 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
224
THE INDIAN GIRL.
Her young form looked bright,
In the morn's early light;
Her feet she was bathing in the silver dew.
Their slight traces lay
Along the leafy way,
That led where the evergreen and sweet-briar grew.
In the morn's early light;
Her feet she was bathing in the silver dew.
Their slight traces lay
Along the leafy way,
That led where the evergreen and sweet-briar grew.
A fresh branch she took,
And she went to the brook
To weave it in the locks of her raven hair.
With her eye on the stream,
And her soul in a dream,
She poured out her voice to the wandering air.
And she went to the brook
To weave it in the locks of her raven hair.
With her eye on the stream,
And her soul in a dream,
She poured out her voice to the wandering air.
The clear mirror shone;
But the face was her own!
There still was another that she sighed to see:
For that had an eye
The color of the sky;
And a cheek like the bloom on her wild rose-tree.
But the face was her own!
There still was another that she sighed to see:
For that had an eye
The color of the sky;
And a cheek like the bloom on her wild rose-tree.
Its brow, too, was fair;
And the locks that were there
Were chestnut, and sunny, and turned in the curl:
And that was the face
That in all time and place,
Was painted on the heart of the woodland girl.
And the locks that were there
Were chestnut, and sunny, and turned in the curl:
And that was the face
That in all time and place,
Was painted on the heart of the woodland girl.
225
She wished she could hear
But the bound of the deer,
To tell the young hunter's foot was close behind;
She wished she but knew,
That his soft eye of blue
Could see her glossy hair with the green wreath twined.
But the bound of the deer,
To tell the young hunter's foot was close behind;
She wished she but knew,
That his soft eye of blue
Could see her glossy hair with the green wreath twined.
A wild plaint she sung;
But the rocks only flung
Her voice back in echo, as she called his name;
And sadly she sighed,
And wooed the glassy tide,
To bring back the skiff, that never, never came!
But the rocks only flung
Her voice back in echo, as she called his name;
And sadly she sighed,
And wooed the glassy tide,
To bring back the skiff, that never, never came!
Then slow passed the hours;
And the gay blooming flowers
All took a mournful hue; but she knew not why;
Or what called the tear,
That rolled so warm and clear,
To mingle with the stream, from her full black eye.
And the gay blooming flowers
All took a mournful hue; but she knew not why;
Or what called the tear,
That rolled so warm and clear,
To mingle with the stream, from her full black eye.
Her thoughts wildly strayed
From the deep sylvan shade,
Where now she felt prisoned like a pinioned bird.
She dreamed, past the wood,
That a beauteous world stood,
Whose songs o'er the forest-top she sometimes heard.
From the deep sylvan shade,
Where now she felt prisoned like a pinioned bird.
She dreamed, past the wood,
That a beauteous world stood,
Whose songs o'er the forest-top she sometimes heard.
She longed then, and pined
That far-off world to find;
And if its bright beings held her lost one there,
For whom, morn and eve,
In vain she came to weave
The green leaves, or feathers in her raven hair.
That far-off world to find;
226
For whom, morn and eve,
In vain she came to weave
The green leaves, or feathers in her raven hair.
Her eye lost its light;
And her bloom touched with blight,
Then showed a heart breaking by a secret power,
Till, freed from its clay,
Her spirit passed away;
Her form slept in peace beneath the woodland flower.
And her bloom touched with blight,
Then showed a heart breaking by a secret power,
Till, freed from its clay,
Her spirit passed away;
Her form slept in peace beneath the woodland flower.
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |