These
western woods suggest a different kind of ballad. The Indian legends
have, often, an air of the wildest solitude, as has the one Mr. Lowell
has put into verse, in his late volume. But I did not see those wild
woods; only such as suggest little romances of love and sorrow, like
this:
A maiden sat beneath the tree,
Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be,
And she sigheth heavily.
From forth the wood into the light,
A hunter strides with carol light,
And a glance so bold and bright.
He careless stopped and eyed the maid;
"Why weepest thou?" he gently said,
"I love thee well; be not afraid."
He takes her hand, and leads her on;
She should have waited there alone,
For he was not her chosen one.
He leans her head upon his breast,
She knew 't was not her home of rest,
But ah! she had been sore distrest.
The sacred stars looked sadly down;
The parting moon appeared to frown,
To see thus dimmed the diamond crown.
Then from the thicket starts a deer,
The huntsman, seizing on his spear,
Cries, "Maiden, wait thou for me here."
She sees him vanish into night,
She starts from sleep in deep affright,
For it was not her own true knight.
Though but in dream Gunhilda failed;
Though but a fancied ill assailed,
Though she but fancied fault bewailed.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122