AN INDIAN STORY.

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 that hurries the vapour

O'er the wild November day.

and sleet

'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride
Was stolen away from his door;

But at length the maples in crimson are died,
And the grape is black on the cabin side,—

And she smiles at his hearth once more.

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AN INDIAN STORY.

But far in a 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."

THE HUNTER'S SERENADE.

THY bower is finished, fairest!
Fit bower for hunter's bride-
Where old woods overshadow
The green savanna's side.
I've wandered long, and wandered far,
And never have I met,

In all this lovely western land,

A spot so lovely yet.

But I shall think it fairer,

When thou art come to bless,

With thy sweet smile and silver voice,

Its silent loveliness.

For thee the wild grape glistens,

On sunny knoll and tree,

And stoops the slim papaya

With yellow fruit for thee.
For thee the duck, on glassy stream,
The prairie-fowl shall die,

My rifle for thy feast shall bring

The wild swan from the sky.

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THE HUNTER'S SERENADE.

The forest's leaping panther,
Fierce, beautiful, and fleet,
Shall yield his spotted hide to be
A carpet for thy feet.

I know, for thou hast told me,
Thy maiden love of flowers;
Ah, those that deck thy gardens
Are pale compared with ours.
When our wide woods and mighty lawns
Bloom to the April skies,

The earth has no more gorgeous sight
To show to human eyes.

In meadows red with blossoms,

All summer long, the bee

Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs,
For thee, my love, and me.

Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens
Of ages long ago-

Our old oaks stream with mosses,

And sprout with mistletoe ;

And mighty vines, like serpents, climb

The giant sycamore;

And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries,

Cumber the forest floor;

And in the great savanna

The solitary mound,

Built by the elder world, o'erlooks

The loneliness around.

THE HUNTER S SERENADE.

Come, thou hast not forgotten

Thy pledge and promise quite,
With many blushes murmured,
Beneath the evening light.

Come, the young violets crowd my door,
Thy earliest look to win,

And at my silent window-sill
The jessamine peeps in.
All day the red-bird warbles,
Upon the mulberry near,

And the night-sparrow trills her song,

All night, with none to hear.

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121