THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE. 37 I know thou lov'st me well, dear Friend! but better, better far, Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at war; In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine. And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights, With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pastoral delights; For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine. And I will leave my blessed home, my Father's joyous hearth, With all the voices meeting there in tenderness and mirth, With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its fire-light shine, To sit forsaken in thy hut,-yet know that thou art mine! It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free heart, That I cast away for thee-for thee-all reckless as thou art! With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind myself to dwell; Yet, yet I would not change that lot,-oh no! I love too well! A mournful thing is love which grows to one so wild as thou, With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless fire of brow! Mournful!—but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride, And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on earth beside. To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every breath, To watch through long, long nights of storm, to sleep and dream of death, To wake in doubt and loneliness-this doom I know is mine, And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine! That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when thence thou com'st at last, That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er each danger past, That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win thee aid divine, -- For this I will be thine, my Love! for this I will be thine! SONG OF EMIGRATION. 39 SONG OF EMIGRATION. THERE was heard a song on the chiming sea, Of fresh green lands, and of pastures new, But ever and anon A murmur of farewell Told, by its plaintive tone, That from woman's lip it fell. "Away, away, o'er the foaming main!" -This was the free and the joyous strain"There are clearer skies than ours, afar, We will shape our course by a brighter star; There are plains whose verdure no foot hath press'd, And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest." "But alas! that we should go" -Sang the farewell voices then "From the homesteads, warm and low, "We will rear new homes under trees that glow, "But woe for that sweet shade Of the flowering orchard-trees, 'Midst the birds and honey-bees!" "All, all our own shall the forests be, "But, oh! the grey church-tower, "We will give the names of our fearless race "But who shall teach the flowers, Which our children loved, to dwell -Home, home and friends, farewell!" THE INDIAN WITH HIS CHILD. 41 THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD CHILD.' 1 In the silence of the midnight I journey with my dead; In the darkness of the forest-boughs, But my heart is high and fearless, I have raised thee from the grave-sod, I bear thy dust, my child! I have ask'd the ancient deserts 1 An Indian, who had established himself in a township of Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced towards him by the white inhabitants, particularly on the death of his only child, gave up his farm soon afterwards, dug up the body of his child, and carried it with him two hundred miles through the forests to join the Canadian Indians.-See Tudor's Letters on the Eastern States of America. |