Lachaon's Lament

The white chieftain came when my warriors were sleeping—The fume of the fire-water lulled them to rest;The white chieftain went, but he bore in his keepingThe wild forest blossom I wore on my breast.The voice of my people is weary with calling;My braves trod the blossoms of forest and plainBut the last flower is pale, and the sear leaf is falling,Yet the child of Lachaon, she comes not again.

The day-god will rise from his couch on the morrow,The eagle will soar to his nest on the height;But, when shall I rise from the pillow of sorrow—And when will the Lodge of Lachaon be bright?The sons that went forth with my people to battle—My lip quivered not when I knew they were slain?They bared their bold hearts to the death-thunder's rattle—But the wild blossom lives, and she comes not again!

I had laid her bright head where the dark willows, leaningAbove the still waters, a dim shadow throw;And told them of grief—that I knew not its meaning,For the sun-spirits smile when the beautiful go.I 'd know, when the snow-flakes were piled on her pillow,That the stilled heart beneath was as void of a stain;There are shadows of life that could darken death's billow⤔And I mourn that she lives, and comes not again.