While the liquid echoes flee,
And the full moon through deep green leaves comes peeping,
In the dim-lit woods of Carr.
Know ye from her wigwam how they drew her,
Wanton-willing, far away,—
Made the wild-wood halls seem home unto her,
Changed her to a laughing fay?
Never doth her bosom burn,
Never asks she to return;—
Ah, vainly care and sorrow may pursue her