For has she not seen me gaily dressed?
Bright beads and rich wampum belts are mine,
Which by far these paltry stones outshine,
Whilst heron plumes, fresh flowers and leaves,
Are fairer than scentless buds like these."

"But, Forest Maiden, to this my home
What sights--what sounds of beauty come;
Pictures of loveliness--paintings rare--
All the charms that art can bestow are there,
With ravishing music of harp and song,
Sweet notes that to gifted souls belong."

"The wild birds sing in our shady trees,
Mingling their notes with the vesper breeze;
The flow of waters, the wind's low moan,
Have a music sweet that is all their own;
Whilst surely no tints or colors rare
Can with those of the sky and the wood compare."

"But what of the winter's cheerless gloom
When nature sleeps in a snowy tomb,
The storm clouds brooding over head,
Thy song-birds gone--thy wild-flowers dead?
With silence and gloom where'er you roam,
What then, what then, of your forest home?"

"We sing gay songs round our winter fires,
Or list the tales of our gray-haired sires;
When the hunting path has claimed our braves,