# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836/The Indian Girl

THE INDIAN GIRL.
She sat alone beside her hearth—  For many nights alone; She slept not on the pleasant couch  Where fragrant herbs were strewn.
At first she bound her raven hair  With feather and with shell; But then she hoped; at length, like night,  Around her neck it fell.
They saw her wandering mid the woods,  Lone, with the cheerless dawn, And then they said, "Can this be her  We called ‘The Startled Fawn’?"
Her heart was in her large sad eyes,  Half sunshine and half shade; And love, as love first springs to life,  Of every thing afraid.
The red leaf far more heavily  Fell down to autumn earth, Than her light feet, which seemed to move  To music and to mirth.
With the light feet of early youth,  What hopes and joys depart! Ah! nothing like the heavy step  Betrays the heavy heart.
It is a usual history  That Indian girl could tell; Fate sets apart one common doom  For all who love too well.
The proud—the shy—the sensitive,—  Life has not many such; They dearly buy their happiness,  By feeling it too much.
A stranger to her forest home,  That fair young stranger came; They raised for him the funeral song—  For him the funeral flame.
Love sprang from pity,—and her arms  Around his arms she threw; She told her father, "If he dies,  Your daughter dieth too."
For her sweet sake they set him free—  He lingered at her side; And many a native song yet tells  Of that pale stranger’s bride.
Two years have passed—how much two years  Have taken in their flight! They’ve taken from the lip its smile,  And from the eye its light.
Poor child! she was a child in years—  So timid and so young; With what a fond and earnest faith  To desperate hope she clung!
His eyes grew cold—his voice grew strange—  They only grew more dear. She served him meekly, anxiously,  With love—half faith—half fear.
And can a fond and faithful heart  Be worthless in those eyes For which it beats?—Ah! wo to those  Who such a heart despise.
Poor child! what lonely days she pass’d,  With nothing to recall But bitter taunts, and careless words,  And looks more cold than all.
Alas! for love, that sits at home,  Forsaken, and yet fond; The grief that sits beside the hearth,  Life has no grief beyond.
He left her, but she followed him—  She thought he could not bear When she had left her home for him,  To look on her despair.
Adown the strange and mighty stream  She took her lonely way; The stars at night her pilots were,  As was the sun by day.
Yet mournfully—how mournfully!—  The Indian look’d behind, When the last sound of voice or step  Died on the midnight wind.
Yet still adown the gloomy stream  She plied her weary oar; Her husband—he had left their home,  And it was home no more.
She found him—but she found in vain—  He spurned her from his side; He said, her brow was all too dark,  For her to be his bride.
She grasped his hands,—her own were cold,—  And silent turned away, As she had not a tear to shed,  And not a word to say.
And pale as death she reached her boat,  And guided it along; With broken voice she strove to raise  A melancholy song.
None watched the lonely Indian girl,—  She passed unmark'd of all, Until they saw her slight canoe  Approach the mighty Fall!
Upright, within that slender boat  They saw the pale girl stand, Her dark hair streaming far behind—  Uprais’d her desperate hand.
The air is filled with shriek and shout—  They call, but call in vain; The boat amid the waters dash'd—  ’Twas never seen again!