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     All these the Sachem's home had known,
When, on her journey long and wild
     To the din World of Souls, alone,
In her young beauty passed the mother of his child.

Three bow-shots from the Sachem's dwelling
     They laid her in the walnut shade,
Where a green hillock gently swelling
     Her fitting mound of burial made.
There trailed the vine in summer hours,
     The tree-perched squirrel dropped his shell,—
On velvet moss and pale-hued flowers,
     Woven with leaf and spray, the softened sunshine fell!

The Indian's heart is hard and cold,
     It closes darkly o'er its care,
And formed in Nature's sternest mould,
     Is slow to feel, and strong to bear.
The war-paint on the Sachem's face,
     Unwet with tears, shone fierce and red,
And still, in battle or in chase,
     Dry leaf and snow-rime crisped beneath his foremost tread.

Yet when her name was heard no more,
     And when the robe her mother gave,
And small, light moccasin she wore,
     Had slowly wasted on her grave,
Unmarked of him the dark maids sped
     Their sunset dance and moonlit play;
No other shared his lonely bed,
     No other fair young head upon his bosom lay.

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