Page:Voice of Flowers.pdf/16

14

" me a flower," the Indian maid Unto her lover sigh'd— "Such as thy noble spirit deems    Fit for thy chosen bride.

"And I will wear it on my brow    When from this home I part, And enter to thy forest bower,     Thy true love in my heart."

With meek intent, and searching glance, The chieftain pac'd the sod— Who, with Acteon's haughty stride, Had erst that region trod.

Not now, to rouse the slumbering deer, Or scathe the eagle's throne. Thro' those secluded shades he roam'd—    His heart was love's alone.

He cut the rich, wild rose, that still A lingering radiance cast— Yet soon its falling petals told Its day of pride was past.