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550 CATHERINE A. DUBOSE.

Oppression stern his free-born soul enthralling,
He flies for shelter to these wild-wood haunts–
And on the spirits of his loved ones calling, 
While murmuring voices on his ear are falling,
This descant chaunts:

"Great Spirit of our race! hast thou forsaken 
Thy favored children in their hour of need? 
Their wailing voice Wachulla's echoes waken–
Will not the Spirit of their father heed?
Sunshine and joy our own loved dells are flushing,
But 'mid their charms the Red Man wanders lone;
He hears the free winds thro' the forest rushing;
He sees Wachulla's gladsome waters gushing,
Yet hears no tone!”

Alas! sad warrior! by these silver waters 
No more shall gather thy ill-fated band;
Thy hunters bold, thy dark-eyed lovely daughters, 
Long since have sought their own loved Spirit-land. 
Yet still methinks I hear their voices sighing, 
In the soft breeze that blows from yonder shore; 
And wild-wood echoes to the stream replying, 
Mourn that the voices on the waters dying 
Return no more!

But now the soft South wind all gently wooeth 
Our little barque, to leave the flower-gemm'd shore; 
And the light breeze that perfume round us streweth,
This fairy basin soon will waft us o'er; 
Then while soft zephyrs, round us faintly blowing,
Bear wordless voices from the forest deep 
We'll listen to the waters' ceaseless flowing, 
And watch the wavelets dancing on–unknowing
What course they keep.

CATHERINE A. DUBOSE. 551

With rapid oar, the water-lilies parting, 
Whose snowy petals form the Näiad's wreath, 
Soon o'er the crystal fountain swiftly darting, 
We cast our gaze a hundred feet beneath! 
Between two heavens of purest blue suspended, 
Above these fairy realms we float at will–
Where crystal grottoes lift their columns splendid, 
Form'd of rare gems of pearl and emerald, blended 
With magic skill.

Now in the West the gold and crimson blending, 
Tell that soft twilight falleth o'er the world; 
And on the breeze all noiselessly descending, 
The dew-drops lie in lily-cups impearl'd. 
All thought is lost in sweet bewildering fancies, 
While from the forest dies the light of day; 
And witching silence every spell enhances, 
As o'er the wave the last glad sunbeam glances,
Then fades away!

Farewell, Wachulla! sadly must I sever
My spirit from thy sweet bewildering spell;
I leave thee, fairy fount, perhaps for ever,
And mournfully I bid thee now–farewell!
Yet still thy loveliness my soul o'erpowers,
While dreamy shadows on the forest fall–
And long shall memories of thy beauteous bowers 
Fall on my heart like dew on summer flowers, 
Refreshing all!

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 13:22:09 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 16:03:28 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 19:16:38 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 16:30:33