From Indian blood you deem him sprung: And, when America was free With hues of genius on his cheek, In finest tones the youth could speak: The moon, the glory of the sun, And streams that murmur as they run He was a lovely youth! I guess The panther in the wilderness Was not so fair as he; And when he chose to sport and play, No dolphin ever was so gay Among the Indians he had fought; Such tales as, told to any maid By such a youth, in the green shade, He told of girls, a happy rout! Who quit their fold with dance and shout, Their pleasant Indian town, To gather strawberries all day long; When daylight is gone down. He spake of plants that hourly change Their blossoms, through a boundless range Of intermingling hues; With budding, fading, faded flowers, They stand the wonder of the bowers From morn to evening dews. He told of the Magnolia, spread -Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam The youth of green savannahs spake, Among the evening clouds. 'And,' then he said, 'how sweet it were A fisher or a hunter there, In sunshine or in shade To wander with an easy mind, And build a household fire, and find A home in every glade! 'What days and what bright years! Ah me! Our life were life indeed, with Thee So pass'd in quiet bliss; And all the while,' said he, 'to know And then he sometimes interwove Are dearer than the sun. Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Beloved Ruth!'-No more he said. She thought again-and did agree 'And now, as fitting is and right, Even so they did; and I may say Through dream and vision did she sink, And green savannahs, she should share But, as you have before been told, So beautiful, through savage lands Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands Of Indians in the West. The wind, the tempest roaring high, Might well be dangerous food For him, a youth to whom was given So much of earth-so much of heaven, And such impetuous blood. Whatever in those climes he found Did to his mind impart A kindred impulse, seem'd allied Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, The breezes their own languor lent; Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween For passions link'd to forms so fair But ill he lived, much evil saw, With men to whom no better law Those wild men's vices he received, His genius and his moral frame A man who without self-control And yet he with no feign'd delight What could he less than love a maid Sometimes most earnestly he said, 'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; Before me shone a glorious world I look'd upon those hills and plains, No more of this-for now, by thee, My soul from darkness is released Full soon that better mind was gone; Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, But, when they thither came, the youth God help thee, Ruth!-Such pains she had That she in half a year was mad And in a prison housed; And there, exulting in her wrongs Among the music of her songs Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, -They all were with her in her cell; |