Ah! can I ever cease recall My father’s cot, though it were small; The stream where oft, in sun and shade, I roved, a happy Indian maid, Pleased with the wild flowers, pink and red, A brave youth bound around my head. 4. I love the land that gave me birth, Its woods and streams, its air and earth; I love the very sounds I knew— Sweet woodland sounds—when life was new; I love the garb my fathers had, And my own bright Muscogee lad. That voice is mute: with care they seek, By winding rock and fallen peak, For rift or path that foot may tread, To gain the crag’s o’erhanging head. At length a rugged path they spy, That seems nor light, nor safe to try; But still with patience, skill and might Suffices to attain that height. A faintly beaten path succeeds; This through a cedar coppice leads, Then by a rock, when turning short, A cave displays its ample port;— An Indian maid of stature fair, And forehead high and flowing hair, Sits pensively, secure and lone, Beside that rustic hall of stone; A string of shining shells she prest Upon her slender chisell’d breast; Unmoved her air,—and now again She raised the half unfinished strain, When that priz’d guardian of the night, The hunter’s dog, and fond delight, Darts forth instinctive, and defies Their near approach with doubling cries. Instant she starts, as with a shock, And flies within the cavern’d rock. Soon from within a man of years, The warrior father, slow appears; Tall, rigid—firm of step and eye, That speaks of sage, or prophecy; A head, by nature bald, or shorn, A look of care, but not forlorn— A simple spear is in his hand; With brow upraised, and gesture bland, He stands beside the cavern way, With silent gaze, that seems to say, Come friend—come foe—ye still shall find A proud, resolved, unbroken mind, That oft hath tried the battle blade, Or set the deadly ambuscade; That neither shuns, nor seeks to die, That will not stoop, and will not fly. OSCAR. Holy hermit—not in ire Press we on thy cavern fire; Travellers we, from distant shores, Where the loud Atlantic roars, And the sun its earliest light Pours on valley, plain and height. By the Erie’s fretted shore, Plied we fast the cedar oar, And the Huron’s placid sea Swept with spirits light and free: Northward still we held our way, Glancing on by isle and bay, Bank and river, rift and wall, To St. Mary’s sounding fall— Foamy pass of waters wild! Islet green and rock up-piled, Where the torrent silver-crown’d, Dances on with murm’ring sound, Deep and mellow—while the eye Glows with thrilling ecstasy!