Weekly Trinity journal., 1860-04-21
"The MOccasin Flower"

The Green Bay (Wisconsin) .4dDocate has
talented and accomplished lady correspondent,
who signs herself Long a-comng." If she is
as beautiful as some of her brilliant productions,
we think she can bear the palm. Here is one of
her last effusons, done up in rhyme, and pref
ty little thing it is. 1t is entitled The Mecca
sin Flower
"'Twas just one hundred years ago, down on
the little Suamico a maiden, on the yellow
sands, tearing. with her pretty hands. her
long and glossy raven hair. 1t was civilized
despair for though she knew not 'Ovids 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
hurled. Life ran, an ever wild ming river, to
seas where darkness hung forever. Flow on,
thou careless Suamico; by golden sands foreve
flow ! The honeysuckle, blooming wild, leans
down-the little Indian child knees 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 century ago, and
sanctfed the SuamcO.
But why should maidens thus despair?' she
said, and smoothed her raven hair. 'I'll follow
in the pathless wind, and this dark river leave
behind Better die in loves endeayor than sink
in hopelessness forever
The red stars CLEAN, the whip-poor-wll ans
wers the owl under the hill. The snakes are
coiled in tangled swales; the woods seem full or
human walls, and fends fight for a maden's
head, and ghostly forms from which she fled :;
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
pODp-fhp is Sbn yUb hn
east the morn turns gray, sinks on the hill side,
far away. And there beside the bubbling spring
where overhanging grapevines swing, she sees
the young birds, in the nest, hide their heads in
the mothers breast. All, birds have mates, each
has home, but love,lorn maids are doomed to
roam. But, when morn pours its golden ood,
she finds trace of fresh shed blood--a broken
arrow from his quivtr, for whom she wept beside
the river. Love lent her wings--away she flew,
through noon-day heat till evening dew, and all
the night, till morn again. Alas, for stony
hearted men! Love follows them, with bleed
ing feet, through painless woods, and in the
street-forgives, what cannot be forgiven, and
goes to plead mans cause in heaven.
" Her noccaStns 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 the tears are in the violct's
eyes. and in the scented air the sghs, the last
faint gusts the illul 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 moccasn peeps
through the sod And Indians say they grew
as large as any maden's shoe,' and they by
Indian maids were worn when other moccasins
were torn. Flow on thou ceaseess Suamico by
golden sands forever flow. Take the songs the
wild birds sing take these flowers that fling
| would your murmuring waters bore some
sorrows from this fragrant shore, that those who
morn upon thy sands for hearts grown cold in
stranger lands, might see the rainbow in the
sky might see thy heart of hope float by,
might hail it in their deep distress, AID ON it float
to happiness"