Monmouth weekly herald. [volume] (Freehold, N.J.) 1854-1860, 1860-03-01
THE MoccAsIN FLOWER.

Twas just one hundred years ago
down on the Little Snamico, maiden on
the yellow sands, was tearing, with her
pretty hands, her long and glossy raven
hair. 1t was a civilized despair; foI
though she knew not "Ovid's Art o.
Love" she had human heart that loved
with more, than art; twas life-aIl thai
defines that one word-wife, was gone
and blotted from the world the stars
and moon to darkness hurled. Life ran
an ever wid'nipg river, to seas where
darkness hung forever. Flow ON, thou
careless Suamico, by golden sands forever
flow. The honeysuckle blooming wild
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 verdant
trees that murmur in the evening breeze
nor flowers of one hundred years can
equal now that maiden's tears, that fell a
century ago, and sancti6ed the Suamico
"But why should maidens thus de-
spair?" she said, and smoothed her RAVEN
hair. "I'll follow in the painless wood
and this dark river leave behind. Better
die in loves endeavor, than sink in hope:
lessness forever"
The red stars CLEAN, the whipporwiIl
answers the owl, under the hill. The
snakes are eoiled in tangled swales; the
woods seem full of human walls, and
6ends ft for maiden's head, and gbostly
forms, from which she fed; and, on the
lake, the lonely 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
black; she, when the east the morn turns
gray, sinks on the hillside, far away
And there, beside the buhbling spring,
where overhangiag grapeyines swing, she
sees the young birds, in the nest, hide
their heads in their mothers breast. All
birds have mates, each has home, love
lorn maids are doomed to roam. But,
when morn pours its golden Good, she
finds trace of fresh-shed blood-a
broken arrow from his culver for whom
she wept beside the river. Love lent her
wings-away she few, through noon day
heat till evening dew, and all the night,
till morn again. Alas, for stnny.hearted
men! Love follows them, with bleeding
feet, through painless woods, and 10 the
street-forgives what cannot be forgiven,
and goes to plead mans cause in heaven.
Her moccasns are gone; the maid sinKs
down where sun and shadow braid a car
pet in the noon day hours; the crimson
drops are on the flowers; and tears are
ia the violet's eyes, and in the scented
air the sighs, the lost 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 moccasiu
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 moccasins were torn.
Flow on, thou ceaseless Suamieo, by gold
en- sands forever flow. Take the songs.
the wild birds sing; take these flowers
that fling; / would your murmuring
waters bore some sorrows from this fra
grant shore, THAT those who mourn upon
thy sands, for hearts grown cold in
stranger lands, might see the rainbow in
the sky-might see the heart Of hope float
by, might hail it in their deep distress,
and ON it Goat to happiness"