rise;
But o'er thy grave he'll teach the forest tree
To lift its glorious head and point to thee,
Rejoicing in the skies.
And when it feels the breeze,
I'll think thy spirit wakes that gentle sound
Such as our fathers thought when all around
Shook the old forest leaves.
Dost thou forget the hour, my brother,
When first we heard the Christian's hope revealed,
When fearless warriors felt their bosoms yield
Beneath Almighty power?
Then truths came o'er us fast,
Whilst on the mound the missionary stood
And thro' the list'ning silence of the wood
His words like spirits passed.
And oh, hadst thou been spared,
We two had gone to bless our fathers' land,
To spread rich stores around, and hand in hand
Each holy labor shared.
But here the relics of my brother lie,
Where nature's flowers shall bloom o'er nature's child,
Where ruins stretch, and classic art has piled
Her monuments on high.