Page:Poems Davidson.djvu/83

Thou must not hope, as yet, to bear
Free from disguise that form so dear;
It must not, and it will not be,
'Till, buried in the dark Monee,
The last of yonder tribe of blood
Lies weltering in the sable flood!
But rest thee on this fresh green seat,
And I will trace his wandering feet;
Warn him to watch the lurking foe,
Whose bloody breasts for vengeance glow;
Then rest thee here; within yon dell
I saw his form, and knew him well?"

Thus spoke the prophet of the wood,
As near the stranger maid he stood.

"Then go," she cried, half faltering, "go!
Bid him beware the bloody foe!
But give me, ere we part," she cried,
"Yon blood-stained death-blade from your side;
Perhaps this arm, though weak, may find
 Strength in the hour of deep distress;
Go! my preserver and my friend,
 May heaven thy steps and efforts bless!"

Cautious and swift the Indian went;
His head was raised, his bow was bent,
And as he on, like wild deer, sped,
So light, so silent, was his tread,
That scarce a leaf was heard to move,
Of flower below, or branch above!