Her arms, as ’twere for something lost or fled,
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough,
With all its whispers, waved not o’er her now.
Where was she? Midst the people of the wild,
By the red hunter’s fire: an aged chief,
Whose home look’d sad—for therein play’d no child—
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief,
To that lone cabin of the woods; and there,
Won by a form so desolately fair,
Or touch’d with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung,