The forest minstrel :: :: University of Virginia Library

The weary hunter paused upon the hill
What time the sun lay smiling in the west;
The winds were sleeping, and the mountain rill
Seemed lingering in the silent bowers to rest.

He doffed his cap, and wiped his sunburnt brow,
Leaned on his gun, and scanned the scene around;
His noble dog approached him, crouching low,
And lay down wearily upon the ground.

'Twas autumn, and the forests were arrayed
In kingly costume, purple and bright gold;
While here and there, a deep green cluster stayed,
And lingering flowers their fragrant silks unrolled.

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Ripe nuts were strewn profusely on the ground,
Tall trees were bending 'neath the clustered vine,
Even rugged rocks with berried garlands crowned,
Could boast their blessing from the hand Divine.

The hunter looked to heaven with humid eye,
Then sat him down upon the mountain's brow,
And gazed, with drooping mien and many a sigh,
Upon the pleasant vale that lay below.

“Twelve years!”—he said at length—“oh! what a change
Twelve years have wrought in this soft vale and me;
The very spot I called my own is strange,—
I look in vain e'en for my favourite tree.

“Oh, happy were the seasons when I roved
A careless boy along that river's side;
And happier far, when with the maid I loved,
I watched the moonlight trembling on the tide;

“Or marked young love's pure spirit on her face,
Weaving his rosy garland of delight,
Where neither grief or care had left a trace,
Or crossed one joy-beam with the shade of night.

“There stands the noble elm that threw its shade
So many summers at my father's door;
Its limbs are broken now, its heart decayed,
And the green foliage crowns its head no more.

“And she who loved me with a mother's love,
Who 'neath that elm-tree sung her lullaby,
From that loved home, long since compelled to rove,
I saw her in a land of strangers die.

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“Those black and crumbling ruins mark the spot
Of my own household hearth, my blessed home
Of treasures that can never be forgot,
While in the wilderness of life I roam.

“There's happiness in that rich valley now,
And glad hearts cluster round each household stone,
While, I, a lone thing on the mountain's brow,
Have neither house or hearth to call my own.

“Oh, desolation! how thine icy seal
Lies like a leaden tomb upon my breast,
Crushing a heart, no balm can soothe or heal;
Wearing a spirit that can never rest.”

He paused, and bowed his face upon his knee,
And his clasped hands dropped listless from his brow,
While big tears fell so slow and silently,
As from the fountain of a deep-felt wo.

Poor Ponto, wondering why his master grieves,
Licks kindly from his hand the falling tears;—
Hark! There's a distant rustle of the leaves,
The dog starts forward, and erects his ears.

The practised hunter soon detects the sound,
And his keen eye is watching for the game,
When from the cover of a verdant mound,
Amid the clustering greens, an object came.

He raised his trusty rifle to his eye,—
A spotted fawn appears; the hills resound;
What means that wild and agonizing cry?
A human creature has received the wound.

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With terror wild he hastened to the place,
And there, apparently in death, was laid
A young and lovely girl of Indian race,
In fawnskin mantle tastefully arrayed.

He stooped to aid her, but she shrank away,
And shrieked and struggled with intense alarms,
Till, overcome with fear and agony,
She hid her face, and fainted in his arms.

“Oh, I have murdered her!” the hunter said,
As o'er his arm her head drooped languidly;
And her rough mantle, falling back, displayed
Her arms and bosom, white as ivory.

Rich curls of bright brown hair were clustered round
Her polished shoulder, where the warm red blood
Was leaping from a wide and rugged wound,
Like the impetuous gushing of a flood.

He probed its depth, and his despairing heart
Leaped up, as hope awoke amid his fears;
The girl revived, as he essayed his art
To staunch her blood and soothe away her fears.

And like the captured fawn, that artless maid
Soon ceased to fear her captor, spoke and smiled,
And poured her thanks for his assiduous aid,
With all the simple fervour of a child.

“Thy heart is like the red man's heart,” she said;
“It melts with pity for a helpless maid,

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So when the warriors of my people bled,
The tomahawk above my brow was stayed;

“And Wonah bore me in his arms away
To the bright border of the silver lake;
And I was happy there, oh, many a day,—
Yet sometimes then my little heart would ache,

“With misty memories of a lovely vale,
And tall flowers clustering on a river's side,
Fair fruit-trees bending to the fragrant gale,
And cultured fields, and meadows smooth and wide;

“And of a dwelling, where a gentle one,
With soft blue eyes, smiled ever on my play,
And soothed my sorrow with such balmy tone,
Who nursed, and watched, and taught me, night and day;

“And of a scene of tumult, blood, and fire,
A hideous mingling of shouts, shrieks, and groans;
I saw my dear and gentle nurse expire,
And heard my name amid her latest moans.

“Then I was borne away.” The maiden ceased,
The hunter's hand had clutched with sudden clasp
A bracelet, which her perfect arm embraced,—
Gazed on it, and sunk back with deathlike gasp.

Alarmed, she raised his head upon her knee,
And warm tears fell like rain-drops on his brow,
A trembling hope,which panted fearfully,
Was waking in her heaving bosom now.

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“My child! my own sweet child!” the hunter cried.
“Oh, God be praised, that thou art spared to me!
His Providence has been thy guard and guide,
For he alone could have protected thee.

“How cam'st thou hither, angel of my life,
To meet thy wandering father, who has come
To weep above the ashes of his wife,
And mourn above his desolated home?”

“Father! I could not wed the Indian chief,
Though he has been my brother, kind and true;
I could not bear to see his bitter grief;
I fled, and God directed me to you.”

“And blessed be his name. By yon fair flood,”
The hunter said, “I'll build my bower again,
Plant my young rose-tree, where her mother stood,
And in its balmy shade forget my pain.

“Ah, little thought I, when love's diadem
Was torn by savage warriors from my brow,
That their rough hands had saved the precious gem
Which sheds such blessed radiance o'er me now.”