1850-60.] GRANVILLE M. BALLARD. 655 One year before she came From silvery Guadalquivir, Never to strike the sweet guitar Again upon that river. And in that cottage lived Her cousin, Rodriga, A hunter bold — ^but now, alack, An hundred miles away. The braves approached the fence, For 'twas the closing day, And Eagle Eye scaled the picket walls And seized upon his prey. And when the morning dawned. The captive and the three Had journeyed many a silent league Toward old Gnarlwood Tree. For there was Pokomah slain By Rodriga's own hand. And thitherward, many and many a moon. Tended the captive band. The winter had come and gone, The flower encased the bee, And green leaves welcomed the breezes back From off the southern sea ; The vernal sun hung high, And loudly sang the jay. And flowers exhaled a sweet perfume Upon the first of May, When she that once had lived In halls beyond the tide, Knelt a captive upon the green Where young Pokomah died. As Eagle Eye drew his bow, Again these words he said, " Blood for blood was the olden law That turned our fathers red." Swifter than elk or deer Sped his unerring dart, — It parted the liquid fields of air, Then pierced Luello's heart. Thus in years now olden. And upon the first of May, Where the grass grows green and the sky hangs blue, And the robin sings all day. Perished the beautiful maiden. Who came o'er the chiming sea, Even from silvery Guadalquivir, Unto old Gnarlwood Tree. ZULA ZONG. Over a meadow where dandelions Were crowned with airy balls, Stood a cottage ; and eglantine. And climbing roses loved to twine. With many a beautiful antique vine, Over its wooden walls. And in that cottage long years ago. Lived beautiful Zula Zong. Her voice was clear as a silver bell ; And oh ! her laugh, it cast a spell Over the depths of sorrow's well. Unknown to the minstrel's song. And over that meadow but yesterday, The old path led me on ; I heard no voice, as in years afore. And dimpled cheeks I saw no more — With tears of sorrow my eyes run o'er For beautiful Zula Zong. Now alders grow where hollyhocks grew, Over that meadow all brown ; And red briers nod to the mistletoe. Where myrtle and woodbine years ago, Were trained with a hand as white as snow, Over that meadow so brown.
