Nor lack'd their lowly dwelling such device
Of comfort, or adornment, as the hand
Of gentle woman, sedulous to please,

Creates for him she loves. For she had hung
Attentive on his lips, while he described
The household policy of prouder climes;
And with such varied and inventive skill
Caught the suggestions of his taste refined,
That the red people, wondering as they gazed
On curtain'd window and on flower-crowned vase,
Carpet and cushion'd chair, and board arranged
With care unwonted, called her home the court
Of their French princess.

A rich clustering vine Crept o'er their porch, and 'neath its fragrant shade Oriska sang her evening melodies,

Tuneful, and clear, and deep—the echoed truth
Of her soul's happiness. Her highest care
And dearest pleasure was to make his lot
Delightful to her lord; and he, well pleased
With the simplicity of fervent love,

And the high honour paid a chieftain's son,
Roamed with the hunters at his will, or brought
Birdlings of brilliant plume as trophies home
To his young bride.

Months fled, and with them change
Stole o'er his love. And when Oriska mark'd
The shadow darkening on his brow, she fear'd
The rudeness of her nation, or perchance
Her ignorance had err'd, and strove to do
His will more perfectly. And though his moods
Of harshness or disdain chill'd every joy,

She blamed him not, for unto her he seem'd

A higher being of a nobler race;

And she was proud and happy, might she bathe

His temples in some fit of transient pain,

Or by a menial's toil advance the feast

Which still she shared not. When his step was heard,

She bade her beating heart be still, and smooth'd

The shining tresses he was wont to praise,

And, fondly hasting, raised her babe to meet
His father's eye, contented if the smile

ORISKA.

That once was hers might beam upon his child.
But that last solace fail'd, and the cold glance
Contemptuously repress'd her toil of love.
And then he came no more.

But as she watch'd

Night after night, and question'd every hour,
How bitterly those weeks and years were notched
Upon the broken tablet of the soul,

By that forsaken wife.

Calm moonlight touch'd A fair Canadian landscape. Roof and spire, And broad umbrageous tree, were saturate With liquid lustre. O'er a lordly dome, Whose halls had late with bridal pomp been The silvery curtains of the summer night Were folded quietly.

A music-sound

gay,

Broke forth abruptly from its threshold stone,
Shrill and unearthly-not the serenade
That thrills on beauty's ear, but a bold strain,
Loud even to dissonance, and oft prolonged
In low, deep cadence, wonderfully sad,-
The wild song of the Sioux. He, who first
Awaking, caught that mournful melody,
Shudder'd with icy terror as he threw
His mantle o'er him, and rush'd madly forth
Into the midnight air.

"Hence!

Leave my door!
Hence away!”

I know thee not, dark woman!

121

"Ah! let me hear that voice! How sweet its tones

Fall on my ear, although the words are stern.

Say! Know'st thou not this boy? Whose eyes are these? Those chestnut clusters round the lifted brow

Said'st thou not in his cradle they were thine?"

"How cam'st thou here, Oriska?"

"We have trod

A weary way. My father and his men
Came on the business of their tribe, and I,
Unto whose soul the midnight and the morn
Have been alike for years, roam'd restlessly,

E

A wanderer in their train, leading our boy.
My highest hope was but to hear, perchance,
That thou didst live; and lo! a blessed guide
Hath shown me to thy home."

I have a bride.

"Oriska, go!

Thou canst not enter here

I'll come to thee to-morrow."

"Wilt thou come

The white-hair'd chief, I fear me, fades away
Unto the spirit-land!

"I bid thee hence

To thine abode. Have I not said to thee
I'll come to-morrow?"

With a heavy heart,

Through silent streets, the sad-brow'd woman went,
Leading her child.

Morn came, and day declined,
Yet still he came not. By her sire she watch'd,
O'er whose dull eye a filmy shadow stole,
While to her troubled question no reply

Rose from his palsied lip. Nature and age

Slept wearily and long.

The second eve

Darken'd the skies, when lo! a well-known stepHe stood before her.

Oriska, thus to break my bridal hour

"Was it kind of thee,

"Was thy wife

With thy strange, savage music?"

Angry at the poor Indian? Not to speak
Harsh words I came : I would not think of thee
A thought of blame. But, oh! mine aged sire,
Thou seest him dying in this stranger land,
Far from his fathers' graves. Be thou a friend
When he is gone and I am desolate.

Make me a household servant to thy wife.
I'll bring her water from the purest spring,
And plant the corn, and ply the flying oar,
And never be impatient or require

Payment from her, nor kind regard from thee.

I will not call thee husband, though thou taught'st My stammering lip that word when love was young;

ORISKA.

Nor ask one pitying look or favouring tone,
Or aught, except to serve and pray for thee
To the Great Spirit. And this boy shall do
Her will and thine."

The pale-face turn'd away
With well-dissembled anger, though remorse
Gnaw'd at his callous bosom !

It cannot be !"

"Urge me not!

Even more he might have said,

Basely and bitterly, but lo! the chief

Cast off the ice of death, and on his bed,

With clenched hand and quivering lip, uprose:
"His curse be on thee! He who knoweth where
The lightnings hide!"

Around the old man's neck

123

Fond arms were wildly thrown. "Oh, curse him not→
The father of my boy!" And blinding tears

Fell down so fast, she mark'd not with what haste
The white-browed recreant fled.

"I tell thee, child,

The cold, black gall-drop in a traitor's soul

Doth make a curse. And, though I curse him not,
The sun shall hate him, and the waters turn

To poison in his veins.

"But light grows dim.

Go back to thine own people. Look no more
On him whom I have cursed, and lay my bones
Where my dead fathers sleep."

Wrung by extremest agony, broke forth
From the old chieftain's breast.

To the Great Spirit."

A hollow groan,

"Daughter, I go

O'er that breathless clay Bow'd down the desolate woman. No complaint, No sigh of grief burst forth. The tear went back To its deep fountain. Lip and fringed lid Trembled no more than in the statued bronze,

Nor shrank one truant nerve, as o'er her pass'd
The asphyxia of the heart.

Day after day,

O'er wild and tangled forest, moved a train,
Bearing with smitten hearts their fallen chief;
And next the bier a silent woman trod,

A child's young hand for ever clasp'd in hers,
And on her lip no sound. Long was the way,
Ere the low roof-trees of their tribe they saw
Sprinkling the green; and loud the funeral wail
Rose for the honour'd dead, who, in his youth,
Their battles led, and in his wintry years
Had won that deeper reverence, which so well
The forest sons might teach our wiser race
To pay to hoary age. Beneath the mounds,
Where slept his ancient sires, they laid him down ;
And where the gathered nation mourn'd their sire,
In the wild passion of untutor'd grief;

Then smooth'd the pillow'd turf, and went their way.

Who is yon woman in her dark canoe,
Who strangely towards Niagara's fearful gulf
Floats on unmoved?

Firm and erect she stands,

Clad in such bridal costume as befits

The daughter of a king. Tall, radiant plumes
Wave o'er her forehead, and the scarlet tinge
Of her embroider'd mantle, fleck'd with gold,
Dazzles amid the flood. Scarce heaves her breast,
As though the spirit of that dread abyss

In terrible sublimity, had quell'd

All thought of earthly things.

Fast by her side

Stands a young, wondering boy, and from his lip,
Blanching with terror, steals the frequent cry
Of "Mother!" "Mother!"

But she answereth not.

She speaks no more to aught of earth, but pours
To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild,