 | The heir of the world, and lesser poems |  |
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THE INDIAN MAID.
“I cannot wed the foreign chief, my heart can never bear
Another image than the one that like a star dwells there!
The flowers of love will never blow beside his cabin fire,
Nor olive grow around my path—oh, hear me, warrior sire!”
Another image than the one that like a star dwells there!
The flowers of love will never blow beside his cabin fire,
Nor olive grow around my path—oh, hear me, warrior sire!”
Then fell the chieftain's evil eye, and burned his serpent brow,
While thus his kneeling child besought in anguish deep and low,
“I would not scorn thy will to wed—but let me ever dwell,
Dear father! like a lone bird far from wedlock's holy cell!”
While thus his kneeling child besought in anguish deep and low,
“I would not scorn thy will to wed—but let me ever dwell,
Dear father! like a lone bird far from wedlock's holy cell!”
The dark chief turned, and on her cast his battle look of fear,
And whispered low a single word it shook her soul to hear;
Then, glancing at the eastern sun, and pointing to the wood,
The lion savage strode away to glut his feast of blood.
And whispered low a single word it shook her soul to hear;
Then, glancing at the eastern sun, and pointing to the wood,
The lion savage strode away to glut his feast of blood.
But little recked that warrior stern what woman's heart can dare,
When love is blasted in its bud, and life is long despair;
He never search'd those depths of light that in her bosom lie,
Like stars 'mid the mysterious blue of autumn's solemn sky.
When love is blasted in its bud, and life is long despair;
He never search'd those depths of light that in her bosom lie,
Like stars 'mid the mysterious blue of autumn's solemn sky.
The forest monarch strode away, and left the maid alone,
To drink at passion's poison cup—the dream of pleasure gone;
The sun lay low upon the pines—the appointed hour had come,
The maiden's voice was all unheard amid the gathering gloom.
To drink at passion's poison cup—the dream of pleasure gone;
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The maiden's voice was all unheard amid the gathering gloom.
The feast was spread, the rites prepared, but yet no bride drew near,
And eager hope, deferred, grew sick, and doubt was leagued with fear;
When suddenly, while thus they stood beneath a craggy height,
A shadow gleamed along the cliffs—a voice invoked the night:
And eager hope, deferred, grew sick, and doubt was leagued with fear;
When suddenly, while thus they stood beneath a craggy height,
A shadow gleamed along the cliffs—a voice invoked the night:
“Light ye the fire of sacrilege! bring burden, bow and brand,
But where's the dove of sacrifice? behold me where I stand!
With wampum-belt and tomahawk the chief awaits his slave,
But I will wed with wildwood worms—my bridegroom is the grave!”
But where's the dove of sacrifice? behold me where I stand!
With wampum-belt and tomahawk the chief awaits his slave,
But I will wed with wildwood worms—my bridegroom is the grave!”
With hollow shrieks and savage wail, her sire besought her then,
To save his aged heart alive among the olive men;
And wildly up the rugged rock her shuddering mother ran,
While the dark foreign chief forgot the grandeur of the man.
To save his aged heart alive among the olive men;
And wildly up the rugged rock her shuddering mother ran,
While the dark foreign chief forgot the grandeur of the man.
But fixed is woman's purpose strong—and her revenge is deep,
Amid the silent sea of death her torrent passions sleep;
With upraised eyes and outstretched hands, she shrieked her song of death,
And from the dark rocks madly sprung!—still lay the corse beneath!
Amid the silent sea of death her torrent passions sleep;
With upraised eyes and outstretched hands, she shrieked her song of death,
And from the dark rocks madly sprung!—still lay the corse beneath!
| The heir of the world, and lesser poems | |