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on glad stream, in thy power and pride, To claim the hand of thy promis'd bride; She doth haste from the realm of the darken'd mine, To mingle her murmur'd vows with thine; Ye have met,—ye have met, and the shores prolong The liquid tone of your nuptial song.

Methinks ye wed, as the white man's son, And the child of the Indian king have done; I saw thy bride, as she strove in vain, To cleanse her brow from the carbon stain, But she brings thee a dowry so rich and true That thy love must not shrink from the tawny hue.

Her birth was rude, in a mountain cell, And her infant freaks there are none to tell; The path of her beauty was wild and free, And in dell and forest she hid from thee, But the day of her fond caprice is o'er, And she seeks to part from thy breast no more.

Pass on in the joy of thy blended tide, Thro' the land where the blessed Miquon died; No red man's blood, with its guilty stain, Hath cried unto God, from that broad domain,— With the seeds of peace they have sown the soil, Bring a harvest of wealth, for their hour of toil.