O’er her low couch an Indian matron hung;
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye,
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by,
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head,
And leaning on his bow.
And life return’d—
Life, but with all its memories of the dead,
To Edith’s heart; and well the sufferer learn’d
Her task of meek endurance—well she wore
The chasten’d grief that humbly can adore