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THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM

Triumphing over pain and death;

The Light of Truth around him shone, Auspicious of the brighter dawn;

He trusted in the living God,

As washed in Jesu’s precious blood;

No dread of death or priestly power,

Could shake him in that fearful hour,

Nor tyrant’s rod.

The fluttering breath from his palsied lung, No utterance gave to his quivering tongue; But still his ear

\Vas bent to hear

The Words of Truth and Love;

His flashing eye

Glanced toward the sky,

And he Whispered, “ I shall die;

But God is Love; There’s rest above.”

III.

He slept! the dying Indian slept! A balmy peace had o’er him crept, And for the moment kept His senses steeped In calm repose,—— Such as the dying Christian only knows. Consumption’s work was done; Its racking course was run; His flesh was wasted, gone; He seemed but skin and bone, A breathing skeleton— Deep silence reigned-no sound, Save the light fluttering round Of scattered leaflets, found Upon the frozen ground, And the gently Whispering breeze, Soft sighing through the trees,