(Written in her fifteenth year.)

The Indian Chieftain is far away,
Through the forest his footsteps fly,
But his heart is behind him with Conconay,
He thinks of his love in the bloody fray,
When the storm of war is high.

But little he thinks of the bloody foe,
Who is bearing that love away;
And little he thinks of her bosom's woe,
And little he thinks of the burning brow
Of his lovely Conconay.

They tore her away from her friends, from her home,
They tore her away from her Chief.
Through the wild-wood, when weary, they forced her to roam,
Or to dash the light oar in the river's white foam,
While her bosom o'erflowed with grief.

But there came a foot, 't was swift, 't was light,
'T was the brother of him she loved;
His heart was kind, and his eye was bright;
He paused not by day, and he slept not by night,
While through the wild forest he roved.

'T was Lightfoot, the generous, 't was Lightfoot the young,
And he loved the sweet Conconay;
But his bosom to honour and virtue was strung,
And the chords of his heart should to breaking be wrung,
Ere love should gain o'er him the sway.

Far, far from her stern foes he bore her away,
And sought his own forest once more;
But sad was the heart of the young Conconay,
Her bosom recoiled when she strove to be gay,
And was even more drear than before.

'T is evening, and weary, and faint, and weak
Is the beautiful Conconay;
She could wander no farther, she strove to speak,
But lifeless she sunk upon Lightfoot's neck,
And seemed breathing her soul away.

The young warrior raised his eyes to Heaven,
He turned them towards the west;
For one moment a ray of light was given,
Like lightning, which through the cloud hath riven
But to strike at the fated breast.

For there was his brother returning from far,
O'er his shoulder his scalps were slung;
For he had been victor amid the war,
His plume had gleamed like the polar star,
And on him had the victory hung.

The Chieftain paused in his swift career,
For he knew his Conconay;
He saw the maid his heart held dear,
On his brother's breast, in the forest drear,
From her home so far away.

He bent his bow, the arrow flew,
It was aimed at Lightfoot's breast;
And it pierced a heart, as warm and true
As ever a mortal bosom knew,
Or in mortal garb was dressed.

He turned to his love — from her brilliant eye
The cloud was passing away;
She let fall a tear — she breathed a sigh —
She turned towards Lightfoot — she uttered a cry,
For weltering in gore he lay.

Her heart was filled with horror and woe,
When she gazed on the form of her Chief;
'T was his loved hand that had bent the bow,
'T was he who had laid her preserver low;
And she yielded her soul to grief.

And 't was said, that ere time had healed the wound
In the breast of the mourning maid,
That a pillar was reared on the fatal ground,
And ivy the snow-white monument crowned
With its dark and jealous shade.