xxv.
Night,—moonless night! The forest hath no sound,
But the low shiver of its dripping leaves,
Save here and there, amid its depths profound,
The sullen sigh, the prowling panther heaves,—
Save the fierce growling of the cubless bear,
Or tramp of gaunt wolf, rushing from his lair;
Where its slow coil the poisonous serpent weaves:
Who dares the dangerous path, at hour so wild,
With fleet and fawn-like step?—Powhatan's fearless child!
xxvi.
"Up, up,—away! I heard the words of power,
Those secret vows that seal a nation's doom,
Bid the red flame burst forth, at midnight hour,
And make th' unconscious slumberer's bed his tomb,
Spare not the babe—the rose-leaf of a day,—
But shred the sapling, like the oak, away.
I heard the curse! My soul is sick with gloom:
Wake, chieftains, wake! avert the hour of dread!"
And, with that warning voice, the guardian-angel fled.
xxvii.
On sped the seasons,—and the forest-child
Was rounded to the symmetry of youth;
While, o'er her features stole, serenely mild,
The trembling sanctity of woman's truth,
