OH, light were her footsteps,And free as the airThat fanned her bright tressesOf long, jetty hair.And sweeter than bird-notesThe gay, rippling songThat gushed from her young heartThe happy day long.
And bright as the star-beamsThat mantle the sky,The love-light that shone inHer dark, flashing eye.And warmer than sunshineOf India's isle,The flush of her brown cheek,The light of her smile.
And dear to Ocalla,The chief of the wild,Was sweet Lillawalla,His favorite child,—The light of his wigwam,The joy of his life,The offspring of Lela,His late buried wife.
But stern was the chieftain,And proudly he stoodUpon the high virtueOf pure Mingo blood.And dark was his rageWhen the maiden, in truth,Acknowledged her loveFor a Cherokee youth.
Compressed were his thin lips,And stately his stride,And deadly the arrowsThat swung by his side,As, frowning, he hurriedFrom his heart-stricken child,To seek him she lovedIn the deep forest wild.
A shriek from her cold lipsWas all that was heard;Then, fleet as a gazelleOr young, startled bird,She flew on the wingsOf affection to saveFrom danger her Logan,Her Cherokee brave.
The tempest was gathering,The storm-cloud was near,The path through the forestIntricate and drear;Yet, fearlessly onward,Unwearied, she bentHer steps t'ward the doorOf her Cherokee's tent.
But woe was her heartWhen she entered the door!—Ah, woe! double woe!—Death had hastened before;And there, through his bodyWas quivering a dart!—Her father's,—she knew it,—Deep piercing his heart!
She fell on his bosom,Oh, was it a dream?Oh, no, no! she roseWith a maniac's scream;And, dragging the body,—Poor heart-maddened child,—She sought the deep streamWhere the surges ran wild.
A moment her feetOn the precipice stood;Then, clasping her lover,She plunged in the flood,To rise never more;—And the old Mingo chiefFled his tribe! and died lonely,Of wild, savage grief.
