  BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN. Show me a brighter scene On our beautiful earth, or where fairies dream! * * * * * Tell me where, rocked by the billows high, The sea-bird pierces the gorgeous sky, Where the moonbeams rest on the ocean wave— Where dies the sun o'er the crystal cave. Where the bell sounds sweet o'er the desert sand, Like matins that ring in a far-off land. Where the mountain heaves with its angry voice, And the lava speeds with its fiercest course; Where the glaciers glance by the sunbeam's ray, And the avalanche bursts with resistless sway. Yet show me a brighter, a fairer scene On our beautiful earth, or where spirits dream, Than here! where the leaves of the large trees lave, As their boughs are bent to the river's wave; Than here! where night and the white stars come, Their watch to keep o'er the Indian's home. Now o'er the waters bright Glides his canoe, Throbbing his warrior heart, Maiden! for you. Roused from your dreamy sleep, Bend low and list; Not once has his well-known tread Your loving heart missed. Not far from the wigwam door Rests he awhile— But from far has he journeyed To meet your bright smile. He speaks to your heart By the flute's slightest sound, And its low notes are echoed By that heart's wildest bound. He knows if you love him You'll surely come forth, And modestly plight him A maiden's pure troth. Then come! he will talk Of his sweet forest home, Which you will make brighter; Come! maiden, come! You move not. Ah! woman, He will not despair: He has medicine tied In the braids of his hair. Love-medicine, bound In the white deer's soft breast, 'Twill charm you at last On his bosom to rest. Should he wait for your coming This fair night in vain, No faint heart has he— He will charm you again. A spell he will cast On your slight graceful form; Then, wrapped in your blanket-robe, Maiden, you'll come. To your parents he'll presents give: Bright things and new— Ah! young wives are bought and sold Among Indians too. Then, from the mother's side You will go forth, The star of a warrior's home, The light of his hearth. Come! ere the morning star Lures him away; He must meet with the wise men When breaks the blue day. Your soft voice must greet him Ere homeward he turn, Then close to his throbbing heart Come, maiden, come! |
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