Hark! I hear his low, musical voice!
he is coming! My White Chief is coming!
Ah, no, I am half in a dream!--
'twas the memory of days long departed;
But the birds of the green Summer seem
to be singing above in the branches."
Then forth from her bosom she drew
the crucified Jesus in silver.
In her dark hair the cold north-wind blew,
as meekly she bent o'er the image.
"O Christ of the Whiteman," she prayed,
"lead the feet of my brave to Kathaga;
Send a good spirit down to my aid,
or the friend of the White Chief will perish."
Then a smile on her wan features played,
and she lifted her pale face and chanted
"E-ye-he-kta! E-ye-he-kta!
He-kta-ce; e-ye-ce-quon.
Mi-Wamdee-ska, he-he-kta,
He-kta-ce, e-ye-ce-quon,
Mi-Wamdee-ska."
[TRANSLATON]
He will come; he will come;
He will come, for he promised.
My White Eagle, he will come;
He will come, for he promised----
My White Eagle.
Thus sadly she chanted, and lo--
allured by her sorrowful accents--
From the dark covert crept a red roe
and wonderingly gazed on Winona.
Pages:
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247