Voice of Flowers/The Lobelia Cardinalis

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4363806Voice of FlowersThe Lobelia Cardinalis1846Lydia Huntley Sigourney


THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS.

"Cull me a flower," the Indian maid
    Unto her lover sigh'd—
"Such as thy noble spirit deems
    Fit for thy chosen bride.

"And I will wear it on my brow
    When from this home I part,
And enter to thy forest bower,
    Thy true love in my heart."

With meek intent, and searching glance,
    The chieftain pac'd the sod—
Who, with Acteon's haughty stride,
    Had erst that region trod.

Not now, to rouse the slumbering deer,
    Or scathe the eagle's throne.
Thro' those secluded shades he roam'd—
    His heart was love's alone.

He cut the rich, wild rose, that still
    A lingering radiance cast—
Yet soon its falling petals told
    Its day of pride was past.


He pluck'd the iris, deeply blue,
    The amaryllis, bright,
And stor'd their treasures through the day,
    But cast them forth at night.

He bound the water-lily white.
    Amid her lustrous hair,
But found her black and flashing eye
    Requir'd a gem more rare.

At length, beside its mantling pool,
    Majestic and serene,
He saw the proud Lobelia tower
    In beauty, like a queen.

That eve, the maiden's ebon locks
    Reveal'd its glowing power,
Amid the simple, nuptial rites
    That grac'd the chieftain's bower.

But she, who, by that stately flower,
    Her lover's preference knew.
Was doom'd, alas! in youthful bloom,
    To share its frailty, too;

For ere again its scarlet spire
    Rejoic'd in summer's eye,
She droop'd amid her forest home—
    Her fount of life was dry.


Then, as the ebbing pulse declin'd,
    Forth from her sacred nook,
With swimming eye, and trembling hand,
    Her bridal wreath she took,

And bound its wither'd floral bells
    Around her temples pale,
And faintly to her maidens spake—
    For breath began to fail:—

"Should the last death-pang shake me sore,
    (For on they come with power,)
Press closer in my ice-cold hand
    My husband's token-flower;

And rear the turf-mound broad and high
    To span my lonely grave,
That nought may sever from my locks
    The gift of love he gave—

So, when the dance of souls goes forth
    Athwart the starry plain,
He 'll know me by his chosen flower,
    And I 'll be his again."