Chapter I: Part 1

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS

AND OTHER POEMS

BY

H.L. GORDON

_I had rather write one word upon the rock
Of ages, than ten thousand in the sand._

Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1891 by H.L. GORDON in the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D.C.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Address to the Flag A Million More An Old English Oak Anthem Betzko Beyond Byron and the Angel Change Charge of the "Black-Horse" Charge of Fremont's Body-Guard Charity Chickadee Christmas Eve [Illustrated] Daniel Do They Think of Us? Dust to Dust Fame Fido Gettysburg: Charge of the First Minnesota Heloise Hope Hurrah for the Volunteers! Isabel Lines on the Death of Captain Coats Love will Find Mauley [Illustrated] Men Minnetonka [Illustrated] Mrs. McNair My Dead My Father-Land My Heart's on the Rhine Night Thoughts New Years Address, 1866 [Illustrated] O Let Me Dream the Dreams of Long Ago Only a Private Killed On Reading President Lincoln's Letter Out of the Depths Pat and the Pig Pauline [Illustrated] Poetry Prelude--The Mississippi Sailor Boy's Song Spring [Illustrated] Thanksgiving The Devil and the Monk [Illustrated] The Draft The Dying Veteran The Feast of the Virgins [Illustrated] The Legend of the Falls [Illustrated] The Minstrel The Old Flag The Pioneer [Illustrated] The Reign of Reason The Sea-Gull [Illustrated] The Tariff on Tin [Illustrated] To Mollie To Sylva Twenty Years Ago [Illustrated] Wesselenyi [Illustrated] Winona [Illustrated]

PREFACE

At odd hours during an active and busy life I have dallied with the Muses. I found in them, in earlier years, rest from toil and drudgery and, later, relief from physical suffering.

Broken by over-work and compelled to abandon the practice of my profession--the law, I wrote _Pauline_ after I had been given up to die by my physicians. It proved to be a better 'medicine' for me than all the quackeries of the quacks. It diverted my mind from myself and, perhaps, saved my life. When published, its reception by the best journals of this country and England was so flattering and, at the same time, the criticisms of some were so just, that I have been induced to carefully revise the poem and to publish my re-touched _Pauline_ in this volume. I hope and believe I have greatly improved it. Several of the minor poems have been published heretofore in journals and magazines; others of equal or greater age flap their wings herein for the first time; a few peeped from the shell but yesterday.

I am aware that this volume contains several poems that a certain class of critics will condemn, but they are my "chicks" and I will gather them under my wings.

"None but an author knows an author's cares, Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears."--_Cowper._

Much of my life has been spent in the Northwest--on the frontier of civilization, and I became personally acquainted with many of the chiefs and braves of the Dakota and Ojibway (Chippewa) Indians. I have written of them largely from my own personal knowledge, and endeavored, above all things, to be accurate, and to present them true to the life.

For several years I devoted my leisure hours to the study of the language, history, traditions, customs and superstitions of the Dakotas. These Indians are now commonly called the "_Sioux_"--a name given them by the early French traders and _voyageurs_. "Dakota" signifies _alliance_ or _confederation_. Many separate bands, all having a common origin and speaking a common tongue, were united under this name. See "_Tah-Koo Wah-Kan,_" or "_The Gospel Among the Dakotas,_" by Stephen R. Riggs, pp. 1 to 6 inc.

They were but yesterday the occupants and owners of the fair forests and fertile prairies of Minnesota--a brave, hospitable and generous people--barbarians, indeed, but noble in their barbarism. They may be fitly called the Iroquois of the West. In form and features, in language and traditions, they are distinct from all other Indian tribes. When first visited by white men, and for many years afterwards, the Falls of St. Anthony (by them called the _Ha Ha_) was the center of their country. They cultivated corn and tobacco, and hunted the elk, the beaver and the bison. They were open-hearted, truthful and brave. In their wars with other tribes they seldom slew women or children, and rarely sacrificed the lives of their prisoners.

For many years their chiefs and head men successfully resisted the attempts to introduce spirituous liquors among them. More than a century ago an English trader was killed at Mendota, near the present city of St. Paul, because he persisted, after repeated warnings by the chiefs, in dealing out _mini wakan_ (Devil-water) to the Dakota braves.

With open arms and generous hospitality they welcomed the first white men to their land, and were ever faithful in their friendship, till years of wrong and robbery, and want and insult, drove them to desperation and to war. They were barbarians, and their warfare was barbarous, but not more barbarous than the warfare of our Saxon, Celtic and Norman ancestors. They were ignorant and superstitious. Their condition closely resembled the condition of our British forefathers at the beginning of the Christian era. Macaulay says of Britain: "Her inhabitants, when first they became known to the Tyrian mariners, were little superior to the natives of the Sandwich Islands." And again: "While the German princes who reigned at Paris, Toledo, Aries and Ravenna listened with reverence to the instructions of bishops, adored the relics of martyrs, and took part eagerly in disputes touching the Nicene theology, the rulers of Wessex and Mercia were still performing savage rites in the temples of Thor and Woden."

The days of the Dakotas are done. The degenerate remnants of that once powerful and warlike people still linger around the forts and agencies of the Northwest, or chase the caribou and the elk on the banks of the Saskatchewan, but the Dakotas of old are no more. The brilliant defeat of Custer, by Sitting Bull and his braves, was their last grand rally against the resistless march of the sons of the Saxons. The plow-shares of a superior race are fast leveling the sacred mounds of their dead. But yesterday, the shores of our lakes and our rivers were dotted with their _teepees,_ their light canoes glided over our waters, and their hunters chased the deer and the buffalo on the sites of our cities. To-day, they are not. Let us do justice to their memory, for there was much that was noble in their natures.

