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With the early carol of many a bird,

And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard Where the hazels trickle with dew.

And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,

Ere eve shall redden the sky,

A good red deer from the forest shade,

That bounds with the herd through grove and


At her cabin-door shall lie.

The hollow woods, in the setting sun,

Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay;

And Maquon's sylvan labors are done,
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won
He bears on his homeward way.

He stops near his bower-his eye perceives
Strange traces along the ground-

At once to the earth his burden he heaves,

He breaks through the veil of boughs and


And gains its door with a bound.

But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, And all from the young shrubs there

By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and


One tress of the well-known hair.

But where is she who, at this calm hour,
Ever watched his coming to see?

She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower;
He calls-but he only hears on the flower
The hum of the laden bee.

It is not a time for idle grief,
Nor a time for tears to flow;

The horror that freezes his limbs is brief-
He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf
Of darts made sharp for the foe.

And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet,
Where he bore the maiden away;

And he darts on the fatal path more fleet
Than the blast that hurries the vapor and sleet
O'er the wild November day.

'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride Was stolen away from his door;

But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And the grape is black on the cabin side,—

And she smiles at his hearth once more.

But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold,
Where the yellow leaf falls not,
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold,
There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould,

In the deepest gloom of the spot.

And the Indian girls, that pass that way,
Point out the ravisher's grave;

"And how soon to the bower she loved," they
"Returned the maid that was borne away
From Maquon, the fond and the brave."


It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops

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