II.
The time-spared oak, that lifts its head
In loneliness, where those are dead,
Which once stood by it on the plain,
Soon sees their places fill’d again—
So stood the monarch, full of years,
Amid an undergrowth of men;
For since the sceptre first he sway’d,
Full two score years ago and ten,
Two generations had gone by,
And twice he’d seen his people die.
Yet from his eye there beam’d a fire,
Resistless as the warrior’s lance;
And when ’twas lit with vengeful ire,
The boldest wither’d at its glance.
And still his step was quick and light,
And still his arm was nerved with might,
And still ’twas death to all, who dare
Awake the vengeance slumbering there.
But now with joy the monarch view’d
His realm in peace, his foes subdued,
And calmly turn’d abroad his eyes
O’er the wide work of warfare done,
And hoped no coming cloud would rise
To shroud in gloom his setting sun.
III.
Deep in a sea of waving wood{[4]}
The monarch’s rustic lodge was seen,
Where brightly roll’d the river down,
And gently sloped the banks of green.
No princely dome that lodge appear’d,
No tall and shapely columns rear’d
Their finished architraves on high,
With cornice mounting to the sky;
No foreign artist’s skilful hand
Had shed Corinthian graces there:
That simple dwelling had been plann’d
By workmen under nature’s care.
The sun by day, or moon by night,
Had never sent a ray of light
Upon a lovelier spot than this,
Or seen a home of purer bliss.
Beneath the tall elms’ branching shade
The eye might reach a fairy glade,
Where sprightly deer were often seen,
In frolic sport, on plats of green,
From morning’s dawn till noontide heat
Invited to some cool retreat;
Then away to the sheltering grove they fled
With a high-curved neck and a lofty tread.
Beside the open glade there grew
Green clustering oaks, and maples tall,
Forming a native bower, whose view
Was more enchanting far than all
The stiff embellishments of art,
That human culture could impart
To garden, grot, or waterfall.
Within that bower a fountain, gushing,
Babbled sweetly all the day,
And round it many a wild-flower, blushing,
Drank the morning dew of May.
IV.
But one sweet floweret flourish’d there,
Beneath the aged monarch’s care,
Whose bloom that happy bower had bless’d
With brighter charms than all the rest.
’Twas his loved daughter—she had been
The comfort of his widowhood
For twelve long years; through grove and glen
She roam’d with him the pathless wood,
And wheresoe’er that old man hied,
Fair Metoka[B] was ever at his side.
She was the gem of her father’s home,
The pride and joy of his forest cell;
And if alone she chanced to roam
To pluck the rose and gay hairbell,
The rudest savage stopp’d and smiled,
Whene’er he met the monarch’s child.
V.
Mild was the air, and the setting rays
Of the ruddy sun now seem’d to blaze
On many a tree-top’s lofty spire,
When May-day’s tranquil evening hour
Beheld the daughter and the sire
Together in their summer bower.
VI.
‘Come hither, child,’ the monarch said,
‘And set thee down by me,
‘And I’ll tell thee of thy mother dead,
‘Fair sprout of that parent tree.
‘Twelve suns ago she fell asleep,
‘And she never awoke again;
‘And thou wast then too young to weep,
‘Or to share thy father’s pain.
‘But wouldst thou know thy mother’s look,
‘When her form was young and fair,
‘Look down upon the tranquil brook,
‘And thou’lt see her picture there.
‘For her own bright locks of flowing jet
‘Are over thy shoulders hung;
‘In thy face her loving eyes are set,
‘And her music is on thy tongue.
‘But Okee call’d her home to rest,
‘And away her spirit flew,
‘Dancing on sunbeams far to the west,
‘Where the mountain tops are blue.
‘And often at sunset hour she strolls
‘Alone on the mountains wild,
‘And beckons me home to the land of souls,
‘And calls for her darling child.
‘And I am an aged sapless tree,
‘That soon must fall to the plain;
‘And then shall my spirit, light and free,
‘Rejoin thy mother again.
‘And thou, my child’—But here a sigh
Had reach’d the aged chieftain’s ear;
He turn’d, and lo, his daughter’s eye
Was beaming through a trembling tear,
And she was looking in his face
With such a tender, earnest grace,
The monarch clasp’d her to his side,
And thus her childish lips replied.