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The Indian's Bride - Edward C. Pinkney (1846) (14586994617)


The Indian's Bride - Edward C. Pinkney (1846) (14586994617)



Identifier: poetspoetryofa00gris (find matches)
Title: The poets and poetry of America
Year: 1846 (1840s)
Authors: Griswold, Rufus W. (Rufus Wilmot), 1815-1857
Subjects: American poetry
Publisher: Philadelphia, Carey and Hart
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: The Library of Congress

Text Appearing Before Image:
she strays—A glancing, living, human smile On Natures face she plays.Can none instruct me what are theseCompanions of the lofty trees 1 Intent to blend her with his lot.Fate formd her all that he was not;And, as by mere unlikeness, thoughts Associate we see.Their hearts, from very difference, caught A perfect sympathy.The household goddess here to beOf that one dusky votary.She left her pallid countrymen. An earthling most divine.And sought in this sequesterd wood A solitary shrine.Behold them roaming hand in hand.Like night and sleep, along the land;Observe their movements:—he for her Restrains his active stride,WTaile she assumes a bolder gait To ramble at his side;Thus, even as the steps they frame,Their souls fast alter to the same. I
Text Appearing After Image:
iisraajiJ^S isuiEiD): EDWARD C PINKNEY. 233 The one forsakes ferocity, SONG. And momently grows mild; The other tempers more and more We break the glass, whose sacred wine, The artful with the wild. To some beloved health we drain. She humanizes him, and he Lest future pledges, less divine. Educates him to liberty. Should eer the hallowd toy profane ; And thus I broke a heart that pourd III. Its tide of feelings out for thee, 0, say not they must soon be old,— Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold! In draughts, by after-times deplored.Yet dear to memory. Yet envy I that sylvan pair But still the old, impassiond ways More than my words express,— And habits of my mind remain. The singular beauty of their lot, And still unhappy light displays And seeming happiness. Thine image chamberd in my brain. They have not been reduced to share And still it looks as when the hours The painful pleasures of despair; Went by like flights of singing birds. Their sun declines not in the s





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