A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England

One fault! for when thy glowing pen
Portrayed the scene of festive pleasure,
And bade it breathe and move again—
The mirthful strain—the graceful measure,—

It did not tell of one regret
For her, who shares thy grief—thy joy;
And didst thou, dearest, quite forget?
And had that scene no sad alloy?

I know by mine own heart it had,
Wherever play its pulses free,—
Alone—in crowds—serene—or sad—
In shade or shine—they play for thee!

204

I too last evening joined the throng,
I too beheld in rapture's trance,
Like some wild vision waked by song,
The graceful “spirit of the dance.”

In guise of Indian girl she walked,
The forest-fawn less light of foot;
And while each look, each motion talked,
Her step—her voice—alike were mute!

Torn from her home—a trembling child,
Of sense and speech bereft by fear;
She comes—a wanderer from the wild,—
Nor knows that long-lost home is near.

Her sister strives, by many an art,
To bring back memory's power—in vain!
She clasps her red-boy to her heart,—
She's pining for the woods again!

“See, love, the chain you used to wear,”—
That out-stretched hand! that look of joy!
Alas! no memory wakens there,—
To her 'tis but a pleasing toy!

205

But hark! a soft and soothing strain!
The song her mother used to sing!
'Tis o'er!—she strives for it again,
As if her spirit would take wing.

Again it comes!—the trinkets fall,—
She rises with the music's swell!
Struggles for utterance—breaks the thrall!—
“Mother!” she sighed, and lifeless fell!

And now, her warrior-love is low;
Her gun is seized—raised—aimed—oh heaven!
They lift her child before the foe!
She shrieks—as if her heart were riven!

“Conanchet dies”—dark Uncas said;
Her arms around his neck she threw,
And moan'd, while mournful droop'd her head,
“Then Narramattah will die too!”

In the next scene her chief is slain,—
And she, o'erwhelmed with woe unspoken,
Creeps to him—takes his hand—and then
Dies silently,—her heart is broken!

206

She dies! the Indian girl!—but oh!
When the dark curtain rose again,
Celeste! how radiant was the glow
Of life, o'er all thy features then!

She comes! “the spirit of the dance!”
And but for those large, eloquent eyes,
Where passion speaks in every glance,
She'd seem a wanderer from the skies!

So light—that gazing breathless there,
Lest the celestial dream should go,
You'd think the music in the air
Waved the fair vision to and fro!

Or that the melody's sweet flow
Within the radiant creature played!
And those soft wreathing arms of snow,
And white sylph-feet the music made.

Now gliding slow with dreamy grace,
Her eyes beneath their lashes, lost,
Now motionless, with lifted face,
And small hands on her bosom crossed.

207

And now—with flashing eyes she springs,
Her whole bright figure raised in air;
As if her soul had spread its wings,
And poised her one wild instant there!

She spoke not—but so richly fraught
With language are her glance and smile;
That when the curtain fell, I thought
She had been talking all the while!

Yet, though so lost in rapture's trance,
Too oft beyond my reason's will,
That I forgot myself, perchance,—
Thou, dearest, wert remembered still.

In every scene of tenderness,
At every proof of noble pride,
Through all the heroine's wild distress,
I wished that thou wert by my side.

Yes! I too sometimes join the throng,
I smile—when smiling eyes I see;
I watch the dance—I list the song,
But everywhere I think of thee!

University of Virginia Library

LETTER TO AN ABSENT FRIEND,

On seeing Celeste for the first time in “The Wept of Wish ton Wish” (Written many years since.)