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The Indian Girl's Lament.

By William Cullen Bryant

Topics: classic

An Indian girl was sitting where     Her lover, slain in battle, slept;     Her maiden veil, her own black hair,     Came down o'er eyes that wept;     And wildly, in her woodland tongue,     This sad and simple lay she sung:     "I've pulled away the shrubs that grew     Too close above thy sleeping head,     And broke the forest boughs that threw     Their shadows o'er thy bed,     That, shining from the sweet south-west,     The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.     "It was a weary, weary road     That led thee to the pleasant coast,     Where thou, in his serene abode,     Hast met thy father's ghost:     Where everlasting autumn lies     On yellow woods and sunny skies.     "Twas I the broidered mocsen made,     That shod thee for that distant land;     'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid     Beside thy still cold hand;     Thy bow in many a battle bent,     Thy arrows never vainly sent.     "With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,     And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,     And laid the food that pleased thee best,     In plenty, by thy side,     And decked thee bravely, as became     A warrior of illustrious name.     "Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed     The long dark journey of the grave,     And in the land of light, at last,     Hast joined the good and brave;     Amid the flushed and balmy air,     The bravest and the loveliest there.     "Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid     Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,     To her who sits where thou wert laid,     And weeps the hours away,     Yet almost can her grief forget,     To think that thou dost love her yet.     "And thou, by one of those still lakes     That in a shining cluster lie,     On which the south wind scarcely breaks     The image of the sky,     A bower for thee and me hast made     Beneath the many-coloured shade.     "And thou dost wait and watch to meet     My spirit sent to join the blessed,     And, wondering what detains my feet     From the bright land of rest,     Dost seem, in every sound, to hear     The rustling of my footsteps near."

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"An Indian girl was sitting where..."

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Author:William Cullen Bryant

"An Indian girl was sitting where..." by William Cullen Bryant

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William Cullen Bryant

About William Cullen Bryant

William Cullen Bryant (1794–1878) was an American poet and journalist. His poem "Thanatopsis" (1817) was the first major American poem. He edited the New York Evening Post for 50 years and was a champion of American poetry.

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