He goes to the chase-but evil eyes Are at watch in the thicker shades;
For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, The flower of the forest maids.
The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, And the woods their song renew,
With the early carol of many a bird,
And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard Where the hazels trickle with dew.
And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,
Ere eve shall redden the sky,
A good red deer from the forest shade,
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, At her cabin-door shall li.
The hollow woods, in the setting sun,
Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay; And Maquon's sylvan labors are done,
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won
He bears on his homeward way.
He stops near his bower-his eye perceives Strange traces along the ground—
At once to the earth his burden he heaves; He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves; And gains its door with a bound.
But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, And all from the young shrubs there By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent, One tress of the well-known hair.
But where is she who, at this calm hour, Ever watched his coming to see?
She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower;
He calls-but he only hears on the flower The hum of the laden bee.
It is not a time for idle grief,
Nor a time for tears to flow;
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief- He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf Of darts made sharp for the foe.
And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet Where he bore the maiden away;
And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast hurries the vapor and sleet O'er the wild November day.
'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride Was stolen away from his door;
But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And the grape is black on the cabin-side- And she smiles at his hearth once more.
But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, Where the yellow leaf falls not,
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, In the deepest gloom of the spot.
And the Indian girls, that pass that way, Point out the ravisher's grave;
"And how soon to the bower she loved," they say,
"Returned the maid that was borne away
From Maquon, the fond and the brave."
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven- Their bases on the mountains-their white tops Shining in the far ether-fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays his coming. Why so slow, Gentle and voluble spirit of the air? Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his proud top, and now Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes;
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves! The deep distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, And sound of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers, By the road-side and the borders of the brook, Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet, and silver waters break Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.
AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS
IT is the spot I came to seek
My fathers' ancient burial-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot-I know it well
Of which our old traditions tell.
For here the upland bank sends out A ridge toward the river-side;
I know the shaggy hills about,
The meadows smooth and wide,
The plains, that, toward the southern sky, Fenced east and west by mountains lie.
white man, gazing on the scene, Would say a lovely spot was here, And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not I would the plain Lay in its tall old groves again.
The sheep are on the slopes around, The cattle in the meadows feed, And laborers turn the crumbling ground, Or drop the yellow seed,
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.
Methinks it were a nobler sight
To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their summits in the golden light, Their trunks in grateful shade, And herds of deer that bounding go O'er hills and prostrate trees below.
And then to mark the lord of all,
The forest hero, trained to wars, Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, And seamed with glorious scars, Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare The wolf, and grapple with the bear.
This bank, in which the dead were laid, Was sacred when its soil was ours; Hither the silent Indian maid
Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, And the gray chief and gifted seer Worshipped the god of thunders here.
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