ings, nor wishes to sing,
Of men by his arm laid low,
Nor tells how he bore the flames, his foes
Did kindle around his fettered limbs;
And, since he finds more joy in flowers,
And had rather work in the maize-clad field,
Than wend to the glorious strife
With the warriors of his tribe,
I will not keep my faith.--
My daughter hears.--
I bid thee see the youth once more,
And then behold his face no more.
Tell him, the child of the Red Wing weds
With none but the fierce and bold,
Tell him, the man, whose fires she lights,
Must be strong of soul, and stout of arm,
Able to send a shaft to the heart
Of him who would quench that fire,
Able to bend a warrior's bow,
Able to poise a warrior's spear,
Able to bear, without a groan,
The torments devised by hungry foes,
The pincers rending his flesh,
The hot stones searing his eye-balls.--
Dost thou hear?"

Then down the daughter's beauteous cheeks
Ran drops like the plenteous summer rain.
"I hear, my father,
Yet, hard thy words weigh on my heart;
Thou gav'st me to him, while we lay,
Unknowing the pledge, in our willow cage(3),
When first we opened our eyes on the world,
And saw the bright and twinkling stars,
And the dazzling sun, and the moon alive(4),
And the fields bespread with blooming flowers,
And we breath'd the balmy winds of spring;
The old men said, to one another,
'Dost thou know, brother,
Thar, when his years are the years of a man,
And his deeds are the deeds of the good and true,
The son of the Yellow Pine
Shall marry the Red Wing's daughter?'
And the women took up the tale,
And the boys and girls, when met to play,
Told in our ears the pleasing words,
That I was to be his wife.

"And, knowing this, we loved,
And 'tis hard to break the chains of love;
Thou may'st sooner rive the flinty oak,
With the alder spear of a sickly boy,
Than chase him away from my soul.
Twice eight bright years have our hearts been wed.
And thou hast look'd on and smiled;
And now thou com'st, with a frowning brow,
And bid'st me chase him from my soul.
I know his arm is weak,
I know his heart is the heart of a deer,
And his soul is the soul of a dove;
Yet hath he won my virgin heart,
And I cannot drive him hence."
But the father would n