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Onward he went, till, just before,
A beauteous lake appeared in view;
And at the water’s edge he spied
A snow-white, shining, stone canoe.
Lightly the warrior sprang within,
And grasped the paddle by his side;
When turning, lo, beside him sat
The spirit of his beauteous bride

She sat within a light canoe,
And sweetly beckoned him away
To a green isle that, like a gem,
Amidst the sparkling waters lay;
High leaped the waves, yet on they pressed,
Wreath after wreath of foam they passed,–
Thus gliding o’er the water’s breast
They reached the wished-for shore at last.

Together o’er those verdant plains,
‘Mid fadeless flowers the lovers walked;
And of their native hills and streams,
And forest-homes, they freely talked.
There were no storms, no chilling winds,
No frost, no blight, to dim the flowers,
But never-fading summer reigned
Amid those calm and peaceful bowers.

None hungered there–no death, no pain,
No blighted hope, no sleepless fear;
No mourner sorrowed o’er the dead,
And no bereaved one dropped a tear;
Serenest skies were spread above,
Bright flowers were blooming all around
And every eye was filled with love,
And music dwelt in every sound.

“Here let me stay!” the warrior cried,
“On this secluded, happy shore;
Here, with my loved and beauteous bride,
Where bitter partings are no more!”
Thus spake the youth, but, ere the words
Had died away upon the breeze,
There came a low, sweet spirit-voice
Murm’ring among the sheltering trees.

“Warrior!”–thus spake the breezy voice–
“Return unto thy native shore;
Resume again thy mortal frame,
And mingle with thy tribe once more.
Listen to him who keeps the gate,
And he will tell thee what to do;
Obey his voice, return to earth,
And virtue’s pleasant paths pursue.

“Thy time to die has not arrived;
But let each gloomy thought be still,
Thy maiden waits thee on this shore,
Subject no more to pain or ill!
In never-fading youth arrayed.
Here shall ye dwell in peace at last,
When thou hast done thy work on earth,
And life’s brief wanderings are past.

“Return!–thou yet must lead thy tribe
Through many a wild, adventurous scene;
But when a good old age is reached,
And thou their leader long hast been,
Then will I call thee to thy rest
In this bright island of the skies,
Where thou mayst mingle with the blest,
While long, succeeding ages rise!”

The chieftain woke–’twas fancy all,
The bright revealings of a dream;–
Around him still the forest stood
Beneath the cold moon’s placid beam.
Up from the ground he proudly rose,
Took up his war-club and his bow,
Quelled in his soul the bitter floods
Of disappointment and of woe,–

And, turning from the grave of her
Who erst was all the world to him,
He wiped away the gathering tears
That made his eagle-glances dim;
And with a proud, majestic step
He slowly from the grave withdrew,
Resolved to hope and labor on,
With better prospects in his view

[Footnote 1: Merciful Spirit.]