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.
But he, that wily monarch, stern and old,
'Mid his grim chiefs, with barbarous trappings bright,
That morn, a court of savage state did hold.
The sentenc'd 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.
"The child!—what madness fires her? Hence! Depart!
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 doating father gave the child her will,
And bade the victim live, and be his servant still.
