For there was his brother returning from far,
O'er his shoulder his scalps were slung;
For he had been victor amid the war,
His plume had gleamed like the polar star,
And on him had the victory hung.
The Chieftain paused in his swift career,
For he knew his Conconay;
He saw the maid his heart held dear,
On his brother's breast, in the forest drear,
From her home so far away.
He bent his bow, the arrow flew,
It was aimed at Lightfoot's breast; And it pierced a heart, as warm and true As ever a mortal bosom knew,
Or in mortal garb was dressed.
He turned to his love - from her brilliant eye
The cloud was passing away;
She let fall a tear - she breathed a sigh
She turned towards Lightfoot
For weltering in gore he lay.
Her heart was filled with horror and woe, When she gazed on the form of her Chief; 'T was his loved hand that had bent the bow, 'Twas he who had laid her preserver low; And she yielded her soul to grief.
And 't was said, that ere time had healed the wound
In the breast of the mourning maid,
That a pillar was reared on the fatal ground,
And ivy the snow-white monument crowned
With its dark and jealous shade.
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
Cold is his brow, and the dew of the evening
Hangs damp o'er that form I so fondly caressed; Dim is that eye, which once sparkled with gladness, Hushed are the griefs of my infant to rest.
Calmly he lies on a bosom far colder
Than that which once pillowed his health-blushing
cheek;
Calmly he 'll rest there, and silently moulder,
No grief to disturb him, no sigh to awake.
Dread king of the grave, Oh! return me my child!
Unfetter his heart from the cold chains of death!
Monarch of terrors, so gloomy, so silent,
Loose the adamant clasp of thy cold icy wreath!
Where is my infant? the storms may descend,
The snows of the winter may cover his head;
The wing of the wind o'er his low couch may bend,
And the frosts of the night sparkle bright o'er
the dead.
Where is my infant? the damp ground is cold, Too cold for those features so laughing and light; Methinks, these fond arms should encircle his form, And shield off the tempest which wanders at night.
This fond bosom loved him, ah! loved him too dearly,
And the frail idol fell, while I bent to adore ;
All its beauty has faded, and broken before me
Is the god my heart ventured to worship before.
'Tis just, and I bow 'neath the mandate of Heaven,
Thy will, oh, my Father! for ever be done!
Bless God, O my soul, for the chastisement given,
Henceforth will I worship my Saviour alone!
"IF I LOSE THEE, I AM LOST."
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
Wafted o'er a treacherous sea
Far from home, and far from thee;
Between the Heaven and ocean tossed,
"If I lose thee, I am lost."
When the polar star is beaming
O'er the dark-browed billows gleaming,
I think of thee and dangers crossed,
For, "If I lose thee, I am lost.
When the lighthouse fire is blazing,
High towards Heaven its red crest raising,
I think of thee, while onward tossed,
For, "If I lose thee, I am lost."
(Written in her sixteenth year.)
I come in the breath of the wakened breeze,
I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees;
And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night,
From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white.
Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky,
I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high;
When my gay purple banners are waving afar;
When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each
When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake!
Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of
Glitter bright with the beautiful fire of even;
When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high,
O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky,
Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven,
To their far-away harbour, all silently driven,
Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light,
Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and
When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where
The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star;
When all is in silence and solitude here,
Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear!
But when I steal silently over the lake,
Awake thee then, maiden, awake! oh, awake!
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
Shakspeare! "with all thy faults, (and few have more,)
I love thee still," and still will con thee o'er.
Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart,
Gave thee of virtue - then, of vice a part,
Lest we, in wonder here, should bow before thee,
Break God's commandment, worship, and adore thee:
But admiration now, and sorrow join;
His works we reverence, while we pity thine.
WHOM I HAD NOT SEEN SINCE MY CHILDHOOD.
(Written in her sixteenth year.)
And thou hast marked, in childhood's hour,
The fearless houndings of my breast,
When, fresh as Summer's opening flower,
I freely frolicked, and was blessed.
Oh! say, was not this eye more bright?
Were not these lips more wont to smile?
Methinks that then my heart was light,
And I a fearless, joyous child.
And thou didst mark me gay and wild,
My careless, reckless laugh of mirth;
The simple pleasures of a child,
The holiday of man on earth.
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