Our grotto was the sweetest place

Our grotto was the sweetest place! The bending boughs, with fragrance blowing, Would check the brook's impetuous pace, Which murmur'd to be stopt from flowing. 'Twas there we met, and gaz'd our fill; Ah! think on this, and love me still.

'Twas then my bosom first knew fear, Fear to an Indian maid a stranger; The war-song, arrows, hatchet, spear, All warn'd me of my lover's danger: For him did cares my bosom fill; Ah! think on this, and love me still.