Poor Father Menard--he was ill;
in his breast burned the fire of a fever;
All in vain was the magical skill
of _Wicasta Wakan_ [61] with his rattle;
Into soft, child-like slumber he fell,
and awoke in the land of the blessed--
To the holy applause of "Well-done!"
and the harps in the hands of the angels.
Long he carried the cross and he won
the coveted crown of a martyr.
In the land of the heathen he died,
meekly following the voice of his Master,
One mourner alone by his side--
Ta-te-psin's compassionate daughter.
She wailed the dead father with tears,
and his bones by her kindred she buried.
Then winter followed winter. The years
sprinkled frost on the head of her father;
And three weary winters she dreamed
of the fearless and fair, bearded Frenchmen;
At midnight their swift paddles gleamed
on the breast of the broad Mississippi,
And the eyes of the brave strangers beamed
on the maid in the midst of her slumber.
She lacked not admirers;
the light of the lover oft burned in her _teepee_--
At her couch in the midst of the night,--
but she never extinguished the flambeau.
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