« السابقةمتابعة »
Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
And the vexed ore no mineral of power;
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
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,
"I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook,
On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws
"And that timid fawn starts not with fear
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 boughs in the morning wind are stirred,
And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard
And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,
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;
And Maquon's sylvan labours are done,
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won
He stops near his bower-his eye perceives
At once to the earth his burden he heaves,
But the vines are torn on its walls that leant,
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—
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
'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,
In the deepest gloom of the spot.
And the Indian girls, that pass that
"And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, "Returned the maid that was borne away
From Maquon, the fond and the brave."