In the Dakota Legends, I have endeavored to faithfully present many of the customs and superstitions, and some of the traditions, of that people. I have taken very little 'poetic license' with their traditions; none, whatever, with their customs and superstitions. In my studies for these Legends I was greatly aided by the Rev. S.R. Riggs, author of the _"Grammar and Dictionary of the Dakota Language" "Tah-Koo Wah-Kan,"_ &c., and for many years a missionary among the Dakotas. He patiently answered my numerous inquiries and gave me valuable information. I am also indebted to the late Gen. H.H. Sibley, one of the earliest American traders among them, and to Rev. S.W. Pond, of Shakopee, one of the first Protestant missionaries to these people, and himself the author of poetical versions of some of their principal legends; to Mrs. Eastman's _"Dacotah,"_ and last, but not least, to the Rev. E.D. Neill, whose admirable _"History of Minnesota"_ so fully and faithfully presents almost all that is known of the history, traditions, customs, manners and superstitions of the Dakotas.

In _Winona_ I have "tried my hand" on a new hexameter verse. With what success, I leave to those who are better able to judge than I. If I have failed, I have but added another failure to the numerous attempts to naturalize hexameter verse in the English language.

It will be observed that I have slightly changed the length and the rhythm of the old hexameter line; but it is still hexameter, and, I think, improved.

I have not written for profit nor published for fame. Fame is a coy goddess that rarely bestows her favors on him who seeks her--a phantom that many pursue and but few overtake.

She delights to hover for a time, like a ghost, over the graves of dead men who know not and care not: to the living she is a veritable _Ignis Fatuus_. But every man owes something to his fellowmen, and I owe much.

If my friends find half the pleasure in reading these poems that I have found in writing them, I shall have paid my debt and achieved success.

H.L. GORDON.

Minneapolis, November 1, 1891.

PRELUDE

THE MISSISSIPPI

The numerals refer to _Notes_ in appendix.

Onward rolls the Royal River, proudly sweeping to the sea, Dark and deep and grand, forever wrapt in myth and mystery. Lo he laughs along the highlands, leaping o'er the granite walls; Lo he sleeps among the islands, where the loon her lover calls. Still like some huge monster winding downward through the prairied plains, Seeking rest but never finding, till the tropic gulf he gains. In his mighty arms he claspeth now an empire broad and grand; In his left hand lo he graspeth leagues of fen and forest land; In his right the mighty mountains, hoary with eternal snow, Where a thousand foaming fountains singing seek the plains below. Fields of corn and feet of cities lo the mighty river laves, Where the Saxon sings his ditties o'er the swarthy warriors' graves.

Aye, before the birth of Moses--ere the Pyramids were piled-- All his banks were red with roses from the sea to nor'lands wild, And from forest, fen and meadows, in the deserts of the north, Elk and bison stalked like shadows, and the tawny tribes came forth; Deeds of death and deeds of daring on his leafy banks were done, Women loved and men went warring, ere the siege of Troy begun. Where his foaming waters thundered, roaring o'er the rocky walls, Dusky hunters sat and wondered, listening to the spirits' calls. "_Ha-ha!_"[76] cried the warrior greeting from afar the cataract's roar; "_Ha-ha!_" rolled the answer beating down the rock-ribbed leagues of shore. Now, alas, the bow and quiver and the dusky braves have fled, And the sullen, shackled river drives the droning mills instead.

Where the war-whoop rose, and after women wailed their warriors slain, List the Saxon's silvery laughter, and his humming hives of gain. Swiftly sped the tawny runner o'er the pathless prairies then, Now the iron-reindeer sooner carries weal or woe to men. On thy bosom, Royal River, silent sped the birch canoe Bearing brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo; Now with flaunting flags and streamers--mighty monsters of the deep-- Lo the puffing, panting steamers through thy foaming waters sweep; And behold the grain-fields golden, where the bison grazed of eld; See the fanes of forests olden by the ruthless Saxon felled. Plumed pines that spread their shadows ere Columbus spread his sails, Firs that fringed the mossy meadows ere the Mayflower braved the gales, Iron oaks that nourished bruin while the Vikings roamed the main, Crashing fall in broken ruin for the greedy marts of gain.

Still forever and forever rolls the restless river on, Slumbering oft but ceasing never while the circling centuries run. In his palm the lakelet lingers, in his hair the brooklets hide, Grasped within his thousand fingers lies a continent fair and wide-- Yea, a mighty empire swarming with its millions like the bees, Delving, drudging, striving, storming, all their lives, for golden ease.

Still, methinks, the dusky shadows of the days that are no more, Stalk around the lakes and meadows, haunting oft the wonted shore: Hunters from the land of spirits seek the bison and the deer Where the Saxon now inherits golden field and silver mere; And beside the mound where buried lies the dark-eyed maid he loves, Some tall warrior, wan and wearied, in the misty moonlight moves. See--he stands erect and lingers--stoic still, but loth to go-- Clutching in his tawny fingers feathered shaft and polished bow. Never wail or moan he utters and no tear is on his face, But a warrior's curse he mutters on the crafty Saxon race.

O thou dark, mysterious River, speak and tell thy tales to me; Seal not up thy lips forever--veiled in mist and mystery. I will sit and lowly listen at the phantom-haunted falls Where thy waters foam and glisten o'er the rugged, rocky walls, Till some spirit of the olden, mystic, weird, romantic days Shall emerge and pour her golden tales and legends through my lays.

