Fades the day upon the solemn landscape,
Call the dirges through the whispering pine-trees,
Sigh the prisoned zephyrs in the hedges,
Tangling in the locks of yellow jasmine;
Not a shadow cleaves the mellow moonbeams,
Spinning through the mist their silver ladder,
Save the drooping of an eagle pinion,
Flitting o'er the village of White Apple.
Idle hangs the quiver where the spider
Ties with silken threads the useless arrows,
And the bowstring loosened from its tension,
Mourns upon the lissome bow, unbended.
There is sorrow in the land of Natchez,
There is wailing in the solemn temple;
Heavy rest the warriors on their lances,
Mourning, grieving for the fallen Chieftain.
Through the long moon sleeps the young Sehbohleh,
Moving not upon his bed of deerskin;
Icy are the shadow hands that hold him,
Frozen are the shadow chains that bind him,
And the deep mouths of the wounds upon him,
Open wide their cold blue lips in sorrow.
Hears he not the chanting of his people,
Hears he not the mourning of the women,
Hears he not the wailing of Wanola,
Feels he not the symbol on his forehead,
Writ by old Mominche's trembling finger,
In the warm blood dripping from her bosom,
From the wounds of love her hand had rended.
Through the long moon grieves the wife, Wanola,
Mourning on the bosom of her lover,
Wailing out upon the lonely hilltops,
Till the eyes of love are dim with weeping,
And the arms of love but waste in sorrow,
Stretching o'er the hollow Vastness, calling
Down the Way of Souls, Tchi-pai-mas-ke-nau;
" Heavy wear the ways of life upon me,
Sehbohleh, Oh! Sehbohleh!
Empty are the arms that sadly seek thee,
Through the long night watches, sad with silence;
And the gifts that press thy lips, untasted,
Crumbling, clamor of the old moon's waning,
Oh! Sehbohleh!
Seest thou the red blood drops upon thee?
Sehbohleh, Oh! Sehbohleh!
Come unto this wounded breast, my husband,
Oh! Sehbohleh!
Come, else take the life the Great Sil gaveth —
Life, that life, I would not keep without thee, —
Quickly come from out the way of shadows,
Oh! Sehbohleh!
Weary wears thy dream upon my sleeping,
Sehbohleh, Oh! Sehbohleh!
And the startled pulses leap in terror, —
Oh! Sehbohleh!
Heavy press the burdens of my grieving,
And the tiny heart beneath my girdle,
Gives its first throb to an earth-born sorrow;
Grieves within his cell, thy unborn chieftain,
Oh! Sehbohleh!
Call the dirges through the whispering pine-trees,
Sigh the prisoned zephyrs in the hedges,
Tangling in the locks of yellow jasmine;
Not a shadow cleaves the mellow moonbeams,
Spinning through the mist their silver ladder,
Save the drooping of an eagle pinion,
Flitting o'er the village of White Apple.
Idle hangs the quiver where the spider
Ties with silken threads the useless arrows,
And the bowstring loosened from its tension,
Mourns upon the lissome bow, unbended.
There is sorrow in the land of Natchez,
There is wailing in the solemn temple;
Heavy rest the warriors on their lances,
Mourning, grieving for the fallen Chieftain.
Through the long moon sleeps the young Sehbohleh,
Moving not upon his bed of deerskin;
Icy are the shadow hands that hold him,
Frozen are the shadow chains that bind him,
And the deep mouths of the wounds upon him,
Open wide their cold blue lips in sorrow.
Hears he not the chanting of his people,
Hears he not the mourning of the women,
Hears he not the wailing of Wanola,
Feels he not the symbol on his forehead,
Writ by old Mominche's trembling finger,
In the warm blood dripping from her bosom,
From the wounds of love her hand had rended.
Through the long moon grieves the wife, Wanola,
Mourning on the bosom of her lover,
Wailing out upon the lonely hilltops,
Till the eyes of love are dim with weeping,
And the arms of love but waste in sorrow,
Stretching o'er the hollow Vastness, calling
Down the Way of Souls, Tchi-pai-mas-ke-nau;
" Heavy wear the ways of life upon me,
Sehbohleh, Oh! Sehbohleh!
Empty are the arms that sadly seek thee,
Through the long night watches, sad with silence;
And the gifts that press thy lips, untasted,
Crumbling, clamor of the old moon's waning,
Oh! Sehbohleh!
Seest thou the red blood drops upon thee?
Sehbohleh, Oh! Sehbohleh!
Come unto this wounded breast, my husband,
Oh! Sehbohleh!
Come, else take the life the Great Sil gaveth —
Life, that life, I would not keep without thee, —
Quickly come from out the way of shadows,
Oh! Sehbohleh!
Weary wears thy dream upon my sleeping,
Sehbohleh, Oh! Sehbohleh!
And the startled pulses leap in terror, —
Oh! Sehbohleh!
Heavy press the burdens of my grieving,
And the tiny heart beneath my girdle,
Gives its first throb to an earth-born sorrow;
Grieves within his cell, thy unborn chieftain,
Oh! Sehbohleh!