Chapter VIII: Part 8

The state is sick and every fool a quack Running with pills and plasters and sure-cures, And every pill and package labelled _Ism_. See Liberty run mad, and Anarchy, Bearing the torch, the dagger and the bomb Red-mouthed run riot in her sacred name Hear mobs of idlers cry--_"Equality! Let all men share alike: divide, divide!"_ Butting their heads against the granite rocks Of Nature and the eternal laws of God. Pull down the toiler, lift the idler up! Despoil the frugal, crown the negligent! Offer rewards to idleness and crime! And pay a premium for improvidence! Fools, can your wolfish cries repeal the laws Of God engraven on the granite hills, Written in every Wrinkle of the earth, On every plain, on every mountain-top,-- Nay, blazened o'er all the boundless Universe On every jewel that sparkles on God's throne? And can ye rectify God's mighty plan? O pygmies, can ye measure God himself? Aye, would ye measure God's almighty power, Go--crack Earth's bones and heave the granite hills; Measure the ocean in a drinking-cup; Measure Eternity by the town-clock; Nay, with a yard-stick measure the Universe: Measure for measure. Measure God by man! "Fools to the midmost marrow of your bones!" O buzzing flies and gnats! Ye cannot strike One little atom from God's Universe, Or warp the laws of Nature by a hair!

His loving eye sees through all evil good. Man's life is but a breath; but lo with Him To-day, to-morrow, yesterday, are one One in the cycle of eternal time That hath beginning none, nor any end. The Earth revolving round her sire, the Sun, Measures the flying year of mortal man, But who shall measure God's eternal year? The unbegotten, everlasting God; Unmade, eternal, all-pervading power; Center and source of all things, high and low, Maker and master of the Universe-- Ah, nay, the mighty Universe itself! All things in nature bear God's signature So plainly writ that he who runs may read. We know not what life is; how may we know Death--what it is, or what may lie beyond? Whoso forgets his God forgets himself.

Let me not blindly judge my brother man: There is but one just judge; there is but one Who knows the hearts of men. Him let us praise-- Not with blind prayer, or idle, sounding psalms-- But let us daily in our daily works, Praise God by righteous deeds and brother-love. Go forth into the forest and observe-- For men believe their eyes and doubt their ears-- The creeping vine, the shrub, the lowly bush, The dwarfed and stunted trees, the bent and bowed, And here and there a lordly oak or elm, And o'er them all a tall and princely pine. All struggle upward, but the many fail; The low dwarfed by the shadows of the great, The stronger basking in the genial sun. Observe the myriad fishes of the seas-- The mammoths and the minnows of the deep. Behold the eagle and the little wren, The condor on his cliff, the pigeon-hawk, The teal, the coot, the broad-winged albatross. Turn to the beasts in forest and in field-- The lion, the lynx, the mammoth and the mouse, The sheep, the goat, the bullock and the horse, The fierce gorillas and the chattering apes-- Progenitors and prototypes of man. Not only differences in genera find, But grades in every kind and every class.

I would not doom to serfdom or to toil One race, one caste, one class, or any man: Give every honest man an honest chance; Protect alike the rich man and the poor; Let not the toiler live upon a crust While Croesus' bread is buttered on both sides.

O people's king and shepherd, throned Law, Strike down the monsters of Monopoly. Lift up thy club, O mighty Hercules! Behold thy "Labors" yet unfinished are: Tear off thy Nessus shirt and bare thine arms. The Numean lion fattens on our flocks; The Lernean Hydra coils around our farms, Our towns, our mills, our mines, our factories; The triple monster Geryon lives again, Grown quadruple, and over all our plains And thousand hills his fattening oxen feed. Stymphalean buzzards ravage round our fields; The Augean stables reeking stench the land; The hundred-headed monster Cerberus, That throttled Greece and ravaged hapless France, Hath broke from hell and howls for human blood. Lift up thy knotted club, O Hercules! Strike swift and sure: crush down the Hydra's heads; Throttle the Numean lion: strike! nor spare The monster Geryon or the buzzard-beaks. Clean the Augean stables if thou can'st; But hurl the hundred-headed monster down Headlong to Hades: chain him; make thee sure He shall not burst the bonds of hell again.

To you, O chosen makers of the laws, The nation looks--and shall it look in vain? Will ye sit idle, or in idle wind Blow out your zeal, and crack your party whips, Or drivel dotage, while the crisis cries-- While all around the dark horizon loom Clouds thunder-capped that bode a hurricane? Sleep ye as slept the "Notables" of France, While under them an hundred AEtnas hissed And spluttered sulphur, gathering for the shock? Be ye our Hercules--and Lynceus-eyed: Still ye the storm or ere the storm begin-- Ere "Liberty" take Justice by the throat, And run moon-mad a Malay murder-muck, Throttle the "Trusts", and crush the coils combined That crack our bones and fatten on our fields. Strike down the hissing heads of Anarchy: Strike swift and hard, nor parley with the fiend Mothered of hell and father of all fiends-- Fell monster with an hundred bloody mouths, And every mouth an hundred hissing tongues, And every tongue drips venom from his fangs.

Protect the toiling millions by just laws; Let honest labor find its sure reward; Let willing hands find work and honest bread. So frame the laws that every honest man May find his home protected and his craft. Let Liberty and Order walk hand in hand With Justice: happy Trio! let them rule. Put up the bars: bar out the pauper swarms Alike from Asia's huts and Europe's hives. Let charity begin at home. In vain Will we bar out the swarms from Europe's hives And Asia's countless lepers, if our ports Are free to all the products of their hands. Put up the bars: bar out the pauper hordes; Bar out their products that compete with ours: Give honest toil at home an honest chance: Build up our own and keep our coin at home. In vain our mines pour forth their wealth of gold And silver, if by every ship it sail For London, Paris, Birmingham or Berlin.

