Poems (Truesdell)/The Indian's Bride

by Helen Truesdell

[I remember, when a child, reading an account of an Indian Chief, who went from America to England, and married the fair daughter of an English house. She is represented as approaching the altar with the greatest enthusiasm.]

 

THE INDIAN'S BRIDE.

"Holy and pure are the drops that fall,
When the young bride goes from her father's hall:
She goes unto love yet untried and new—
She parts from love which hath still been true."
Mrs. Hemans.

"Oh! bind the bridal veil," she said,
 "Sweet sister, on my brow,
And let me to the altar go,
 To take the sweetest vow

"That ever passed from woman's lips,
 Or thrilled through woman's breast;—
Without it, love is but a dream,
 And life is all unblest."

Gently the bridal veil was bound
 Amid those tresses fair,
Which hung, like rays of golden light,
 So beautiful they were,

Around the maiden's sylph-like form,—
 So full of perfect grace,
You'd rarely see so fair a form,
 With such a lovely face.

The high, fair brow, the loving lips,
 The sad, yet tender eyes,
Whose color only could be matched
 By heaven's own azure dyes.

And then the small fair hands were clasped;
 The maiden knelt in prayer;
And her sweet voice went floating out
 Like music on the air.

But strange the contrast!—he who stood
 To claim her for his bride,
A dark-browed Indian Chief was he,
 The forest's fear and pride.

What wild emotion moved his heart?
 Say, should we call it love,
That brought the eagle from of high
 To mate him with the dove?

Was there no maiden of his tribe,
 No dark-eyed, dusky one,
Who dwelt within his native wilds
 On toward the setting sun,

Could bear his burden by his side?—
 With him the hills could roam?—
And dress for him the mountain deer,
 And tend his forest home?

But must he woo this lovely flower
 From Albion's distant shore,
To wither 'neath a foreign sky,
 And pine in sorrow sore?

What will she, with her costly gems,
 That she has worn with pride?
The feather and the shell were best
 To deck the Red Man's bride.

What will she, for her happy home,
 Where peace and plenty smile?
Oh, cruel was the heart, methinks,
 That could her steps beguile!

And when the wild romance is past—
 The foolish dream is o'er—
Will she not think upon the home
 Which she shall see no more?

Will not her mother's voice, at eve.
 Steal 'mid those woods so dim,
Borne on the fragrance of the breeze,
 Soft as a vesper hymn?

Her sister's, too,—the gentle girl,
 Who bound the flowerets fair,
While tear-drops fell, like glittering pearls,
 Amid her golden hair?

And her fond father,—he who strove,
 In tones of choking woe,
To bless His darling ere he bade—
 Ah, Badly bade—her go,

To cheer the Indian's wigwam rude,
 Far o'er the shadowy main,
Leaving behind fond precious hopes
 She ne'er can know again.