So secretly he sent her where
'Neath Afric's hot unwholesome air
   A wild plantation lay;
A fearful place of toil and tears,
Where, how she lived for twenty years,
   Sure only God might say.
To cheer her lonely banishment
A dream of Claude He nightly sent,
And of the little children too;
(For in her heart they never grew).
Oh, what sick thoughts wore out her prime!
The long, long wasting of the time!
The dark hair changed, the eyesight dim
   Had spent itself in tears;
But still her firm and patient hope
Grew stronger as each slender prop
   Fell from it with the years;
And o'er her love, time harmless fled;
Absence but nursed it, tears but shed
A rainbow glory on its head;
And hardship, pain, and cruelty,
Proved it, to find it could not die.
Her life did but one thought contain—
To see her children once again.
For twenty years she strove, and then
   At last she reached the shore;
Heaven put it in a sailor's heart
To let her in his ship depart,
   And seek her lost, once more.

She reached home with the closing year;
Oh, had they died, those children dear?
Had they forgotten? No! not her!
To them she begged her way along;
Her earnest purpose made her strong;
Some careless strangers gave her ear
News that it burned and thrilled to hear;
How, when years past, her old foe died,
Another childless brother tried
To bring her children to his side;
And how her son right gladly went
Into his forest settlement.
Some said he lived a hunter wild,
And some that he had died a child.
Then of her daughter;— she had stayed
   The treasure of her wealthy home,
And grown so beautiful, they said.
   Enough! For nought she has not come.
The high heart throbs, the dark eyes fill;
Then one at least is living still!

Anon, beside a lady fair
   Stood Leena in a splendid room;
Gazed on the curls of auburn hair,
   The lustrous eyes, the flushing bloom,
With half a sigh to think how wild
Her fancy, that a little child
   Might meet her at the door,
That might be petted and caressed,
And nestle in its mother's breast,
   As in the days of yore.
And yet 'twas with a joyful thrill
Of pride she saw her beauty still.
"Leena!" She does not turn as though
It was her name. Poor mother, no!
Alas for thee! that cold surprise,
   So unbelieving, so unmoved—
How can she, with her father's eyes,
   Look strangely on the face he loved?
The little dream-child she hath lost—
   And yet may no new daughter find?
It cannot be; she hath a host
   Of memories to wake her mind.
Sure she has but to prove her claim!
She knows not yet the mother's name.
She clasped her knees, to melt her pride
With Love's pathetic questions tried,
Pausing between them to espy
Some little softening in the eye.
Had she not seen the eyes before her
At childish wakings bending o'er her?
Had not these hands her baby head
With forest blossoms often spread?
And then that tune— her father's tune!
How it had been her nightly boon,
To hear it as she sank to rest?

An impulse moved the loving breast;
That tune. 'T was but a lullaby;
But she to turn the air would try,
And nature's sleeping sympathies
Beneath the sweet old notes might rise.
'T was a quaint fancy as might be,
And bom of love's credulity;
That song— oh, how it trembled up!
   It almost seemed a sighing—
The farewell of departing Hope
   While Joy and Love lay dying.
A common tune it scarce could be;
   The heart had set the homely words
To an impassioned melody
   That swept from its excited chords;
That, and the face so grave and meek,
The wistful eye, the changing cheek,
   Made such a touching spell,
The longing hand was fondly laid
Upon her daughter's haughty head,
   And there she let it dwell.
Yea, Childhood's love seemed springing there.
But, hush! a step upon the stair
   That daughter loveth well.
And he, she knows his title high
Would ne'er to Indian blood ally;
Her pride, her love, are all at stake;
She strives the kindly spell to break
Tells Leena, with some natural pain,
That they must never meet again;
And offers— insult strange and cold—
To buy her secrecy with gold.

The mother fled, as one afraid,
Two days and nights: and never stayed
   Her hot and panting feet.
It was the time of festival,
And doors and hearts were open all,
   And friend with friend did greet.
The light and warmth around her glowed,
While hers was still the frozen road—
   An emblem of her fate.
And yet the broad, unsleeping eye
That guides the sparrows in the sky,
   Did on her footsteps wait.

She sank beneath an oak tree bare,
On the third night, she knew not where.
The pure snow seemed the only thing
To her sick heart's imagining
That had not changed; and she would lie
Upon its quiet breast, and die.

A little further, sinking heart!
   To the next turning only press;
'Tis hard that thou should'st die; thou art
   But one stone's throw from happiness!
Hush! rising on the frosty air,
   It is a Christmas hymn!