me to view,
With marvel, what the winds had brought,--
For, surely, those proud vessels flew,
As if their force from Heaven they caught.
But who is yonder slender youth,
With smoothest brow and smoother cheek,
And eyes so full of boyhood's truth,
And mouth, which closed, yet seems to speak?
"Ah, sure, that lovely youth's from Heaven!"
A dark-eyed maiden of the wood
Sighed out upon the breath of even,
As in the mellowed light she stood.
And, ever from that fatal hour,
This white youth's image, slight and pale,
Would haunt the maiden's leafy bower,
And wake her spirit's wail.
In that high heart that fiercely hates,
Love is as fierce and wild;
And so the love is wild, that waits
To mount its height in this poor child:
This poor, frail child who born beneath
A roof of leaves, is made to dream,
That she may wear a bridal wreath
For youth of snowy gleam.
Watoga! sure some demon lied,
To thee, when wrapt amid thy sleep,
To make thee his forlornest bride,
Beneath the moaning deep.
That youth who floats an Angel through,
Thy night, thy daily dream--
He loves a maid whose eyes are blue,
And cheek like yon full moon's white beam.
The simple ornaments which thou
Hast taken thy form to deck,
The wild flower wreath that binds thy brow,
The shells that gem thy neck;
Each ornament shall deck a bride
To wed the Demon Death,
Beneath the ocean's sluggish tide,
A thousand feet beneath!
The fair youth who hath warped thy mind,
He loves a snow-white maid!
Then know'st it!--now not long confined,
Thou'lt fly the greenwood shade.
'Tis night on lone Atlantic's deep,
And summer o'er that placid sea,
The stars watch Earth's scarce-breathing sleep--
Oh! she sleeps deeply--tenderly.
What figure o'er yon bluff that scowls,
Upon the smiling water?
Ah! whose that wild and freezing howl?
It is the forest's daughter.
One moment,--and the hollow moan
Of billows sings her funeral song;--
In sooth, it was a dreadful tone,
And it will haunt us long.
This is the brief and mournful tale
Of one who loved in vain;--
She slept not in the flowery vale,
But in the deep, deep main,
They tell she was a demon's bride,
But now a wondrous wail,
Each night swells o'er the peaceful tide,
And through the loudest gale.
Watoga was her Indian name,
The white men called her yellow-flower;--
And evil fire, a poisonous flame,
Blasted her heart's sweet bower.
Failing to be the yout