Then again the elk and bison on thy grassy banks shall feed, And along the low horizon shall the plumed hunter speed; Then again on lake and river shall the silent birch canoe Bear the brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo: Then the beaver on the meadow shall rebuild his broken wall, And the wolf shall chase his shadow and his mate the panther call. From the prairies and the regions where the pine-plumed forest grows Shall arise the tawny legions with their lances and their bows; And again the cries of battle shall resound along the plain, Bows shall twang and quivers rattle, women wail their warriors slain; And by lodge-fire lowly burning shall the mother from afar List her warrior's steps returning from the daring deeds of war.

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS[1]

A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS

In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah",--"e" the sound of "a",--"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo;" sound "ee" as in English. The numerals refer to _Notes_ in appendix.

THE GAME OF BALL[2]

Clear was the sky as a silver shield; The bright sun blazed on the frozen field. On ice-bound river and white-robed prairie The diamonds gleamed in the flame of noon; But cold and keen were the breezes airy _Wa-zi-ya_[3] blew from his icy throne.

On the solid ice of the silent river The bounds are marked, and a splendid prize, A robe of black-fox lined with beaver, Is hung in view of the eager eyes; And fifty merry Dakota maidens, The fairest-molded of womankind Are gathered in groups on the level ice. They look on the robe and its beauty gladdens And maddens their hearts for the splendid prize. Lo the rounded ankles and raven hair That floats at will on the wanton wind, And the round, brown arms to the breezes bare, And breasts like the mounds where the waters meet,[4] And feet as fleet as the red deer's feet, And faces that glow like the full, round moon When she laughs in the luminous skies of June.

The leaders are chosen and swiftly divide The opposing parties on either side. Wiwaste[5] is chief of a nimble band, The star-eyed daughter of Little Crow;[6] And the leader chosen to hold command Of the band adverse is a haughty foe-- The dusky, impetuous Harpstina,[7] The queenly cousin of Wapasa.[8]

_Kapoza's_ chief and his tawny hunters Are gathered to witness the queenly game. The ball is thrown and a net encounters, And away it flies with a loud acclaim. Swift are the maidens that follow after, And swiftly it flies for the farther bound; And long and loud are the peals of laughter, As some fair runner is flung to ground; While backward and forward, and to and fro, The maidens contend on the trampled snow. With loud "_Iho!--Ito!--Iho_!"[9] And waving the beautiful prize anon, The dusky warriors cheer them on. And often the limits are almost passed, As the swift ball flies and returns. At last It leaps the line at a single bound From the fair Wiwaste's sturdy arm Like a fawn that flies from the baying hound. The wild cheers broke like a thunder storm On the beetling bluffs and the hills profound, An echoing, jubilant sea of sound. Wakawa, the chief, and the loud acclaim Announced the end of the hard-won game, And the fair Wiwaste was victor crowned.

Dark was the visage of Harpstina When the robe was laid at her rival's feet, And merry maidens and warriors saw Her flashing eyes and her look of hate, As she turned to Wakawa, the chief, and said: "The game was mine were it fairly played. I was stunned by a blow on my bended head, As I snatched the ball from slippery ground Not half a fling from Wiwaste's bound. The cheat--behold her! for there she stands With the prize that is mine in her treacherous hands. The fawn may fly, but the wolf is fleet; The fox creeps sly on _Maga's_[10] retreat, And a woman's revenge--it is swift and sweet."

She turned to her lodge, but a roar of laughter And merry mockery followed after. Little they heeded the words she said, Little they cared for her haughty tread, For maidens and warriors and chieftain knew That her lips were false and her charge untrue.

Wiwaste, the fairest Dakota maiden, The sweet-faced daughter of Little Crow, To her _teepee_[11] turned with her trophy laden, The black robe trailing the virgin snow. Beloved was she by her princely father, Beloved was she by the young and old, By merry maidens and many a mother, And many a warrior bronzed and bold. For her face was as fair as a beautiful dream, And her voice like the song of the mountain stream; And her eyes like the stars when they glow and gleam Through the somber pines of the nor'land wold, When the winds of winter are keen and cold.

Mah-pi-ya Du-ta[12], the tall Red Cloud, A hunter swift and a warrior proud, With many a scar and many a feather, Was a suitor bold and a lover fond. Long had he courted Wiwaste's father, Long had he sued for the maiden's hand. Aye, brave and proud was the tall Red Cloud, A peerless son of a giant race, And the eyes of the panther were set in his face: He strode like a stag, and he stood like a pine; Ten feathers he wore of the great _Wanmdee_;[13] With crimsoned quills of the porcupine His leggins were worked to his brawny knee. The bow he bent was a giant's bow; The swift, red elk could he overtake, And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck Was the polished claws of the great _Mato_[14] He grappled and slew in the northern snow. Wiwaste looked on the warrior tall; She saw he was brawny and brave and great, But the eyes of the panther she could but hate, And a brave _Hohe_[15] loved she better than all. Loved was Mahpiya by Harpstina But the warrior she never could charm or draw; And bitter indeed was her secret hate For the maiden she reckoned so fortunate.

HEYOKA WACIPEE[16]

THE GIANT'S DANCE.

The night-sun[17] sails in his gold canoe, The spirits[18] walk in the realms of air With their glowing faces and flaming hair, And the shrill, chill winds o'er the prairies blow. In the _Tee[19] of the Council_ the Virgins light The Virgin-fire[20] for the feast to-night; For the _Sons of Heyoka_ will celebrate The sacred dance to the giant great. The kettle boils on the blazing fire, And the flesh is done to the chief's desire. With his stoic face to the sacred East,[21] He takes his seat at the Giant's Feast.

