'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,