Classic Poem

The tide was out at set of sun,
The black marsh shone with gleams of red;
A little island stood alone,
But smoke curled up, a slender thread;
Some man lived on this lonely place,
But bats and owls to see his face.

A lonely place, half hut, half cave,
Plastered with mud and built of stone,
Just out of reach of high-tide wave,
And there a hermit dwelt alone;
Shell-fish and herbs supplied his store,
He bowed beneath his years threescore.

There sat he, withered, bowed and old,
And shivered o'er his scanty blaze.
Upon his coat a gleam of gold
Bespoke its early better days,
And golden lilies of fair France,—
The old man sat as in a trance.

He saw, and naught else could he see,
A face, an Indian maiden's face.
This was the place, and he was free,
And she the fairest of her race.
He played a game, she lost her whole,
He gave a kiss and she—her soul.

He wandered lightly through the world
And fought and laughed through many a fight.
Where'er the French flag was unfurled
There would he seek some new delight.
But still beneath his careless grace
He saw that Indian maiden's face.

This was the place, 't was here, 't was here!
Great God, is that a baby's cry?
He trembles with a sudden fear,
He starts and gasps convulsively,
Then hastens through the night winds harsh,
And gropes his way down to the marsh.

The marsh seems firm, the tide is out,
And black and darksome is the night;
The cry leads on with answering shout,
He hastens on with all his might.
If he could succor this poor child
Perchance his fate would be more mild.

And on, and on, an endless waste—
The night is black—no one to see—
Whose child? whose child? in frenzied haste
He stumbles on, it may not be—
His youth comes back, and by his side
There is a face—his Indian bride.

The tide was out, the night was black,
The marsh was soft, and on he sped
With searching gaze that ne'er looked back,
And knew not that he chased the dead.
When morning came all trace was gone,
The little island stood alone.