148 A TRAUITION OF WYOMING. 



But, where is he, the hunter boy. 

 Who sallied forth at morn ? 



Alas ! he comes not back to cheer 

 Those parents now forlorn. 



Sad tales of Indian massacre 



Flit through their troubled dreams ; 

 Each moaning whisper of the wind 



A ^igh of anguish seems. 

 The night-howl of the famished wolf, 



Comes mournful on the ear, 

 And brings before their sleepless eyes 



Ten thousand shapes of fear. 



Now, frosty winter comes apace, 



The summer birds are still, 

 And icy fetters wrap their links 



About each wandering rill. 

 Again, the springing grass appears 



Upon each sunny slope, 

 And flowers and blossoms wear again 



The tender hues of hope. 



But Albert's parents yet are sad, 



Nor hope lor future joy ; 

 For Spring that brings the merry birds 



Can not give back their boy. 

 And now it chanced some forest lads 



Who loamed the country o'er, 

 Espied poor Albert's mangled corpse 



Beside a brooklet's shore. 



A frightful gash from Indian steel 



Defaced his forehead fair. 

 And many a drop of gentle blood 



Had stained his silken hair. — 

 Hard by his parents' humble cot 



He fell by cruel blow. 

 And icy Winter wrapped him in 



His winding-sheet of snow. 



Then, sorrowing friends who dwelt around. 



An oath of vengeance swore ; 

 But, toward that harrowing scene of blood. 



No Indian ventured more. 

 The wigwam and the bark canoe 



Were seen no more again. 

 And on the hillocks of their dead 



Now bends the white man's grain. 



