The breezes soft their peaceful preludes played
Along the glistening harp-strings of the grass,
I bowed my head as penitent that prayed,
The miracle of love had come to pass.
THE SQUAW-MAN
Love from his homeland hillsides led him forth,
A willing captive, to a foreign land,
Nor looked he either east or west or north,
But followed where she led him by the hand.
How strong he was in all that men hold good,
How fair to view in manly grace and form!
Yet as a child, against her maidenhood,
The castle of his heart she took by storm.
O lady, golden-haired and blue of eye,
Fair English beauty with the cheeks of rose,
Dost thou afar in moonlit gardens sigh,
And dream of him as evening shadows close?
Dost thou oft weep with troubled heart and brain,
Between each letter's ever-length'ning wait?
Ah, weep no more; he will not come again—
No more will he unlatch thy garden gate.
For eyes of night have pierced him to the core,
A forest maiden sings his child to rest.
He has forgotten, and will come no more—
Another head he pillows on his breast.
E'en now, perhaps, to some sweet forest song,
With rhythmic stroke he paddles her along
O'er some smooth lake that mirrors cloudless skies,
Deep as the love that dwells in her dark eyes.
Perchance ere now, in some green forest glade,
A home for her he's built, a cabin made,
Where sunshine greets them with its morning kiss,
And wakes them to a new day's perfect bliss.