Long gazed the hunter on that sight, ’Till twilight darkened into night, Dim and more dim the landscape grew, And duskier was the empyrean blue; Glittered a thousand stars on high, And wailed the night-wind sadly by; And slowly fading, one by one, Cliff, cloud, ravine, and mountain pass Grew darker still, and yet more dun, ’Till deep’ning to a shadowy mass, They seemed to mingle, earth and sky, In one wild, weird-like canopy. Yet lo! that hunter starts, and one Whom it were heaven to gaze upon, A beauteous girl,—as ’twere a fawn, So playful, wild, and gentle too,— Came bounding o’er the shadowy lawn, With step as light, and love as true. It was Echucha! she, his bride, Dearer than all of earth beside,— For she had left her sire’s far home, The woodland depths with him to roam Who was that sire’s embittered foe! And there, in loveliness alone, With him her opening beauty shone. But even while he gazed, that form, As fades the lightning in the storm, Passed quickly from his sight. He looked again, no one was there, No voice was on the stilly air, No step upon the greensward fair, But all around was night. She past, but thro’ that hunter’s mind, What wild’ring memories are rushing, As harps, beneath a summer wind, With wild, mysterious lays are gushing. Fast came rememb’rance of that eve, Whose first wild throb of earthly bliss Was but to gaze, and to receive The boon of hope so vast as this— To clasp that being as his own, To win her from her native bowers; And form a spirit-land, alone With her amid perennial flowers. And as he thought, that dark, deep eye, Seemed hovering as ’twas wont to bless, When the soft hand would on him lie, And sooth his soul to happiness. Like the far-off stream, in its murmurings low, Like the first warm breath of spring, Like the Wickolis in its plaintive flow, Or the ring-dove’s fluttering wing, Came swelling along the balmy air, As if a spirit itself was there, So sweet, so soft, so rich a strain, It might not bless the ear again, Now breathed afar, now swelling near, It gushed on the enraptured ear;— And hark! was it her well-known tone? No—naught is heard but the voice alone. “Warrior of the Lenape race, Thou of the oak that cannot bend, Of noble brow and stately grace, And agile step, of the Tamenend, Arise—come thou with me! Echucha waits in silent glade, Her eyes the eagle’s gaze assume, As daylight’s golden glories fade, To catch afar her hunter’s plume,— But naught, naught can she see.