The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
99
THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance!
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee!
But there came a voice from a distant shore:
He was call'd—he is found 'midst his tribe no more!
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still—he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him—we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step—but the step was thine.
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance!
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee!
But there came a voice from a distant shore:
He was call'd—he is found 'midst his tribe no more!
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still—he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him—we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step—but the step was thine.
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song—
Mournful, though sweet—she hath left us long!
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him—she pass'd alone;
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head,
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest—yet she comes not back!
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step—but the step was shine!
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song—
100
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him—she pass'd alone;
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head,
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest—yet she comes not back!
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step—but the step was shine!
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the chief who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here!
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!—
Where are they?—thou'rt seeking some distant coast—
O ask of them, stranger!—send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step—but the step was thine!
We look'd for the chief who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here!
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!—
Where are they?—thou'rt seeking some distant coast—
O ask of them, stranger!—send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step—but the step was thine!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |