Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread,
He came; and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd.
They buried the dark chief; they freed
Beside the grave his battle steed;
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart! One piercing neigh
Arose,—and, on the dead man's plain,
The rider grasps his steed again.
I KNEW her when a playful girl,
With sunny cheek and brow-
Her flowing hair and glossy curl
I well remember now.
For her I plucked the sweetest flower, And earliest of the fruit,
And sought rich shells upon the shore To string about her lute.
I saw her when the simple days
Of childhood all were o'er,
As unaffected in her ways,
And perfect as before.
She was the brightest gem I met
Within the halls of mirth,
And every feature was so sweet,
I deemed her not of earth.
Her fairy form and buoyant air
Bespoke a spirit free;
And graceful as the gossamer
She passed away from me.
I saw her next in holy hour
Float up the sacred aisle,
And with the FAITHLESS kneel before
The altar-place awhile.
I saw the priest, the book, the ring,
And heard the vows they spake,
I knew he did a heartless thing-
He vowed but to forsake.
With bounding step I saw her go
In splendor to her home,
Without a shade of present wo,
Or fear of aught to come.
But oh! a change! that once bright eye
Disclosed a burdened soul;
For he who shared her destiny,
Bowed at the maddening bowl.
Ye who have seen affliction steal
The health-glow from the cheek,
When eye and brow and step reveal
What lip may never speak,-
Chide not, that o'er the early sleep
Of one so soon at rest,
I pause in sympathy to weep,
Upon the grave's green breast,
SOFT, silent Wabash! on thy sloping verge
As fixed in thought, I stay my wandering feet,
And list the gentle rippling of thy surge,
What moving spirits do my fancy greet ;-
What flitting phantoms from thy breast emerge,
Forms for the shrouded sepulchre more meet !
In thy dark flowing waters, I would see
More than is wont to fix the transient gaze
Of vulgar admiration, though there be
Enough to wake the poet's sweetest lays
In all thy silent beauty;-for to me
Thou hast a voice-a voice of other days.
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