SONNET TO Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine 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 Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, "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 And that young May violet to me is dear, Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks '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; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, 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 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, And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won He bears on his homeward way. He stops near his bower-his eye perceives At once to the earth his burden he heaves, He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, ! But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, And all from the young shrubs there And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent, But where is she who, at this calm hour, She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower; It is not a time for idle grief, Nor a time for tears to flow; The horror that freezes his limbs is brief- Of darts made sharp for the foe. And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast that hurries the vapour and sleet O'er the wild November day. "Twas early summer when Maquon's bride But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And she smiles at his hearth once more. But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, 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." |