Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/266

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THE INDIAN'S BRIDE.
Oh! say not they must soon be old,
Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold!
Yet envy I that sylvan pair
  More than my words express—
The simple beauty of their lot,
  And seeming happiness.
They have not been reduced to share
The painful pleasures of despair;
Their sun declines not in the sky,
Nor are their wishes cast,
Like shadows of the afternoon,
  Repining towards the past:
With nought to dread or to repent,
The present yields them full content.
In solitude there is no crime;
  Their actions all are free,
And passion lends their way of life
  The only dignity;
And how can they have any cares—
Whose interest contends with theirs?

The world, for all they know of it,
Is theirs; for them the stars are lit;
For them the earth beneath is green,
  The heavens above are bright;
For them the moon doth wax and wane,
  And decorate the night;
For them the branches of those trees
Wave music in the vernal breeze;
For them upon that dancing spray,
  The free bird sits and sings,
And glittering insects flit about
  Upon delighted wings;
For them that brook, the brakes among,
Murmurs its small and drowsy song;
For them the many-coloured clouds
  Their shapes diversify,
And change at once, like smiles and frowns,
  The expression of the sky.
For them, and by them, all is gay,
And fresh and beautiful as they:
The images their minds receive,
  Their minds assimilate
To outward forms, imparting thus,
  The glory of their state.

Could ought be painted otherwise
Than fair, seen through her starbright eyes?

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