One day into the bosom of a friend,
A playmate of her young and innocent years,
She poured her griefs.  “Thou know’st, and thou alone,”
She said, “for I have told thee, all my love,
And guilt, and sorrow.  I am sick of life. 
All night I weep in darkness, and the morn
Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed,
That has no business on the earth.  I hate
The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once
I loved; the cheerful voices of my friends
Have an unnatural horror in mine ear. 
In dreams my mother, from the land of souls,
Calls me and chides me.  All that look on me
Do seem to know my shame; I cannot bear
Their eyes; I cannot from my heart root out
The love that wrings it so, and I must die.”

It was a summer morning, and they went
To this old precipice.  About the cliffs
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins
Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe
Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed,
Like worshippers of the elder time, that God
Doth walk on the high places and affect
The earth-o’erlooking mountains.  She had on
The ornaments with which her father loved
To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl,
And bade her wear when stranger warriors came
To be his guests.  Here the friends sat them down,
And sang, all day, old songs of love and death,
And decked the poor wan victim’s hair with flowers,
And prayed that safe and swift might be her way
To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief
Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 
Beautiful lay the region of her tribe
Below her—­waters resting in the embrace
Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades
Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 
She gazed upon it long, and at the sight
Of her own village peeping through the trees,
And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof
Of him she loved with an unlawful love,
And came to die for, a warm gush of tears
Ran from her eyes.  But when the sun grew low
And the hill shadows long, she threw herself
From the steep rock and perished.  There was scooped
Upon the mountain’s southern slope, a grave;
And there they laid her, in the very garb
With which the maiden decked herself for death,
With the same withering wild flowers in her hair. 
And o’er the mould that covered her, the tribe
Built up a simple monument, a cone
Of small loose stones.  Thenceforward all who passed,
Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone
In silence on the pile.  It stands there yet. 
And Indians from the distant West, who come
To visit where their fathers’ bones are laid,
Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day
The mountain where the hapless maiden died
Is called the Mountain of the Monument.

AFTER A TEMPEST.