ished o'er the rest,
The latest aspirant for martial fame,
Redstar, a youth whose coup-stick like his name
(Till recently he had been plain Chaske)[10]
Was new, fresh plucked the feathers on his crest.
Just what the feats on which he based his claim
To warlike glory it were hard to say;
He ne'er had seen more than one trivial fray,
But bold assurance sometimes wins the day.
Winona gave him generous credit, too,
For all the gallant deeds he meant to do.
His gay, barbaric dress, his lofty air
Enmeshed her in a sweet bewildering snare.
Transfigured by the light of her own passion,
She saw Chaske in much the usual fashion
Of fairer maids, who love, or think they do.
'Tis not the man they love, but what he seems;
A bright Hyperion, moving stately through
The rosy ether of exalted dreams.
Alas! that love, the purest and most real,
Clusters forever round some form ideal;
And martial things have some strange necromancy
To captivate romantic maiden fancy.
The very word "Lieutenant" hath a charm,
E'en coupled with a vulgar face and form,
A shriveled heart and microscopic wit,
Scarce for a coachman or a barber fit;
His untried sword, his title, are to her
Better than genius, wealth, or high renown;
His uniform is sweeter than the gown
Of an Episcopalian minister;
And "dash," for swagger but a synonym,
Is knightly grace and chivalry with him.

Unnoted young Winona's passion grew,
Chaske alone the tender secret knew;
And he, too selfish love like hers to know,
Warmed by her presence to a transient glow,
Her silent homage drank as 'twere his due.
Winona asked no more though madly fond,
Nor hardly dreamed as yet of closer bond;
But chance, or Providence, or iron Fate
(Call it what name you will), or soon or late,
Bends to its purpose every human will,
And brings to each its destined good or ill.

THE GROVE.

O'erlooking Minnetonka's shore,
A grove enchanted lured of yore,
Lured to their deepest woe and joy,
A happy maiden and careless boy;
Lured their feet to its inmost core,
Where like snowy maidens the aspen trees
Swayed and beckoned in the breeze,
While the prairie grass, like rippling seas,
Faintly murmuring lulling hymns,
Rippled about their gleaming limbs.

There is no such charm in a garden-close,
However fair its bower and rose,
As a place where the wild and free rejoice.
Nor doth the storied and ivied arch
Woo the heart with half so sweet a voice
As the bowering arms of the wild-wood larch,
Where