The league of the Iroquois and other legends : from the Indian muse

THE WOOING. 95
maiden Heart !
so warm and true,
That hath, like her, such vigil kept,
Or ere the morn, of bliss so new,
The pain a little stayed, hath slept,
Dreaming sweet dreams that will not pass
Aye ! from the darkened years ;
to thee
Why should I sing ? to wake, alas !
Too oft a haunting memory.
And who with tongue so eloquent
To paint the rapture love distills,
That fills the spirit's grosser tent
With breath from the Immortal Hills ?
Passion !
that is all replete
With deepest bliss
with direst woe,
Thy thrall, thy thrill, thy madness sweet
The heart must, throbbing, feel to know.
Or what is said, or all unsaid,
But little recks, when fleet and strong,
"
O'er cheek and breast the currents red
Run singing glad a marriage song ;
When other heart beats in our own,
Disclosing to each keener sense
The wealth and being, else unknown,
Of beauty's lavish heritance.