Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 16 1826.pdf/11



and mournfully the Indian drum On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke:— "Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come." So the red Warriors to their Captive spoke. Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, A youth, a fair-hair'd youth, of England stood, Like a king's son; though from his cheek had flown The mantling crimson of the island-blood, And his press'd lips look'd marble. Fiercely bright, And high around him, blaz'd the fires of night; Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow Lighting the victim’s face;—but who could tell Of what within his secret heart befel, Known but to Heaven that hour?—Perchance a thought Of his far home, then so intensely wrought That its full image, pictured to his eye On the dark ground of mortal agony, Rose clear as day!—And he might see the band Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand Where the laburnums droop'd; or happy binding The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding; Or, as day faded on their gentle mirth, Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth