Classic Poem

" 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. "

Then he, who with Acteon's stride
Had erst that region trod,
Now with bow'd head went searching o'er
The flower-enamell'd sod.

Unconscious of the unroused deer,
Or the eagle's sunward throne,
That haughty chieftain meekly roam'd,
His thoughts on love alone.

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

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

He bound the water-lily white
Amid her lustrous hair,
Yet found her black and flashing eye
Required 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 graced the chieftain's bower.

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

For ere again its glorious bloom
Rejoiced in Summer's eye,
She droop'd amid her forest home —
Her fount of life was dry.

Then, as the ebbing pulse declined,
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-pangs 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 naught 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 make me his again. "