The Nevada Democrat. [volume] (Nevada, Calif.) 1854-1863, 1860-04-11
THE MOCcAsIN FLOWER.

The Green Bay (Wis.) Advoeats, has o talent
ed lady correspondent who signs herself "Long-
a-eoming." Here is one Of her last productions
done up in rhyme, and pretty little story IL
ISL
Twas just ono hundred years ago, down on
little Suamleo, maiden, on the yellow sands,
was tearing, with her pretty hands, her long
and glossy raven hair. Il was civilized de-
spair for though she knew not "Ovid's Art OF
Love- she had human heart that loved with
more than art twas life-all that defines that
one word, wife was gone and blotted from the
world the stars and moon to darkness hurl-
ed. Life ran, an ever wid'ning river, to
seas where darkness hung forever. Flow on,
thou careless Suamico BY golden sands forever
flow The hoDeysuckle, blooming wild, leans
down-the little Indian child kneels down to
kiss thy wave, beside the Indian warriors grave
and there the bride walks with her lover, under
the Summers leafy cover under boughs Of
verdant trees, that murmur In the evening
breeze, nor flowers of one hundred years can
equal now that maiden's tears, that fell cen-
tary ago. and sanctifed the Suamico.
"But why should maidens thus despairfp she
said, and smoothed her raven hair. "I'll fol-
low In the painless wind, and this dark river
leave behind. Better die In loves endeavor,
than sink In hopelessneas forever"
The red stars CLEAN, tho whip-poorwill ans
wers the owl under the hill. The snakes are
coiled In tangled swales the woods seem full Of
human walls, and nends fight for maiden's
head, and ghostly forms from which sho fed ;
aud, on tho lake, the lonely loon floats by the
lilies, where the moon casts shadows, from the
tall, dark trees, while, softer-foeted than the
breeze, she steals on In the hunters track. The
moon IL gone-the night is black she, when
the east morn turns gray, sinks on the hillside
IA And th0Fa haaidA thA huhh
spring where oyerhanging grapevines swing
che sees the young birds, in the neat, hide their
heads in the mether's breast. All, birds have
mates ench has home, but love.lorn maids are
doomed TO roam. But, when morn pours its
golden food she nnds trace Of freshshed
Blood broken arrow from his culver, for
whoB she wept beside the river Love lent her
wings--away she few. through MONDAY heat
gill evening dew, and all night, till morn again.
Alas, for stony hearted mem Love follows
them, with bleeding feet, through pathless
woods and In the street-forgives what cannot
be forgiven, and goes to plead mans cause 10
heaven.
Her moccasins are COMO the maid sinks
down where sun and shadow braid carpet In
the MONDAY hours the crimson drops are on
tho flowers, aud the tears are In the violets eyes
and In the scented air the signs, the last faint
gusts the ftful breath of life has blown her on
to death. In the happy hunting ground above
she found eternity OF love. And now, where'er
the maiden trod, the mocc asin peeps through
the sod. And Indians say, "they grew as large
as any maiden's SHOE" and they BY Indian
maids were worn when other moceasins were
torn. Flow on thou eeaseless Suamico BY gol-
den sands forever flow. Take the songs the
wild birds sing take these flowers that fling |;
l would your murmuring waters bore sorrows
from this fragrant shore, that those who msurn
upon thy sands, for hearts grown cold In stran-
ger lands, might see the rainbow Ia the sky
might see thy heart Of hope ny by. might hail
II In their deep distress, and on Il float TO hap
piness.