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Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
And the vexed ore no mineral of power ; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of bloom
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.
AN INDIAN STORY.
« I KNOW where the timid fawn abides
In the depths of the shaded dell, Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, With its many stems and its tangled sides,
From the eye of the hunter well.
6. I know where the young May violet grows,
In its lone and lowly nook, On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose,
Far over the silent brook.
" And that timid fawn starts not with fear
When I steal to her secret bower;
To look on the lovely flower.”
Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks
To the hunting-ground on the hills; 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks,
And voice like the music of rills.
He goes to the chase—but evil eyes
Are at watch in the thicker shades;
The flower of the forest maids.
The boughs in the morning wind are stirred,
And the woods their song renew,
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 lie.
The hollow woods, in the setting sun,
Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay;
He bears on his homeward way.
He stops near his bower—his eye perceives
Strange traces along the groundAt 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?
The hum of the laden bee.
It is not a time for idle grief,
Nor a time for tears to flow;
Of darts made sharp for the foe.
And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet,
Where he bore the maiden away;
O’er the wild November day.
'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride
Was stolen away from his door;
And she smiles at his hearth once more.
But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold,
Where the yellow leaf falls not,
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."