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Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change Flash'd o'er her spirit, ev'n ere memory swept The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept; Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, With all its whispers, wav'd not o'er her now,— Where was she? Midst the people of the wild, By the red hunter's fire: an aged chief, Whose home look'd sad—for therein play'd no child— Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, To that lone cabin of the woods; and there, Won by a form so desolately fair, Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung, O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung, While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head, And leaning on his bow.