For the feast of _Heyoka_[22] the braves are dressed With crowns from the bark of the white-birch trees, And new skin leggins that reach the knees; With robes of the bison and swarthy bear, And eagle-plumes in their coal-black hair, And marvelous rings in their tawny ears That were pierced with the points of their shining spears. To honor _Heyoka_ Wakawa lifts His fuming pipe from the Red-stone Quarry.[23] The warriors follow. The white cloud drifts From the Council-lodge to the welkin starry, Like a fog at morn on the fir-clad hill, When the meadows are damp and the winds are still.

They dance to the tune of their wild "_Ha-ha_" A warrior's shout and a raven's caw-- Circling the pot and the blazing fire To the tom-tom's bray and the rude bassoon; Round and round to their heart's desire, And ever the same wild chant and tune-- A warrior's shout and a raven's caw-- "_Ha-ha,--ha-ha,--ha-ha,--ha!_" They crouch, they leap, and their burning eyes Flash fierce in the light of the flaming fire, As fiercer and fiercer and higher and higher The rude, wild notes of their chant arise. They cease, they sit, and the curling smoke Ascends again from their polished pipes, And upward curls from their swarthy lips To the god whose favor their hearts invoke.

Then tall Wakawa arose and said: "Brave warriors, listen, and give due heed. Great is _Heyoka_, the magical god; He can walk on the air; he can float on the flood. He's a worker of magic and wonderful wise; He cries when he laughs and he laughs when he cries; He sweats when he's cold, and he shivers when hot, And the water is cold in his boiling pot. He hides in the earth and he walks in disguise, But he loves the brave and their sacrifice. We are sons of _Heyoka_. The Giant commands In the boiling water to thrust our hands; And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire _Heyoka_ will crown with his heart's desire."

They thrust their hands in the boiling pot; They swallow the bison-meat steaming hot; Not a wince on their stoical faces bold, For the meat and the water, they say, are cold: And great is _Heyoka_ and wonderful wise; He floats on the flood and he walks on the skies, And ever appears in a strange disguise; But he loves the brave and their sacrifice, And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyoka will crown with his heart's desire.

Proud was the chief of his warriors proud, The sinewy sons of the Giant's race; But the bravest of all was the tall Red Cloud; The eyes of the panther were set in his face; He strode like a stag and he stood like a pine; Ten feathers he wore of the great _Wanmdee_,[13] With crimsoned quills of the porcupine His leggins were worked to his brawny knee. Blood-red were the stripes on his swarthy cheek, And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck Was the polished claws of the great Mato[14] He grappled and slew in the northern snow. Proud Red Cloud turned to the braves and said, As he shook the plumes on his haughty head: "Ho! the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire _Heyoka_ will crown with his heart's desire!" He snatched from the embers a red-hot brand, And held it aloft in his naked hand. He stood like a statue in bronze or stone-- Not a muscle moved, and the braves looked on. He turned to the chieftain--"I scorn the fire-- Ten feathers I wear of the great _Wanmdee_; Then grant me, Wakawa, my heart's desire; Let the sunlight shine in my lonely tee.[19] I laugh at red death and I laugh at red fire; Brave Red Cloud is only afraid of fear; But Wiwaste is fair to his heart and dear; Then grant him, Wakawa, his heart's desire." The warriors applauded with loud "_Ho! Ho!_"[24] And he flung the brand to the drifting snow. Three times Wakawa puffed forth the smoke From his silent lips; then he slowly spoke: "Mahpiya is strong as the stout-armed oak That stands on the bluff by the windy plain, And laughs at the roar of the hurricane. He has slain the foe and the great _Mato_ With his hissing arrow and deadly stroke My heart is swift but my tongue is slow. Let the warrior come to my lodge and smoke; He may bring the gifts;[25] but the timid doe May fly from the hunter and say him no."

Wiwaste sat late in the lodge alone, Her dark eyes bent on the glowing fire: She heard not the wild winds shrill and moan; She heard not the tall elms toss and groan; Her face was lit like the harvest moon; For her thoughts flew far to her heart's desire. Far away in the land of the _Hohe_[15] dwelt The warrior she held in her secret heart; But little he dreamed of the pain she felt, For she hid her love with a maiden's art. Not a tear she shed, not a word she said, When the brave young chief from the lodge departed; But she sat on the mound when the day was dead, And gazed at the full moon mellow-hearted. Fair was the chief as the morning-star; His eyes were mild and his words were low, But his heart was stouter than lance or bow; And her young heart flew to her love afar O'er his trail long covered with drifted snow. She heard a warrior's stealthy tread, And the tall Wakawa appeared, and said: "Is Wiwaste afraid of the spirit dread That fires the sky in the fatal north?[26] Behold the mysterious lights. Come forth: Some evil threatens, some danger nears, For the skies are pierced by the burning spears."

The warriors rally beneath the moon; They shoot their shafts at the evil spirit. The spirit is slain and the flame is gone, But his blood lies red on the snow-fields near it; And again from the dead will the spirit rise, And flash his spears in the northern skies.

Then the chief and the queenly Wiwaste stood Alone in the moon-lit solitude, And she was silent and he was grave. "And fears not my daughter the evil spirit? The strongest warriors and bravest fear it. The burning spears are an evil omen; They threaten the wrath of a wicked woman, Or a treacherous foe; but my warriors brave, When danger nears, or the foe appears, Are a cloud of arrows--a grove of spears."

"My Father," she said, and her words were low, "Why should I fear? for I soon will go To the broad, blue lodge in the Spirit-land, Where my fond-eyed mother went long ago, And my dear twin-sisters walk hand in hand. My Father, listen--my words are true," And sad was her voice as the whippowil When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill, "Wiwaste lingers alone with you; The rest are sleeping on yonder hill-- Save one--and he an undutiful son-- And you, my Father, will sit alone When _Sisoka_[27] sings and the snow is gone. I sat, when the maple leaves were red, By the foaming falls of the haunted river; The night-sun was walking above my head, And the arrows shone in his burnished quiver; And the winds were hushed and the hour was dread With the walking ghosts of the silent dead. I heard the voice of the Water-Fairy;[28] I saw her form in the moon-lit mist, As she sat on a stone with her burden weary, By the foaming eddies of amethyst. And robed in her mantle of mist the sprite Her low wail poured on the silent night. Then the spirit spake, and the floods were still-- They hushed and listened to what she said, And hushed was the plaint of the whippowil In the silver-birches above her head: 'Wiwaste, the prairies are green and fair When the robin sings and the whippowil; But the land of the Spirits is fairer still, For the winds of winter blow never there; And forever the songs of the whippowils And the robins are heard on the leafy hills. Thy mother looks from her lodge above-- Her fair face shines in the sky afar, And the eyes of thy sisters are bright with love, As they peep from the _tee_ of the mother-star. To her happy lodge in the Spirit land She beckons Wiwaste with shining hand.'

"My Father--my Father, her words were true; And the death of Wiwaste will rest on you. You have pledged me as wife to the tall Red Cloud; You will take the gifts of the warrior proud; But I, Wakawa,--I answer--never! I will stain your knife in my heart's red blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river Ere I will be wife to the dark Red Cloud!"

"Wiwaste," he said, and his voice was low, "Let it be as you will, for Wakawa's tongue Has spoken no promise;--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong. Be happy, Micunksee;[29] the flames are gone-- They flash no more in the northern sky. See the smile on the face of the watching moon; No more will the fatal, red arrows fly; For the singing shafts of my warriors sped To the bad spirit's bosom and laid him dead, And his blood on the snow of the North lies red. Go--sleep in the robe that you won to-day, And dream of your hunter--the brave Chaske."

Light was her heart as she turned away; It sang like the lark in the skies of May. The round moon laughed, but a lone, red star,[30] As she turned to the _teepee_ and entered in, Fell flashing and swift in the sky afar, Like the polished point of a javelin. Nor chief nor daughter the shadow saw Of the crouching listener, Harpstina.

Wiwaste, wrapped in her robe and sleep, Heard not the storm-sprites wail and weep, As they rode on the winds in the frosty air; But she heard the voice of her hunter fair; For a fairy spirit with silent fingers The curtains drew from the land of dreams; And lo in her _teepee_ her lover lingers; In his tender eyes all the love-light beams, And his voice is the music of mountain streams.

And then with her round, brown arms she pressed His phantom form to her throbbing breast, And whispered the name, in her happy sleep, Of her _Hohe_ hunter so fair and far: And then she saw in her dreams the deep Where the spirit wailed, and a falling star; Then stealthily crouching under the trees, By the light of the moon, the _Kan-e-ti-dan_, [31] The little, wizened, mysterious man, With his long locks tossed by the moaning breeze. Then a flap of wings, like a thunder-bird, [32] And a wailing spirit the sleeper heard; And lo, through the mists of the moon, she saw The hateful visage of Harpstina.

But waking she murmured--"And what are these---- The flap of wings and the falling star, The wailing spirit that's never at ease, The little man crouching under the trees, And the hateful visage of Harpstina? My dreams are like feathers that float on the breeze, And none can tell what the omens are---- Save the beautiful dream of my love afar In the happy land of the tall _Hohe_---- My handsome hunter--my brave Chaske."

_"Ta-tanka! Ta-tanka!"_[33] the hunters cried, With a joyous shout at the break of dawn And darkly lined on the white hill-side, A herd of bison went marching on Through the drifted snow like a caravan. Swift to their ponies the hunters sped, And dashed away on the hurried chase. The wild steeds scented the game ahead, And sprang like hounds to the eager race. But the brawny bulls in the swarthy van Turned their polished horns on the charging foes And reckless rider and fleet footman Were held at bay in the drifted snows, While the bellowing herd o'er the hilltops ran, Like the frightened beasts of a caravan On Sahara's sands when the simoon blows. Sharp were the twangs of the hunters' bows, And swift and humming the arrows sped, Till ten huge bulls on the bloody snows Lay pierced with arrows and dumb and dead. But the chief with the flankers had gained the rear, And flew on the trail of the flying herd. The shouts of the riders rang loud and clear, As their foaming steeds to the chase they spurred. And now like the roar of an avalanche Rolls the bellowing wrath of the maddened bulls They charge on the riders and runners stanch, And a dying steed in the snow drift rolls, While the rider, flung to the frozen ground, Escapes the horns by a panther's bound. But the raging monsters are held at bay, While the flankers dash on the swarthy rout: With lance and arrow they slay and slay; And the welkin rings to the gladsome shout---- To the loud _Ina's_ and the wild _Iho's_, [34] And dark and dead, on the bloody snows, Lie the swarthy heaps of the buffaloes. All snug in the _teepee_ Wiwaste lay, All wrapped in her robe, at the dawn of day, All snug and warm from the wind and snow, While the hunters followed the buffalo. Her dreams and her slumber their wild shouts broke; The chase was afoot when the maid awoke; She heard the twangs of the hunters' bows, And the bellowing bulls and the loud _Iho_'s, And she murmured--"My hunter is far away In the happy land of the tall _Hohe_---- My handsome hunter, my brave Chaske; But the robins will come and my warrior too, And Wiwaste will find her a way to woo."

And long she lay in a reverie, And dreamed, wide-awake, of the brave Chaske, Till a trampling of feet on the crispy snow She heard, and the murmur of voices low:---- Then the warriors' greeting--_Iho! Iho!_ And behold, in the blaze of the risen day, With the hunters that followed the buffalo---- Came her tall, young hunter--her brave Chaske. Far south has he followed the bison-trail With his band of warriors so brave and true. Right glad is Wakawa his friend to hail, And Wiwaste will find her a way to woo.

Tall and straight as the larch-tree stood The manly form of the brave young chief, And fair as the larch in its vernal leaf, When the red fawn bleats in the feathering wood. Mild was his face as the morning skies, And friendship shone in his laughing eyes; But swift were his feet o'er the drifted snow On the trail of the elk or the buffalo, And his heart was stouter than lance or bow, When he heard the whoop of his enemies. Five feathers he wore of the great Wanmdee And each for the scalp of a warrior slain, When down on his camp from the northern plain, With their murder-cries rode the bloody _Cree_.[35] But never the stain of an infant slain, Or the blood of a mother that plead in vain, Soiled the honored plumes of the brave _Hohe_. A mountain bear to his enemies, To his friends like the red fawn's dappled form; In peace, like the breeze from the summer seas---- In war, like the roar of the mountain storm. His fame in the voice of the winds went forth From his hunting grounds in the happy North, And far as the shores of the _Great Mede_ [36] The nations spoke of the brave Chaske.

Dark was the visage of grim Red Cloud, Fierce were the eyes of the warrior proud, When the chief to his lodge led the brave _Hohe_, And Wiwaste smiled on the tall Chaske. Away he strode with a sullen frown, And alone in his _teepee_ he sat him down. From the gladsome greeting of braves he stole, And wrapped himself in his gloomy soul. But the eagle eyes of the Harpstina The clouded face of the warrior saw. Softly she spoke to the sullen brave: "Mah-pi-ya Duta--his face is sad; And why is the warrior so glum and grave? For the fair Wiwaste is gay and glad; She will sit in the _teepee_ the live-long day, And laugh with her lover--the brave _Hohe_ Does the tall Red Cloud for the false one sigh? There are fairer maidens than she, and proud Were their hearts to be loved by the brave Red Cloud. And trust not the chief with the smiling eyes; His tongue is swift, but his words are lies; And the proud Mah-pi-ya will surely find That Wakawa's promise is hollow wind. Last night I stood by his lodge, and lo I heard the voice of the Little Crow; But the fox is sly and his words were low. But I heard her answer her father--'Never! I will stain your knife in my heart's red blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river, Ere I will be wife to the dark Red Cloud!' Then he spake again, and his voice was low, But I heard the answer of Little Crow: 'Let it be as you will, for Wakawa's tongue Has spoken no promise--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong.'

"Mah-pi-ya Duta, they scorn your love, But the false chief covets the warrior's gifts. False to his promise the fox will prove, And fickle as snow in _Wo-ka-da-wee_, [37] That slips into brooks when the gray cloud lifts, Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts. Mah-pi-ya Duta will listen to me. There are fairer birds in the bush than she, And the fairest would gladly be Red Cloud's wife. Will the warrior sit like a girl bereft, When fairer and truer than she are left, That love Red Cloud as they love their life? Mah-pi-ya Duta will listen to me. I love him well--I have loved him long: A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong, And a love-lorn brave is a scorn to see.

"Mah-pi-ya Duta, O listen to me! Revenge is swift and revenge is strong, And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree; The proud Red Cloud will avenge his wrong. Let the brave be patient, it is not long Till the leaves be green on the maple tree, And the Feast of the Virgins is then to be-- The Feast of the Virgins is then to be!"

Proudly she turned from the silent brave, And went her way; but the warrior's eyes-- They flashed with the flame of a sudden fire, Like the lights that gleam in the Sacred Cave[38], When the black night covers the autumn skies, And the stars from their welkin watch retire.

Three nights he tarried--the brave Chaske; Winged were the hours and they flitted away; On the wings of _Wakandee_[39] they silently flew, For Wiwaste had found her a way to woo. Ah little he cared for the bison-chase, For the red lilies bloomed on the fair maid's face; Ah little he cared for the winds that blew, For Wiwaste had found her a way to woo. Brown-bosomed she sat on her fox-robe dark, Her ear to the tales of the brave inclined, Or tripped from the _tee_ like the song of a lark, And gathered her hair from the wanton wind. Ah little he thought of the leagues of snow He trod on the trail of the buffalo; And little he recked of the hurricanes That swept the snow from the frozen plains And piled the banks of the Bloody River.[40] His bow unstrung and forgotten hung With his beaver hood and his otter quiver; He sat spell-bound by the artless grace Of her star-lit eyes and her moon-lit face. Ah little he cared for the storms that blew, For Wiwaste had found her a way to woo. When he spoke with Wakawa her sidelong eyes Sought the handsome chief in his hunter-guise. Wakawa marked, and the lilies fair On her round cheeks spread to her raven hair. They feasted on rib of the bison fat, On the tongue of the _Ta_[41] that the hunters prize, On the savory flesh of the red _Hogan_,[42] On sweet _tipsanna_[43] and pemmican And the dun-brown cakes of the golden maize; And hour after hour the young chief sat, And feasted his soul on her love-lit eyes.

The sweeter the moments the swifter they fly; Love takes no account of the fleeting hours; He walks in a dream 'mid the blooming of flowers, And never awakes till the blossoms die. Ah lovers are lovers the wide world over-- In the hunter's lodge and the royal palace. Sweet are the lips of his love to the lover-- Sweet as new wine in a golden chalice From the Tajo's[44] slope or the hills beyond; And blindly he sips from his loved one's lips, In lodge or palace the wide world over, The maddening honey of Trebizond.[45]

O what are leagues to the loving hunter, Or the blinding drift of the hurricane, When it raves and roars o'er the frozen plain! He would face the storm--he would death encounter The darling prize of his heart to gain. But his hunters chafed at the long delay, For the swarthy bison were far away, And the brave young chief from the lodge departed. He promised to come with the robins in May With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; And the fair Wiwaste was happy-hearted, For Wakawa promised the brave Chaske. Birds of a feather will flock together. The robin sings to his ruddy mate, And the chattering jays, in the winter weather, To prate and gossip will congregate; And the cawing crows on the autumn heather, Like evil omens, will flock together, In common council for high debate; And the lass will slip from a doting mother To hang with her lad on the garden gate. Birds of a feather will flock together-- 'Tis an adage old--it is nature's law, And sure as the pole will the needle draw, The fierce Red Cloud with the flaunting feather, Will follow the finger of Harpstina.

The winter wanes and the south-wind blows From the Summer Islands legendary; The _skeskas_[46] fly and the melted snows In lakelets lie on the dimpled prairie. The frost-flowers[47] peep from their winter sleep Under the snow-drifts cold and deep. To the April sun and the April showers, In field and forest, the baby flowers Lift their blushing faces and dewy eyes; And wet with the tears of the winter-fairies, Soon bloom and blossom the emerald prairies, Like the fabled Garden of Paradise.

The plum-trees, white with their bloom in May, Their sweet perfume on the vernal breeze Wide strew like the isles of the tropic seas Where the paroquet chatters the livelong day. But the May-days pass and the brave Chaske [17] O why does the lover so long delay? Wiwaste waits in the lonely _tee_. Has her fair face fled from his memory? For the robin cherups his mate to please, The blue-bird pipes in the poplar-trees, The meadow lark warbles his jubilees, Shrilling his song in the azure seas Till the welkin throbs to his melodies, And low is the hum of the humble-bees, And the Feast of the Virgins is now to be.

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS

The sun sails high in his azure realms; Beneath the arch of the breezy elms The feast is spread by the murmuring river. With his battle-spear and his bow and quiver, And eagle-plumes in his ebon hair, The chief Wakawa himself is there; And round the feast, in the Sacred Ring,[48] Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing. Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tasted For three long days ere the holy feast; They sat in their _teepee_ alone and fasted, Their faces turned to the Sacred East.[21] In the polished bowls lies the golden maize, And the flesh of fawn on the polished trays. For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide-- The blushing pink and the meek blue-bell, The purple plumes of the prairie's pride,[49] The wild, uncultured asphodel, And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet That the Virgins call "Let-me-not forget," In gay festoons and garlands twine With the cedar sprigs[50] and the wildwood vine. So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed, And none but a virgin may enter there; And clad is each in a scarlet vest, And a fawn-skin frock to the brown calves bare. Wild rose-buds peep from their flowing hair, And a rose half blown on the budding breast; And bright with the quills of the porcupine The moccasined feet of the maidens shine.

Hand in hand round the feast they dance, And sing to the notes of a rude bassoon, And never a pause or a dissonance In the merry dance or the merry tune. Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon, When she peeps o'er the hills of the dewy east, Wiwaste sings at the Virgins' Feast; And bright is the light in her luminous eyes; They glow like the stars in the winter skies; And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heart Their golden blush to her cheeks impart-- Her cheeks half-hid in her midnight hair. Fair is her form--as the red fawn's fair-- And long is the flow of her raven hair; It falls to her knees and it streams on the breeze Like the path of a storm on the swelling seas.

Proud of their rites are the Virgins fair, For none but a virgin may enter there. 'Tis a custom of old and a sacred thing; Nor rank nor beauty the warriors spare, If a tarnished maiden should enter there. And her that enters the Sacred Ring With a blot that is known or a secret stain The warrior who knows is bound to expose, And lead her forth from the ring again. And the word of a brave is the fiat of law; For the Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing. Aside with the mothers sat Harpstina; She durst not enter the Virgins' ring.

Round and round to the merry song The maidens dance in their gay attire, While the loud _Ho-Ho's_ of the tawny throng Their flying feet and their song inspire. They have finished the song and the sacred dance, And hand in hand to the feast advance-- To the polished bowls of the golden maize, And the sweet fawn-meat in the polished trays.

Then up from his seat in the silent crowd Rose the frowning, fierce-eyed, tall Red Cloud; Swift was his stride as the panther's spring, When he leaps on the fawn from his cavern lair; Wiwaste he caught by her flowing hair, And dragged her forth from the Sacred Ring. She turned on the warrior, her eyes flashed fire; Her proud lips quivered with queenly ire; And her sun-browned cheeks were aflame with red. Her hand to the spirits she raised and said: "I am pure!--I am pure as the falling snow! Great _Taku-skan-skan_[51] will testify! And dares the tall coward to say me no?" But the sullen warrior made no reply. She turned to the chief with her frantic cries: "Wakawa,--my Father! he lies,--he lies! Wiwaste is pure as the fawn unborn; Lead me back to the feast or Wiwaste dies!" But the warriors uttered a cry of scorn, And he turned his face from her pleading eyes.

Then the sullen warrior, the tall Red Cloud, Looked up and spoke and his voice was loud; But he held his wrath and he spoke with care: "Wiwaste is young; she is proud and fair, But she may not boast of the virgin snows. The Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing; How durst she enter the Virgins' ring? The warrior would fain, but he dares not spare; She is tarnished and only the Red Cloud knows."

She clutched her hair in her clinched hand; She stood like a statue bronzed and grand; _Wakan-dee_[39] flashed in her fiery eyes; Then swift as the meteor cleaves the skies-- Nay, swift as the fiery _Wakinyan's_[32] dart, She snatched the knife from the warrior's belt, And plunged it clean to the polished hilt-- With a deadly cry--in the villain's heart. Staggering he clutched the air and fell; His life-blood smoked on the trampled sand, And dripped from the knife in the virgin's hand.

Then rose his kinsmen's savage yell. Swift as the doe's Wiwaste's feet Fled away to the forest. The hunters fleet In vain pursue, and in vain they prowl And lurk in the forest till dawn of day. They hear the hoot of the mottled owl; They hear the were-wolf's[52] winding howl; But the swift Wiwaste is far away. They found no trace in the forest land; They found no trail in the dew-damp grass; They found no track in the river sand, Where they thought Wiwaste would surely pass.

The braves returned to the troubled chief; In his lodge he sat in his silent grief. "Surely," they said, "she has turned a spirit. No trail she left with her flying feet; No pathway leads to her far retreat. She flew in the air, and her wail--we could hear it, As she upward rose to the shining stars; And we heard on the river, as we stood near it, The falling drops of Wiwaste's tears."

Wakawa thought of his daughter's words Ere the south-wind came and the piping birds-- "My Father, listen--my words are true," And sad was her voice as the whippowil When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill, "Wiwaste lingers alone with you; The rest are sleeping on yonder hill-- Save one--and he an undutiful son-- And you, my Father, will sit alone When _Sisoka_[53] sings and the snow is gone." His broad breast heaved on his troubled soul, The shadow of grief o'er his visage stole Like a cloud on the face of the setting sun.

"She has followed the years that are gone," he said; "The spirits the words of the witch fulfill; For I saw the ghost of my father dead, By the moon's dim light on the misty hill. He shook the plumes on his withered head, And the wind through his pale form whistled shrill. And a low, sad voice on the hill I heard, Like the mournful wail of a widowed bird." Then lo, as he looked from his lodge afar, He saw the glow of the Evening-star; "And yonder," he said, "is Wiwaste's face; She looks from her lodge on our fading race, Devoured by famine, and fraud, and war, And chased and hounded by fate and woe, As the white wolves follow the buffalo;" And he named the planet the _Virgin Star_.[54]

"Wakawa," he muttered, "the guilt is thine! She was pure--she was pure as the fawn unborn. O why did I hark to the cry of scorn, Or the words of the lying libertine? Wakawa, Wakawa, the guilt is thine! The springs will return with the voice of birds, But the voice of my daughter will come no more. She wakened the woods with her musical words, And the sky-lark, ashamed of his voice, forbore. She called back the years that had passed, and long I heard their voice in her happy song. O why did the chief of the tall _Hohe_ His feet from _Kapoza_[6] so long delay? For his father sat at my father's feast, And he at Wakawa's--an honored guest. He is dead!--he is slain on the Bloody Plain, By the hand of the treacherous Chippeway; And the face shall I never behold again Of my brave young brother--the chief Chaske. Death walks like a shadow among my kin; And swift are the feet of the flying years That cover Wakawa with frost and tears, And leave their tracks on his wrinkled skin. Wakawa, the voice of the years that are gone Will follow thy feet like the shadow of death, Till the paths of the forest and desert lone Shall forget thy footsteps. O living breath, Whence are thou, and whither so soon to fly? And whence are the years? Shall I overtake Their flying feet in the star-lit sky? From his last long sleep will the warrior wake? Will the morning break in Wakawa's tomb, As it breaks and glows in the eastern skies? Is it true?--will the spirits of kinsmen come And bid the bones of the brave arise? Wakawa, Wakawa, for thee the years Are red with blood and bitter with tears. Gone--brothers, and daughters, and wife--all gone That are kin to Wakawa--but one--but one-- Wakinyan Tanka--undutiful son! And he estranged from his father's _tee_, Will never return till the chief shall die. And what cares he for his father's grief? He will smile at my death--it will make him chief. Woe burns in my bosom. Ho, warriors--Ho! Raise the song of red war; for your chief must go To drown his grief in the blood of the foe! I shall fall. Raise my mound on the sacred hill. Let my warriors the wish of their chief fulfill; For my fathers sleep in the sacred ground. The Autumn blasts o'er Wakawa's mound Will chase the hair of the thistles' head, And the bare-armed oak o'er the silent dead, When the whirling snows from the north descend, Will wail and moan in the midnight wind. In the famine of winter the wolf will prowl, And scratch the snow from the heap of stones, And sit in the gathering storm and howl, On the frozen mound, for Wakawa's bones. But the years that are gone shall return again, As the robin returns and the whippowil, When my warriors stand on the sacred hill And remember the deeds of their brave chief slain."