The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, Where the mists of evening were spreading wide, Then the hunter turned away from that scene, The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, When years had passed on, by that still lake-side And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow F2 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 Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose, Far over the silent brook. "And that timid fawn starts not with fear 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, And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, The flower of the forest maids. 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, A good red deer from the forest shade, The hollow woods, in the setting sun, And Maquon's sylvan labours are done, 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 leart, 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- And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 'T was 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 a pine grove, dark and cold, Nor the Autumn shines in scarlet and gold, There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, And the Indian girls, that pass that way, "And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, THE SOUL OF SONG. Where lives the Soul of song? Dwells it amid the city's festive halls? Or where the wanderer's silent footstep falls? Loves it the gay saloon, Where wine and dances steal away the night, And bright as summer noon Burns round the pictured walls a blaze of light? Seeks it the public square, When victory hails the people's chosen son, And loud applauses there From lip to lip in emulous greetings run? Dwells it amid the host,. Who bear their crimson banners waving high; |