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, 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. AN INDIAN STORY. 89 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, 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, 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 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 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, 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 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, 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 Was stolen away from his door; But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And she smiles at his hearth once more. AN INDIAN STORY. 91 But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, Where the yellow leaf falls not, Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, In the deepest gloom of the spot. And the Indian girls, that pass that way, "And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, From Maquon, the fond and the brave." SUMMER WIND. Ir is a sultry day; the sun has drunk That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Feel the too potent fervours: the tall maize. But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, Shining in the far ether-fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie |