She is an Indian Princess,
To ancient honors born;
All ye that love a lady,
Come bow you down to Corn.
O thank her when you see her,
For she it is that spread
Her table in the wilderness,
Whence half a world is fed.
She is an Indian Princess;
Whence hath she such a grace?
Are these the native manners
That grow in royal place?
She shames us with her courtesies
So gracious and profound;
Her stately bows, her waving plumes,
Her robes that trail the ground.
To her the subtle secrets
Of all the tribes are borne;
(Such whisperings, such talkings,
Run through a field of corn!)
O listen as you pass her,
Be quick to sigh or laugh;
For you might sing your life long
If she would tell you half.
She is an Indian Princess,
The West Wind is her brave,
The Sun's her loving monarch,
The South Wind is her slave.
He creeps along the grasses
To rustle at her feet;
She droops her dainty tassels--
In play she is so sweet!
Of all the powers have brought her
She makes a golden sheaf,
With precious silken folding
And many a shining leaf;
And holds it up, proclaiming,
"I have a gift of peace!"
Now pledge her as you take it--
"A thousand years increase!"
