The Lobelia Cardinalis

"Cull me a flower," the Indian maidUnto her lover sigh'd—"Such as thy noble spirit deemsFit for thy chosen bride.

"And I will wear it on my browWhen from this home I part,And enter to thy forest bower,Thy true love in my heart."

With meek intent, and searching glance,The chieftain pac'd the sod—Who, with Acteon's haughty stride,Had erst that region trod.

Not now, to rouse the slumbering deer,Or scathe the eagle's throne.Thro' those secluded shades he roam'd—His heart was love's alone.

He cut the rich, wild rose, that stillA lingering radiance cast—Yet soon its falling petals toldIts day of pride was past.

He pluck'd the iris, deeply blue,The amaryllis, bright,And stor'd their treasures through the day,But cast them forth at night.

He bound the water-lily white.Amid her lustrous hair,But found her black and flashing eyeRequir'd a gem more rare.

At length, beside its mantling pool,Majestic and serene,He saw the proud Lobelia towerIn beauty, like a queen.

That eve, the maiden's ebon locksReveal'd its glowing power,Amid the simple, nuptial ritesThat grac'd the chieftain's bower.

But she, who, by that stately flower,Her lover's preference knew.Was doom'd, alas! in youthful bloom,To share its frailty, too;

For ere again its scarlet spireRejoic'd in summer's eye,She droop'd amid her forest home—Her fount of life was dry.

Then, as the ebbing pulse declin'd,Forth from her sacred nook,With swimming eye, and trembling hand,Her bridal wreath she took,

And bound its wither'd floral bellsAround her temples pale,And faintly to her maidens spake—For breath began to fail:—

"Should the last death-pang shake me sore,(For on they come with power,)Press closer in my ice-cold handMy husband's token-flower;

And rear the turf-mound broad and highTo span my lonely grave,That nought may sever from my locksThe gift of love he gave—

So, when the dance of souls goes forthAthwart the starry plain,He 'll know me by his chosen flower,And I 'll be his again."