The Indians still believe that in the early dawn may be heard the lamenting song, deploring the infidelity of the husband; and they fancy that at times may be seen the mother, with the children clasped to her breast, in the misty shapes which arise from the fall around the Spirit Island. “Roll on; my warrior’s eye hath looked upon another’s face, And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam’s trace; My shadow comes not o’er his path, my whisper to his dream, He flings away the broken reed; roll swifter yet, thou stream! The voice that spoke of other days is hushed within his breast; But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let me rest. It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is gone; I cannot live without that light—Father of Waves, roll on! Will he not miss the bounding step, that met him from the chase? The heart of love that made his home an ever sunny place? The hand that spread the hunter’s board, and decked his couch of [yore? He will not!—roll, dark, foaming stream, on to the better shore! And there, my babe! though born, like me, for woman’s weary lot; Smile! to that wasting of the heart; my own I leave thee not. Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath must waft away, The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day.” The words are another’s, but the sentiment is the same as uttered by the deserted one, and the same as uttered by a deserted one on the banks of Lake Erie. “I cannot live longer,” said she, and swallowed the poisoned draught her own hands had mixed. Not many specimens of Indian poetry have been preserved, yet they were ever singing. They had a great variety of tunes, and are said to have had a good perception of time. They had not the regular intervals of tones and semitones, but a thousand different sounds recurring at as many irregular intervals. The music and the words of their songs were often impromptu, but the war-songs were in regular verses, and sung as they danced. The voice of the Indian is very rich and capable of high cultivation; and as they become Christianized, this part of public worship is their great delight. During the August of 1790 an Italian nobleman, Count Adriana, visited Mr. Kirkland, at his mission station in Oneida, and was particularly charmed with the musical powers of the Indians, saying—“The melody of their music, and the softness and richness of their voices, he thought were equal to any he ever heard in Italy!” During the French war a party of Indians came from the far north-west to visit Quebec. On their way they stopped at the Moravian Mission, on the banks of Lake Superior, and there a young Algonquin fell in love with a Chippewa maiden, who as ardently returned his passion. As she sailed away in her light canoe she uttered her love and sadness in the following wild strain:—