 | [Poems by Sargent in] The token and Atlantic souvenir, a Christmas and New Year's present |  |
79
THE LIGHT CANOE.
Beside Missouri's swelling waves
An Indian maiden knelt,
And gazed across the shadowed stream,
And through the forest's belt;
And while the leaves about her fell,
And birds all nestward flew,
“Oh, that I might but see,” she cried,
“My lover's light canoe!”
An Indian maiden knelt,
And gazed across the shadowed stream,
And through the forest's belt;
And while the leaves about her fell,
And birds all nestward flew,
“Oh, that I might but see,” she cried,
“My lover's light canoe!”
The lurid air, the brassy sky,
Await the throbbing gale;
And o'er the pathway of the sun
The loosened vapors sail;
And, spreading east and west, they smirch
Each speck of heavenly blue;
But still the lonely watcher sighs,
“Where is his light canoe?”
Await the throbbing gale;
And o'er the pathway of the sun
The loosened vapors sail;
And, spreading east and west, they smirch
Each speck of heavenly blue;
But still the lonely watcher sighs,
“Where is his light canoe?”
A black duck lighted on a wave,
And pecked its oily breast;
“I see,” the Indian maiden said,
“My lover's eagle crest!”
But soon the bird its cradle spurned,
And cloudward swiftly flew;
“Ah no! 't is not my lover's crest,
'T is not his light canoe.”
And pecked its oily breast;
“I see,” the Indian maiden said,
“My lover's eagle crest!”
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And cloudward swiftly flew;
“Ah no! 't is not my lover's crest,
'T is not his light canoe.”
A fish leaped from the river's brim;
“I see his paddle dart!”
It sank into the waves again,
And like it sank her heart.
“Ah, woe is me! the storm comes down,
I hear its rushing sugh,
Great Spirit! bring, oh bring him back,
Safe in his light canoe!”
“I see his paddle dart!”
It sank into the waves again,
And like it sank her heart.
“Ah, woe is me! the storm comes down,
I hear its rushing sugh,
Great Spirit! bring, oh bring him back,
Safe in his light canoe!”
She heeded not the arrowy rain,
The swelling flood, the blast;
She gazed across the smoking tide,
Until the storm had past:
The purple clouds coiled o'er the west,
The red sun shimmered through;
It flushed the wave, but did not show
The Indian's light canoe.
The swelling flood, the blast;
She gazed across the smoking tide,
Until the storm had past:
The purple clouds coiled o'er the west,
The red sun shimmered through;
It flushed the wave, but did not show
The Indian's light canoe.
Ah, Indian maiden! watch no more
Beside Missouri's stream;
In vain thou strain'st thine eyes to see
Thy lover's paddle gleam!
The white men's guns have laid him low!
Long, long did they pursue;
And now the intrepid warrior lies
Stiff in his light canoe!
Beside Missouri's stream;
In vain thou strain'st thine eyes to see
Thy lover's paddle gleam!
The white men's guns have laid him low!
Long, long did they pursue;
And now the intrepid warrior lies
Stiff in his light canoe!
| [Poems by Sargent in] The token and Atlantic souvenir, a Christmas and New Year's present | |