Part 32

Ninimosha, in the clear blue sky, Canst thou read my constancy, Or in whispering branches near, Aught from thy true lover hear? Ah! I fear--I fear--I fear, Evil bird hath filled thine ear.

My sweetheart.

FAIRY WHISPERINGS.

Supposed to be addressed to, and responded by a young pine-tree, in a state of transformation.

INVOCATION.

Spirit of the dancing leaves, Hear a throbbing heart that grieves, Not for joys this world can give, But the life that spirits live: Spirit of the foaming billow, Visit thou my nightly pillow, Shedding o'er it silver dreams, Of the mountain brooks and streams, Sunny glades, and golden hours, Such as suit thy buoyant powers: Spirit of the starry night, Pencil out thy fleecy light, That my footprints still my lead To the blush-let Miscodeed, Or the flower to passion true Yielding free its carmine hue: Spirit of the morning dawn, Waft thy fleecy columns on, Snowy white, or tender blue, Such as brave men love to view. Spirit of the greenwood plume, Shed around thy leaf perfume, Such as springs from buds of gold Which thy tiny hands unfold. Spirits, hither quick repair, Hear a maiden's evening prayer.

Claytonia Virginica.

RESPONSE.

Maiden, think me not a tree, But thine own dear lover free, Tall and youthful in my bloom With the bright green nodding plume. Thou art leaning on my breast, Lean forever there, and rest! Fly from man, that bloody race, Pards, assassins, bold and base; Quit their dim, and false parade For the quiet lonely shade. Leave the windy birchen cot For my own light happy lot; O'er thee I my veil will fling, Light as beetle's silken wing; I will breathe perfume of flowers, O'er thy happy evening hours; I will in my shell canoe Waft thee o'er the waters blue; I will deck thy mantle fold, With the sun's last rays of gold. Come, and on the mountain free Rove a fairy bright with me.

SONG OF THE OPECHEE, THE ROBIN.

The Chippewas relate that the robin originated from a youth who was subjected to too severe a task of fasting.

In the boundless woods there are berries of red, And fruits of a beautiful blue, Where, by nature's own hand, the sweet singers are fed, And to nature they ever are true.

We go not with arrow and bow to the field, Like men of the fierce ruddy race, To take away lives which they never can give, And revel the lords of the chase.

If danger approaches, with instant alarm We fly to our own leafy woods, And there, with an innocent carol and charm, We sing to our dear little broods.

At morning we sally in quest of the grain Kind nature in plenty supplies, We skip o'er the beautiful wide-stretching plain, And sport in the vault of the skies.

At evening we perch in some neighboring tree To carol our evening adieu, And feel, although man assert he is free, We only have liberty true.

We sing out our praises to God and to man, We live as heaven taught us to live, And I would not change back to mortality's plan For all that the mortal can give.

Here ceased the sweet singer; then pluming his breast, He winged the blue firmament free, Repeating, as homeward he flew to his rest, Tshee-ree-lee--Tshee-ree-lee--Tshee-ree-lee!

EVENING CHANT OF INDIAN CHILDREN TO THE WATASEE, THE FIRE-FLY.

Fire-fly, fire-fly! bright little thing, Light me to bed, and my song I will sing. Give me your light, as you fly o'er my head, That I may merrily go to my bed. Give me your light o'er the grass as you creep, That I may joyfully go to my sleep. Come, little fire-fly--come, little beast-- Come! and I'll make you to-morrow a feast. Come, little candle that flies as I sing, Bright little fairy-bug--night's little king; Come, and I'll dance as you guide me along, Come, and I'll pay you, my bug, with a song.

SONG OF A FAIRY CHIEF.

Addressed to the winds on transferring his sister to a position as one of the planets in the morning sky.

Blow, winds, blow, my sister lingers From her dwelling in the sky, Where the moon with rosy fingers Shall her cheeks with vermil dye.

There my earliest views directed, Shall from her their brilliance take And her smiles through clouds reflected, Guide me on, by wood and lake.

While I range the highest mountains, Sport in valleys, green and low, Or beside our Indian fountains, Raise my tiny hip hallo.

SONG OF A CAPTIVE CREEK GIRL,

Who was an exile in a distant northern tribe, confined on an island in Lake Superior.

To sunny vales, to balmy skies, My thoughts, a flowery arrow, flies; I see the wood, the bank, the glade, Where first, a wild wood girl, I played. I think on scenes and faces dear; They are not here--they are not here.