When, next morn, the lodge he sought,
And boiled samp and moose-meat brought
For the boy, he found him dead.
As with grief his grave they made,
And his bow beside him laid,
Pipe and knife, and wampum-braid--
On the lodge-top overhead,
Preening smooth its breast of red
And the brown coat that it wore,
Sat a bird, unknown before.
And as if with human tongue,
"Mourn me not," it said, or sung;
"I, a bird, am still your son,
Happier than if hunter fleet,
Or a brave, before your feet
Laying scalps in battle won.
Friend of man, my song shall cheer
Lodge and corn-land hovering near.
To each wigwam I shall bring
Tidings of the coming spring;
Every child my voice shall know
In the moon of melting snow,
When the maple's red bud swells,
And the wild flower lifts its bells.
As their fond companion
Men shall henceforth own your son,
And my song shall testify
That of human kin am I."
Thus the Indian legion saith
How, at first, the robin came
With a sweeter life from death,
Bird for boy, and still the same.
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