Poems (Acton)/Nairla

NAIRLA. ——

On the dark forest trees the dew lay sleeping:
 Sunset had tinged with gold each fleecy cloud,
When her lone watch an Indian girl was keeping,
 Where a tall pine had cast its shadow proud.

Nairla, the stern Manhatta's lovely daughter,
 Brightest and best amid thy dark-browed race,
Linger not still thus by the lake's blue water,
 Else will they miss thee from the greenwood chase.

Oh! she is not alone! through wood and brake,
 Parting the boughs that o'er his pathway fall,
An aged man his feeble way doth take,
 And waves a welcome to the maiden's call.

Swift as a deer she flies his steps to meet,
 And lead him 'neath the stately forest tree,
And then the maiden kneeling at his feet,
 Bowed her young brow in bitter agony.

"Father," she cried, "look on these waving trees,
 This silver lake. Is it not passing fair?
Yet, oh! my father, death is in the breeze,
 That steals e'en now to play within thine hair.

"Thou from thy distant land, with gentle speech
 And patient look, hath wandered here alone,
The red man in his forest wild to teach,
 And win him to a worship not his own.

"And thou hast taught me from thy holy book
 Things that do make me scorn the life I've led:
His daughter's change Manhatta cannot brook,
 Alas! his wrath will fall upon thy head.

"They say thou hast bewitch'd me, turn'd my heart
 From all it used to love in days of yore;
That in their rites I cease to take a part,
 And join them in their festive sports no more.

"And they will kill thee, father! aye, this night;
 Perchance this hour! Oh! fly ere yet too late!
See! my canoe rides o'er the waters bright:
 Swift shall it bear thee from thy cruel fate.

"Oh! fare thee well! thou must no longer stay."
 But calmly did the missionary stand—
"Weep not, my child: I will not flee away,
 Though bonds and cruel torture be at hand!"

"Father, 'tis madness! they are rushing on!
 Quick to the bark ere they can gain the spot.
Alas! it is too late! one hope hath gone.
 They've tracked thee here, yet Nairla leaves thee not."

Round the old man the Indian maiden clung,
 Her dark locks twining with his snowy hair;
Clasping, as in her sorrow wild she hung,
 His feeble hands that joined in fervent prayer.

And onward! onward! came the band of death,
 Swiftly, yet surely, like a mighty flood,
Trampling the flowers that seemed, with balmy breath,
 To stay their footsteps from the deed of blood.

Near, and yet nearer, till, with vengeful cry,
 Manhatta marks his prey before him rise.
Through the still air the fatal arrows fly,
 Then starts he back with horror and surprise.

He sees two victims wrapp'd in last embrace;
 His heart grows cold! what form his eye doth meet?
Why does he dread to look upon the face
 Of her who sleepeth in her beauty sweet?

Lo! with the blighted flower upon his breast,
 The aged martyr in the forest lay.
The dart that gave his earthly spirit rest,
 Hath call'd the Indian maiden's soul away.

Pass we, the frantic woe too late to save;
 The wailing dirge, the stricken chief's despair.
In the far west there is a hallow'd grave,
 Sheltered by trees—Nairla is sleeping there!
H. A.