And violets round their sweetest perfume shed,
She bore from 'neath the snow with loving care,
And laid beneath their bloom, her treasures dead;
Reared o'er the turf a simple vine-wreathed cross,
Wrought in the winter days by her skilled hand.
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Her island task was done; she turned away
With slow and feeble step, and sought the strand:
Far o'er the waters blue her eyes discerned,
Reflected 'gainst the sky, a distant sail, -
The fair white wings outspread, and gayly caught
Fresh speed from early morning's lightsome gale.
She raised her starved, thin, bony hand above,
And lifted high her pleading voice in prayer:
"Great Spirit, touch my heart, - help me this wrong
Forgive, that fills my life with dark despair!"
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