And the ancient Arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water, And made answer very gravely: "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !" And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant,

As she went to Hiawatha,

Softly took the seat beside him,

While she said, and blushed to say it,

"I will follow you, my husband!"
This was Hiawatha's wooing!
Thus it was he won the daughter
Of the ancient Arrow-maker,

In the land of the Dacotahs!

From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off,

"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha !"

BAYARD TAYLOR.

1825.

["Poems of the Orient." 1855.]

THE MYSTERY.

THOU art not dead; thou art not gone to dust;
No line of all thy loveliness shall fall
To formless ruin, smote by Time, and thrust
Into the solemn gulf that covers all.

Thou canst not wholly perish, though the sod
Sink with its violets closer to thy breast;

Though by the feet of generations trod,

The head-stone crumbles from thy place of rest.

The marvel of thy beauty cannot die;

The sweetness of thy presence shall not fade; Earth gave not all the glory of thine eye;

Death may not keep what Death has never made.

It was not thine, that forehead strange and cold,
Nor those dumb lips, they hid beneath the snow;
Thy heart would throb beneath that passive fold,
Thy hands for me that stony clasp forego.

But thou hadst gone-gone from the dreary land,
Gone from the storms let loose on every hill,

Lured by the sweet persuasion of a hand

Which leads thee somewhere in the distance still.

Where'er thou art, I know thou wearest yet

The same bewildering beauty, sanctified By calmer joy, and touched with soft regret For him who seeks, but cannot reach thy side.

I keep for thee the living love of old,

And seek thy place in Nature, as a child Whose hand is parted from his playmate's hold, Wanders and cries along a lonesome wild.

When, in the watches of my heart, I hear
The messages of purer life, and know
The footsteps of thy spirit lingering near,
The darkness hides the way that I should go.

Canst thou not bid the empty realms restore

That form, the symbol of thy heavenly part? Or on the fields of barren silence pour

That voice, the perfect music of thy heart?

O once, once bending to these widowed lips,
Take back the tender warmth of life from me:
Or let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse

The light of mine, and give me death with thee!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

1823.

["Plays and Poems." 1856.]

NAY, not to thee, to nature will I tie

The gathered blame of every pettish mood;

And when thou frown'st, I'll frown upon the wood,
Saying, "How wide its gloomy shadows lie!"
Or, gazing straight into the day's bright eye,
Predict ere night a fatal second flood;
Or vow the poet's sullen solitude

Has changed my vision to a darksome dye.
But when thou smil'st, I will not look above,
To wood or sky; my hand I will not lay
Upon the temple of my sacred love,
To blame its living fires with base decay;
But whisper to thee, as I nearer move,

66 Love, thou dost add another light to day!"

Where lags my mistress while the drowsy year

Wakes into Spring? Lo! Winter sweeps away
His snowy skirts, and leaves the landscape gay
With early verdure; and there's merry cheer
Among the violets, where the sun lies clear

On the south hill-sides; and at break of day
I heard the blue-bird busy at my ear;
And swallows shape their nests of matted clay

Along the eaves, or dip their narrow wings
Into the mists of evening. All the earth
Stirs with the wonder of a coming birth,
And all the air with feathery music rings.

Spring, it would crown thee with transcendent worth,
To bring my love among thy beauteous things.

Your love to me appears in doubtful signs,

Vague words, shy looks, that never touch the heart;
But to the brain a scanty hint impart

As to whose side your dear regard inclines:
Thence, forced by reason through the narrow lines
That mark and limit the logician's art,

Catching from thought to thought, my mind combines
In one idea the mystic things you start,
And coldly utters to my heart, that swells

With tardy rapture, "It is thee she loves!"
Alas! alas! that reason only proves

A fact your cautious action never tells,

That I must reach my joy by slow removes,
And guess at love as at the oracles.

I do assure thee, love, each kiss of thine

Adds to my stature, makes me more a man, Lightens my care, and draws the bitter wine That I was drugged with, while my nature ran Its slavish course. For didst thou not untwine

My cunning fetters? break the odious ban,
That quite debased me? free this heart of mine
And deck my chains with roses? While I can
I'll chant thy praises, till the world shall ring

With thy great glory; and the heaping store
Of future honours, for the songs I sing,
Shall miss thy poet, at thy feet to pour

A juster tribute, as the gracious spring
Of my abundance. Kiss me, then, once more.