Mrs Hunter died at London, on the 7th January 1821, after a lingering illness.  Several of her lyrics had for some years appeared in the collections of national poetry.  Those selected for the present work have long maintained a wide popularity.  The songs evince a delicacy of thought, combined with a force and sweetness of expression.

THE INDIAN DEATH-SONG.

    The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
    But glory remains when their lights fade away. 
    Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain,
    For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

    Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
    Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low. 
    Why so slow?  Do you wait till I shrink from the pain? 
    No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

    Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
    And the scalps which we bore from your nation away: 
    Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain;
    But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

    I go to the land where my father is gone;
    His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. 
    Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain,
    And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn’d to complain.

MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.

    My mother bids me bind my hair
      With bands of rosy hue,
    Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
      And lace my boddice blue.

    “For why,” she cries, “sit still and weep,
      While others dance and play?”
    Alas!  I scarce can go or creep,
      While Lubin is away.

    ’Tis sad to think the days are gone,
      When those we love were near;
    I sit upon this mossy stone,
      And sigh when none can hear.

    And while I spin my flaxen thread,
      And sing my simple lay,
    The village seems asleep or dead,
      Now Lubin is away.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.[4]

    Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide,
      Through mazy windings o’er the plain;
    I ’ll in some lonely cave reside,
      And ever mourn my faithful swain.

    Flower of the forest was my love,
      Soft as the sighing summer’s gale,
    Gentle and constant as the dove,
      Blooming as roses in the vale.

    Alas! by Tweed my love did stray,
      For me he search’d the banks around;
    But, ah! the sad and fatal day,
      My love, the pride of swains, was drown’d.

    Now droops the willow o’er the stream;
      Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove;
    Dire fancy paints him in my dream;
      Awake, I mourn my hopeless love.