The words were in the Delaware tongue, and composed by herself—the melodies (for more than one were introduced into the irregular chaunt) were such as she had caught or mingled from Indian minstrelsy, and the whole owed its only attraction to the sweet and varied tones of her voice. The first measure was a low recitative, which might be thus rendered in English:— “The sun sinks behind the western hills; Deep red are the curtains of his couch. One by one the stars appear; Many they are and lustrous. The pale moon is among them! They walk in their appointed path, Singing on their way, ‘God made us all!’ _Machelenda sutch Ktelewunsoacan_, or Hallowed be thy name.” Here the measure changed, and sweeping the strings with a bolder hand, she continued her untutored hymn, blending her Christian creed with the figures and expressions of the people among whom she dwelt. “The Great Spirit of the Lenapé is God. He has sent His word to gladden the heart of man. But clouds still darken the minds of the ancient people. The Great Spirit knows that they are blind and deaf, Yet His ear is open to hear, His hand is ready to guide. (_ut suprà._) Hallowed be thy name!” Again the measure changed, as in the richest tones of her melodious voice she pursued her theme. “Sion and the everlasting mountains are thy footstool! Lightnings are about thy throne. Thunder is thy voice. And the evil spirit trembles before thee! The eagle cannot soar to thy habitation; His eye cannot look on thy brightness; Yet dost thou give life to the insect, And breath to the merry wren! Thou leadest the wild horse to the pasture, And the thirsty fawn to the stream. Hallowed be thy name.” Here the measure resumed its low and plaintive melody, as she thus concluded her song. “Who sings the praise of God? It is ‘Prairie–bird,’ the poor child of the wilderness. But God spurns not her prayer; She is a stray–leaf, that knows not the tree Whence the rude wind hath blown it; But God planted the parent stem. And not a branch or leaf thereof is hid from His sight. The young whip–poor–will flies to its mother’s nest, The calf bleats to the bison–cow: No mother’s voice says to Olitipa,’Come here!’ The wide prairie is her home! God is a Father to Olitipa! Hallowed be thy name!”