XXXII.

There was an open glade of green.
The northern bank and wave between,
And, in its moonlit centre, stood
These martial rangers of the wood,
Impatient, while compell'd to halt,
Like hounds, in chase of game, at fault:
One form the maiden would have known
Disguised in raiment not his own;
But the long plume of raven hue,
And wampum-sash, full well she knew.

Emerging from the thicket dim,

New vigor braced her failing limb,
And scarce her foot the herbage brushed,
While to On-yit-ha's arms she rushed.
Her sudden presence wonder woke,
And from the band an outcry broke—
Half doubting evidence of sight;
Deeming that phantom of the night
Alone would be abroad, to scour
So wild a dell, at such an hour :
But who is he, of manly frame,
Wan visage, and dishevel'd hair,

Whose trembling, whitened lips exclaim,

"Where is my Blanche? oh! tell me, where?" One who would fain throw life away,

The houseless, wretched, wronged De Grai; But hope on his bruised heart shed

rays

Like moonlight glimmering through the haze;
And his cheek lost its ghastly shade,
When told her tale that Indian-maid;
Recounting, with a graphic power,
The capture in his lady's bower,
Sad conflagration of the cot,

War paint, and costume of the foe-
Their swift departure from the spot,
Dreading the twang of hostile bow.

XXXIV.

She well portrayed the course they took
Through dark morass, up channelled brook,
Until they reached their camping-ground-
Lone lake in front-the woods around:
Their caution in not kindling fires,

Fearful they might prove funeral-pyres ;
Then drawing forth, yet red with strife,
From underneath her robe, a knife,
Narrated she, in modest phrase,

The daring nature of the deed

By which her prisoned limbs she freed

The waking sentry's iron grasp,

His instant fall, and dying gasp,

While stern lips murmured praise.

XXXV.

"On!—we will end the bloody task A woman hath so well begun; Nor shall this brood of adders bask

Unharmed beneath to-morrow's sun: The Night Hawk will not fold his wings Until he robs them of their stings, And the pale chief, from o'er the main, Looks on his stolen one again,

And listens, while she fills his ear

With music that he loves to hear."

By hand on weapon fiercely laid,
And frowning brow, and flashing eye,
Each warrior to his leader made
A meaning, though a mute reply.

Bounding with long and measured lope,
Under the green woods' leafy cope,
On-yit-ha urged his warriors on:

De Grai moved swiftly by his side,

And near was Wun-nut-hay, their guide, Tripping like startled fawn.

XXXVI.

How sweetly fell the wan moonlight

Upon the Huron camp that night,
When the wild storm, its fury spent,
Undarkened left the firmament!

N

How pleasantly the moonbeam shone When died away the thunder-groan, And waves, in wrath that lately heaved, A glory from its light received;

While forest on the shore, and hill,

Were imaged in the water still,

And vine and flower, that

grew about,

Gemmed by the rain, gave fragrance out!

XXXVII.

Made restless by his dampened bed,

A waking warrior raised his head;
Then, rising slowly to his feet,

Looked on the Lake's unruffled sheet;

Bright dimple on earth's chequered face, A radiant pearl in emerald vase,

And mirror meet for Naiad fair

To look on when she plaits her hair!

It lay a type of holy rest,

And primal freshness wrapped its breast;
Its surface, smooth as polished steel,
Ploughed never by the wandering keel,
Wind, water-fowl and falling shower
Its playmates since creation's hour.

XXXVIII.

So picturesque, so calm a view,

Beneath June-skies of cloudless blue,

By tranquil charm might well have curbed
The tumult of a soul disturbed ;

And yet that lonely warrior stood,

With folded arms, in murky mood.
Nervous at times, and scared he seemed
As if of evil he had dreamed;

In sleep some drear fore-warning heard,
Dark curse, or death-denouncing word;
And ill his eye of savage glare
Comported with a scene so fair.

XXXIX.

He muttered low:-" what leaden weight
Rests heavy on my heart of late?

Have I not reason to rejoice

In spite of that strange, mocking voice

That whispered in mine ear of doom,
Winged death-shot, and dishonored tomb ?
Though black cloud lower, or day-beam shine,
The guerdon of revenge is mine;

I loved her, aye! adored her long,
Her name the burden of my song:
Though scornful the return I met,
Some old affection lingers yet,
A faded flower in desert sand,
Once a green isle of Fairy-Land.
Her frown chased sunshine from my day,
A rival bore the prize away;