Cincinnati daily press. [volume] (Cincinnati [Ohio]) 1860-1862, 1860-03-31
A Love Story i'm Rhyme.

The Green Bay (wis.) AdoocGtc has fair
correspondent who signs herself "Long a
coming" and this is one of her last effusions
: in rhyme: H't-
:. A ''Twas just one hundred years, ago down
on the Little Suamico, maiden of the yellow
sands, was tearing with her pretty hands,
her long and glossy raven hair. 1t was a
civilized despair; for though she knew not
OUids art Of Lore, she had a human heart
that loved with more than art; twas life-all
that defines that one word-life, was gone
and blotted from the world the star and
moon to darkness hurled. Life ran an ever
widening river, to seas where darkness hung
forever. Flow on, thou careless Suamico, by
golden sands forever flow. The honeysuckle
blooming wilds leads 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 yerdant trees
that murmur in the evening breeze, nor
flowers of one hundred years can equal that
maiden's tears that fell century ago, and
sanctified the Suamico
"But why should maidens thus despair"
she said, and smoothed her raven hair. an
follow in the painless wood, and this dark
river leave behind. Better die in loves en-
deavor than sink in hopelessness forever.
The red stars CLEAN, the whipperwill an
swers the owl, under the hill. The snakes
are coiled in tangled swales; the woods seem
full of human walls, land fends seek for a
maiden's head, and ghostly forms from which
she fled; on the lake, the lone loon floats by
the lilies where the moon casts shadows
from the tall, dark trees, while softer footed
than the breeze, she steals on in the hunters
track. The moon is gone-the night is black;
she, when in the east the morn turns gray,
sinks on the hillside, far away. And there,
beside the bubbling spring, where over-hang-
ing grapevines swing, she sees the young
birds, in the nest, hide their heads in their
mothers breast. All birds have mates each
has a home, love lorn maids are doomed to
roam.' But when morn pours its golden food;
she finds trace of fresh-shed blood-away,
she few, through noon heat till evening dew
and all the night, till morn again. Alas, for
stony-hearted menl Love follows them, with
bleeding feet, through pathless woods, and
and in the street-forgives what can not be
forgiven, and goes to plead mans cause in
Heaven.
"Her moccasins are gone; the maid sinks
down where sun and shadow braid a carpet
in the MONDAY hours the crimson drops
are on the flowers; and tears are in the violet's
eyes, and in the scented air the sighs, the last
the last faint gust, the ftful breath of life
has blown her on 10 death. In the happy
hunting ground above, she has found eternity
of love. And now, where'er the maiden
trod, the moccasin peeps above the sod. And
the Indians say they grew as large as any
maiden's shoe, and they, by Indian maids,
were worn, when other moccasins were torn.
Flow on, thou ceaseless Suamico, by golden
sands forever flow. Take the songs the wild
birds sing, take the flowers that l fling. /
would your murmuring waters bore some
sorrows from this fragrant shore, that those
who mourn upon thy sands, for haarts grown
cold in stranger lands, might see the rainbow
in the sky-might see the heart of hope float
by, might hail i in their deep distress, and on
it float to happiness. Xxi. -.