Indian Legends and Other Poems | Page 5

and crumbling wall,

Dwelt a chieftain's orphan daughter,
In her broad ancestral hall.
And her faith to one was plighted,
Lord of fief and domain wide,

Who, ere he went forth undaunted
War's disastrous strife to bide,
'Mid his armed and mounted vassals
Paused before her castle gate,

While she waved a last adieu
From the battlements in state.
But when nodding plume and banner
Faded from her straining sight,

And the mists from o'er the mountains
Crept like phantoms with
the night,--
Low before the sacred altar
At the crucifix she bowed,
And, with

fervent supplication
To the Holy Mother, vowed
That, till he returned from battle,
Scotland's hills and passes o'er,

Saved by her divine protection,
She would see the sun no more!
In a low and vaulted chapel,
Where no sunbeam entrance found,

Many a day was passed in penance,
Kneeling on the cold, damp
ground.
Autumn blanched the flowers of Summer,
And the forest robes grew
sere;
Still in darkness knelt the maiden,
Pleading, "Mary! Mother!
hear!"
Cold blasts through the valleys hurried,
Dry leaves fluttered on the
gale;
But of him, the loved and absent,
Leaf and tempest told no
tale.
Still and pale, a dreamless slumber
Slept he on the battle-plain,--

Steed beneath and vassal o'er him,--
Lost amid the hosts of slain.
Spring, with tranquil breath and fragrant,
Called the primrose from its
grave,
Woke the low peal of the harebell,
Bade the purple heather
wave;--
Lilies to the warm light opened,
Surges, sparkling, kissed the shore;

But the chieftain's orphan daughter
Saw the sunbeam--never more!
Suitors sent, her hand to purchase,
Some with wealth and some with
fame;
But the vow was on her spirit,
And she shrank not from its
claim.
Yet when starry worlds looked downwards,
Spirit-like, from realms
on high,
And the violets in the valleys
Closed in sleep each dewy
eye,--
While the night in wondrous beauty
O'er the softened landscape lay,


She came forth, with noiseless footstep
Moving 'mid the shadows
gray,
Gazing ever towards the summit,
Where the gleam of scarf and plume

Faded in the hazy distance,
Leaving her to prayer and gloom.
Years, by her unmarked, unnumbered,
Crossed the dial-plate of Time;

Then she passed, one quiet midnight,
To the unseen Spirit-Clime.
But the twilight has departed,
And the moon is up on high;
Stranger,
pass not, in thy journey,
Yon deserted court-yard by;
For it is whispered that, at evening,
Oft a misty form is seen,
In its
silent progress casting
Not a shadow on the green,
'Neath the iron cross that standeth
On the mouldering wall and rude,

Like a noble thought uplifted
In the Past's deep solitude.
MY NATIVE ISLE.
My native isle! my native isle!
For ever round thy sunny steep
The
low waves curl, with sparkling foam,
And solemn murmurs deep;

While o'er the surging waters blue
The ceaseless breezes throng,

And in the grand old woods awake
An everlasting song.
The sordid strife and petty cares
That crowd the city's street,
The
rush, the race, the storm of Life,
Upon thee never meet;
But quiet
and contented hearts
Their daily tasks fulfil,
And meet with simple
hope and trust
The coming good or ill.
The spireless church stands, plain and brown,
The winding road
beside;
The green graves rise in silence near,
With moss-grown
tablets wide;
And early on the Sabbath morn,
Along the flowery
sod,
Unfettered souls, with humble prayer,
Go up to worship God.

And dearer far than sculptured fane
Is that gray church to me,
For
in its shade my mother sleeps,
Beneath the willow-tree;
And often,
when my heart is raised
By sermon and by song,
Her friendly smile
appears to me
From the seraphic throng.
The sunset glow, the moonlit stream,
Part of my being are;
The
fairy flowers that bloom and die,
The skies so clear and far:
The
stars that circle Night's dark brow,
The winds and waters free,
Each
with a lesson all its own,
Are monitors to me.
The systems in their endless march
Eternal truth proclaim;
The
flowers God's love from day to day
In gentlest accents name;
The
skies for burdened hearts and faint
A code of Faith prepare;
What
tempest ever left the Heaven
Without a blue spot there?
My native isle! my native isle!
In sunnier climes I've strayed,
But
better love thy pebbled beach
And lonely forest glade,
Where low
winds stir with fragrant breath
The purple violet's head,
And the
star-grass in the early Spring
Peeps from the sear leaf's bed.
I would no more of strife and tears
Might on thee ever meet,
But
when against the tide of years
This heart has ceased to beat,
Where
the green weeping-willows bend
I fain would go to rest,
Where
waters chant, and winds may sweep
Above my peaceful breast.
THE LOST PLEIAD.
A void is in the sky!
A light has ceased the seaman's path to cheer,

A star has left its ruby throne on high,
A world forsook its sphere.
Thy sisters bright pursue their circling
way,

But thou, lone wanderer! thou hast left our vault for aye.
Did Sin invade thy bowers,
And Death with sable pinion sweep thine
air,
Blasting the beauty of thy fairest flowers,

And God admit no prayer?
Didst thou, as fable saith, wax faint and
dim
With the first mortal breath between thy zone and Him?
Did human love, with all
Its passionate might and meek endurance
strong,--
The love that mocks at Time and scorns the pall,
Through conflict fierce and long,--
Live in