Janet McRea.

She heard the fight was over,
    And won the wrath of fame!
When tidings from her lover,
    With his good war-steed came:
To guard her safely to his tent,
The red-men of the woods were sent.
    They led her where sweet waters gush!
Under the pine-tree bough!
    The tomahawk is raised to crush--
'Tis buried in her brow!--
She sleeps beneath that pine-tree now!

Her broken-hearted lover
    In hopeless conflict died!
The forest-leaves now cover
    That soldier and his bride!
The frown of the Great Spirit fell
Upon the red-men like a spell!
    No more those waters slake their thirst,
Shadeless to them that tree!
    O'er land and lake they roam accurst,
And in the clouds they see
Thy spirit, unavenged, McRea!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Exile to his Sister.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Love Thee, Dearest!

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

To The Evening Star.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Willie.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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A Legend of the Mohawk.

In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing water,
    Two lovers reclined in the shade of a tree;
She was the mountain-king's rosy-lipped daughter,
    The brave warrior-chief of the valley was he.
Then all things around them, below and above,
Were basking as now in the sunshine of love--
    In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing stream.

In the days that are gone, they were laid 'neath the willow,
    The maid in her beauty, the youth in his pride;
Both slain by the foeman who crossed the dark billow,
    And stole the broad lands where their children reside;
Whose fathers, when dying, in fear looked above,
And trembled to think of that chief and his love,
    In the days that are gone, by this sweet flowing stream.

George Pope Morris

Fragment of an Indian Poem.

    *        *        *        *        *        *

They come!--Be firm--in silence rally!
The long-knives our retreat have found!
Hark!--their tramp is in the valley,
And they hem the forest round!
The burdened boughs with pale scouts quiver,
The echoing hills tumultuous ring,
While across the eddying river
Their barks, like foaming war-steeds, spring!
The blood-hounds darken land and water;
They come--like buffaloes for slaughter!

See their glittering ranks advancing,
See upon the free winds dancing
Pennon proud and gaudy plume.
The strangers come in evil hour,
In pomp, and panoply, and power!
But, while upon our tribes they lower,
Think they our manly hearts will cower
To meet a warrior's doom?

Right they forget while strengt...

George Pope Morris

The Chieftain's Daughter

Upon the barren sand
A single captive stood;
Around him came, with bow and brand,
The red-men of the wood.
Like him of old, his doom he hears,
Rock-bound on ocean's rim:
The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
And breathed a prayer for him.

Above his head in air
The savage war-club swung:
The frantic girl, in wild despair,
Her arms about him flung.
Then shook the warriors of the shade,
Like leaves on aspen limb--
Subdued by that heroic maid
Who breathed a prayer for him.

"Unbind him!" gasped the chief--
"Obey your king's decree!"
He kissed away her tears of grief,
And set the captive free.
'Tis ever thus, when, in life's storm,
Hope's star to man grows dim,
An angel kneels in woman's form,
And breathes a prayer f...

George Pope Morris

The Orphan Maid of Glencoe.

NOTE: - The tale is told a few years after the massacre of Glencoe, by a wandering bard, who had formerly been piper to MacDonald of Glencoe, but had escaped the fate of his kinsmen.

I tell a tale of woful tragedy,
Resulting from that fearful infamy;
That unsurpassed, unrivalled treachery,
That merciless, that beastlike butchery.

Upon the evening calm and bright,
That followed on the fatal night,
Just as the sun was setting red
Behind Benmore's sequestered head,
And weeping tears of yellow light,
That, streaming down, bedimmed his sight,
As he prepared to make his grave
Beneath the deep Atlantic wave;
I stood and viewed with starting tears
The silent scene of glorious years,
And thought me on my former pride,
As when I marched my chief beside,

W. M. MacKeracher

The Bacchanal

Beside a cottage-door,
    Sang Ella at her wheel;
Ruthven rode o'er the moor,
    Down at her feet to kneel:
A spotted palfrey gay
    Came ambling at his side,
To bear the maid away
    As his affianced bride.

A high-born noble he,
    Of stately halls secure;
A low-born peasant she,
    Of parentage obscure.
How soft the honeyed words
    He breathes into her ears!--
The melody of birds!
    The music of the spheres!

With love her bosom swells,
    Which she would fain conceal--
Her eyes, like crystal wells,
    Its hidden depths reveal.
While liquid diamonds drip
    From feeling's fountain warm,
Flutters her scarlet lip--
    A rose-leaf in a storm!

As from an April sky
    The rain-clouds fli...

George Pope Morris

My Woodland Bride.

Here upon the mountain-side
    Till now we met together;
Here I won my woodland bride,
    In flush of summer weather.
Green was then the linden-bough,
    This dear retreat that shaded;
Autumn winds are round me now,
    And the leaves have faded.

She whose heart was all my own,
    In this summer-bower,
With all pleasant things has flown,
    Sunbeam, bird, and flower!
But her memory will stay
    With me, though we're parted--
From the scene I turn away,
    Lone and broken-hearted!

George Pope Morris