The feast was o’er, the guests were gone, Soon came the tranquil evening on, The bright moon rose above the trees, Soft blew the cooling summer breeze, And forth to enjoy the tranquil hour The sisters sought their greenwood bower. Sweet wild-flowers grew around their seat, A fountain sparkled at their feet, On whose bright bosom trembling lay The dark tree-top and moon’s pale ray. Young Matachanna’s eye shone bright With joy at all this lovely sight, But when on Metoka’s sweet face The moonbeam found a resting-place, It met a look of sadness there, That told her heart was press’d with care. ‘Dear Metoka,’ her sister said, ‘A tear is in your eye; ‘Why are you sad when I am glad? ‘Dear sister, tell me why. ‘And when I smile and kiss your cheek, ‘You answer with a sigh; ‘There is a trembling in your voice; ‘Dear sister, tell me why.’ XIII. ‘O, Matachanna, o’er my life ‘A dark cloud spreads its shade, ‘And willingly would Metoka ‘Be in the green earth laid. ‘For then to that fair land where dwells ‘My spirit-mother, I should go: ‘But here abides no joy for me-- ‘I cannot love Nemattanow. ‘And though rare presents he has brought ‘To win me for his bride, ‘And though he talks me very fair ‘When sitting by my side, ‘And though our father likes him well, ‘And says that I must wed, ‘I cannot love Nemattanow, ‘I rather would be dead. ‘They say that none among our tribes ‘Can draw so true a bow, ‘And none brings home so many scalps ‘As does Nemattanow; ‘And when the hunters’ spoils are shared, ‘His is the largest part; ‘But I cannot love Nemattanow, ‘He has a cruel heart. ‘I love to hear the wild-bird sing ‘Unharm’d in the leafy tree, ‘I love to see the gentle deer ‘Through the forest running free; ‘But ’tis Nemattanow’s delight ‘To slay them with his dart: ‘I cannot love Nemattanow, ‘He has a cruel heart. ‘He cares not for the sweetest flowers ‘That grow beside the spring, ‘He never saves a captive’s life, ‘But a scalp will always bring: ‘How could I live with such a man ‘In his cabin away alone? ‘His heart beats not with tenderness, ‘’Tis hard as any stone.’ XIV. ‘O, sister, do not grieve thee so,’ Young Matachanna said, ‘Our sire will never compel thee, dear, ‘Against thy will to wed. ‘_He_ is not _cruel_, who else may be; ‘His love we oft have tried; ‘And what we both have ask’d of him ‘He never yet denied. ‘I’ll put my arms about his neck ‘And tell him of sister’s wo, ‘And sure he’ll never compel thee, love, ‘To wed Nemattanow.’ XV.