Light follow’d on, as when a summer breeze
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade,
And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was made
Even such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide,
By faith and sorrow raised and purified,
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led,
Until their prayers were one. When morning spread
O’er the blue lake, and when the sunset’s glow
Touch’d into golden bronze the cypress bough,
And when the quiet of the Sabbath-time