SONG.
Our grotto was the sweetest place!
The bending boughs, with fragrance blowing,
Would check the brook's impetuous pace,
Which murmur'd to be stopp'd from flowing.
'Twas there we met, and gaz'd our fill:
Ah! think on this, and love me still.
'Twas then my bosom first knew fear,
—Fear to an Indian maid a stranger—
The war-song, arrows, hatchet, spear,
All warn'd me of my lover's danger.
For him did cares my bosom fill:—
Ah! think on this, and love me still.
For him, by day, with care conceal'd,
To search for food I climb'd the mountain;
And when the night no form reveal'd,
Jocund we sought the bubbling fountain.
Then, then would joy my bosom fill;
Ah! think on this and love me still.
[Exeunt.