Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine Too brightly to shine long; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes,--but not for thine-- Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, And the vexed ore no mineral of power; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of bloom Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. AN INDIAN STORY. "I know where the timid fawn abides In the depths of the shaded dell, Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, With its many stems and its tangled sides, From the eye of the hunter well. "I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook, On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose, Far over the silent brook. "And that timid fawn starts not with fear When I steal to her secret bower; And that young May violet to me is dear, And I visit the silent streamlet near, To look on the lovely flower." Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks To the hunting-ground on the hills; 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills. He goes to the chase--but evil eyes Are at watch in the thicker shades; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, The flower of the forest maids. The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, And the woods their song renew, With the early carol of many a bird, And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard Where the hazels trickle with dew. And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, Ere eve shall redden the sky, A good red deer from the forest shade, That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, At her cabin-door shall lie. The hollow woods, in the setting sun, Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay; And Maquon's sylvan labours are done, And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won He bears on his homeward way. He stops near his bower--his eye perceives Strange traces along the ground-- At once to the earth his burden he heaves, He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, And gains its door with a bound. But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, And all from the young shrubs there By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent, One tress of the well-known hair. But where is she who, at this calm hour, Ever watched his coming to see? She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower; He calls--but he only hears on the flower The hum of the laden bee.