children lie? 
    And say, what means the flashing
      Of the Indian’s eagle eye? 
    He thinks him of his lonely spouse,
      Within her forest glade;
    Around her silent dwelling
      No children ever played. 
    No voice arose to greet him
      When he at eve would come,
    But sadness ever hovered
      Around his dreary home. 
    Oh! with those lovely rose-buds
      Were my lone hearth-stone blest,
    My richest food should cheer them,
      My softest furs should rest. 
    Their kindred drive us onward,
      Where the setting sunbeams shine;
    They claim our father’s heritage,
      Why may not these be mine? 
    He raised the sleeping children,
      Oh! sad and dreary day! 
    And o’er the dancing waters
      He bore them far away. 
    He wiled their hearts’ young feelings
      With words and actions kind,
    And soon the past went fading
      All dream-like from their mind.

* * * * *

Oh! brightly sped the beaming sun
Along his glorious way,
And feathery clouds of golden light
Around his parting lay. 
In beauty came the holy stars,
All gleaming mid the blue,
It seemed as o’er the lovely earth
A blessed calm they threw. 
A sound of grief arose
On the dewy evening air,
It bore the bitter anguish
Of a mortal’s wild despair;
A wail like that which sounded
Throughout Judea’s land,
When Herod’s haughty minions
Obeyed his dark command. 
The mourning mother wept
Because her babes were not,
Their forms were gone for ever
From each familiar spot. 
Oh! had they sought the river,
And sunk beneath its wave;
Or had the dark recesses
Of the forest been their grave. 
The same deep tinge of sorrow,
Each surmise ever bore;
Her gems from her were taken;
Of their fate she knew no more. 
Long years of withering woe went on,
Each sadly as the last,
To other’s ears the theme became
A legend of the past. 
But she, oh! bright she cherished
Their memory enshrined,
With all a mother’s fondness
And fadeless truth entwined. 
Many a hope she treasured
In sorrow’s gloom had burst,
But still her spirit knew
No grieving like the first. 
Along her faded forehead
The hand of time had crost,
And every furrow told
Her mourning for the lost. 
With such deep love within her,
What words the truth could give,
Howe’er she heard the tidings—­
“Thy children yet they live.” 
But one alone was near,
And with rushing feelings wild,
The aged mother flew
To meet once more her child. 
A moment passed away—­
The lost one slowly came,
And stood before her there—­
A tall and dark-browed dame. 
Far from her swarthy forehead
Her raven hair was roll’d;
She spoke to those around her,
Her voice was stern and cold: