Janet McRea.
By George Pope Morris
She heard the fight was over,
And won the wrath of fame!
When tidings from her lover,
With his good war-steed came:
To guard her safely to his tent,
The red-men of the woods were sent.
They led her where sweet waters gush!
Under the pine-tree bough!
The tomahawk is raised to crush--
'Tis buried in her brow!--
She sleeps beneath that pine-tree now!
Her broken-hearted lover
In hopeless conflict died!
The forest-leaves now cover
That soldier and his bride!
The frown of the Great Spirit fell
Upon the red-men like a spell!
No more those waters slake their thirst,
Shadeless to them that tree!
O'er land and lake they roam accurst,
And in the clouds they see
Thy spirit, unavenged, McRea!