The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 16, Pages 407-408
RECORDS OF WOMAN.—NO. VI.
The American Forest-Girl.
Wildly 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
