XVII.
Her raven locks in strange profusion flowing;
A sweet, wild girl, with eye of earnest ray,
And olive cheek, at each emotion glowing;
Yet, whether in her gladsome frolic leaping,
Or 'neath the greenwood shade unconscious sleeping,
Or with light oar her fairy pinnace rowing,
Still, like the eaglet on its new-fledg'd wing,
Her spirit-glance bespoke the daughter of a king.
XVIII.
Mid his grim chiefs, with barbarous trappings bright,
That morn, a court of savage state did hold.
The sentenced captive see,—his brow how white!
Stretch'd on the turf his manly form lies low,
The war-club poises for its fatal blow,
The death-mist swims before his darken'd sight:
Forth springs the child, in tearful pity bold,
Her head on his declines, her arms his neck enfold.
XIX.
Fly, daughter, fly! before the death-stroke rings;
Divide her, warriors, from that English heart."
In vain! for with convulsive grasp she clings:
She claims a pardon from her frowning sire;
Her pleading tones subdue his gather'd ire;
And so, uplifting high his feathery dart,
That doting father gave the child her will,
And bade the victim live, and be his servant still.