We have been prodigal. The days are past When virgin acres wanted willing hands, When fertile empires lay in wilderness Waiting the teeming millions of the world. Lo where the Indian and the bison roamed--Lords of the prairies boundless as the sea--But twenty years ago, behold the change! Homesteads and hamlets, flocks and lowing herds, Railways and cities, miles of rustling corn, And leagues on leagues of waving fields of gold.

Let wise men teach and honest men proclaim The mutual dependence of the rich and poor; For if the wealthy profit by the poor, The poor man profits ever by the rich. Wealth builds our churches and our colleges; Wealth builds the mills that grind the million's bread; Wealth builds the factories that clothe the poor; Wealth builds the railways and the million ride. God hath so willed the toiling millions reap The golden harvest that the rich have sown. Six feet of earth make all men even; lo The toilers are the rich man's heirs at last. But there be men would grumble at their lot, Even if it were a corner-lot on Broadway. We stand upon the shoulders of the past. Who knoweth not the past how may he know The folly or the wisdom of to-day? For by comparison we weigh the good, And by comparison all evil weigh. "What can we reason, but from what we know?" Let honest men look back an hundred years-- Nay, fifty, and behold the wondrous change. Where wooden tubs like sluggards sailed the sea, Steam-ships of steel like greyhounds course the main; Where lumbering coach and wain and wagon toiled Through mud and mire and rut and rugged way, The cushioned train a mile a minute flies. Then by slow coach the message went and came, But now by lightning bridled to man's use We flash our silent thoughts from sea to sea; Nay, under ocean's depths from shore to shore; And talk by telephone to distant ears. The dreams of yesterday are deeds to-day. Our frugal mothers spun with tedious toil, And wove the homespun cloth for all their fold; Their needles plied by weary fingers sewed. Behold, the humming factory spins and weaves, The singing "Singer" sews with lightning speed. Our fathers sowed their little fields by hand, And reaped with bended sickles and bent backs; By hand they bound the sheaves of wheat and rye; With flails they threshed and winnowed in the wind. Now by machines we sow and reap and bind; By steam we thresh and sack the bounteous grain. These are but few of all the million ways Whereby man's toil is lightened and he hath gained Tenfold in comfort, luxury and ease. For these and more the millions that enjoy May thank the wise and wealthy few who gave. If the rich are richer the poor are richer too. A narrow demagogue I count the man Who cries to-day--_"Progress and Poverty"_; As if a thousand added comforts made The poor man poorer and his lot the worse. 'Tis but a new toot on the same old horn That brayed in ancient Greece and Babylon, And now amid the ruined walls of Rome Lies buried fathoms deep in dead men's dust.

_"Progress and Poverty!"_ Man, hast thou traced The blood that throbs commingled in thy veins? Over thy shoulder hast thou cast a glance On thine old Celtic-Saxon-Norman sires-- Huddled in squalid huts on beds of straw? Barefooted churls swine-herding in the fens, Bare-legged cowherds in their cow-skin coats, Wearing the collars of their Thane or Eorl, His serfs, his slaves, even as thy dog is thine; Harried by hunger, pillaged, ravaged, slain, By Viking robbers and the warring Jarls; Oft glad like hunted swine to fill their maws With herbs and acorns. _"Progress and Poverty!"_ The humblest laborer in our mills or mines Is royal Thane beside those slavish churls; The frugal farmer in our land to-day Lives better than their kings--himself a king.

Lo every age refutes old errors still, And still begets new errors for the next; But all the creeds of politics or priests Can't make one error truth, one truth a lie. There is no religion higher than the truth; Men make the creeds, but God ordains the law.

Above all cant, all arguments of men, Above all superstitions, old or new, Above all creeds of every age and clime, Stands the eternal truth--the creed of creeds.

Sweet is the lute to him who hath not heard The prattle of his children at his knees: Ah, he is rich indeed whose humble home Contains a frugal wife and sweet content.

HELOISE

I saw a light on yester-night--
A low light on the misty lea;
The stars were dim and silence grim
Sat brooding on the sullen sea.

From out the silence came a voice--
A voice that thrilled me through and through,
And said, "Alas, is this your choice?
For he is false and I was true."

And in my ears the passing years
Will sadly whisper words of rue:
Forget--and yet--can I forget
That one was false and one was true?

CHANGE

Change is the order of the universe. Worlds wax and wane; suns die and stars are born. Two atoms of cosmic dust unite, cohere-- And lo the building of a world begun. On all things--high or low, or great or small-- Earth, ocean, mountain, mammoth, midge and man, On mind and matter--lo perpetual change-- God's fiat--stamped! The very bones of man Change as he grows from infancy to age. His loves, his hates, his tastes, his fancies, change. His blood and brawn demand a change of food; His mind as well: the sweetest harp of heaven Were hateful if it played the selfsame tune Forever, and the fairest flower that gems The garden, if it bloomed throughout the year, Would blush unsought. The most delicious fruits Pall on our palate if we taste too oft, And Hyblan honey turns to bitter gall. Perpetual winter is a reign of gloom; Perpetual summer hardly pleases more. Behold the Esquimau--the Hottentot: This doomed to regions of perpetual ice, And that to constant summer's heat and glow: Inferior both, both gloomy and unblessed. The home of happiness and plenty lies Where autumn follows summer and the breath Of spring melts into rills the winter's snows. How gladly, after summer's blazing suns, We hail the autumn frosts and autumn fruits: How blithesome seems the fall of feathery snow When winter comes with merry clang of bells: And after winter's reign of ice and storm How glad we hail the robins of the spring. For God hath planted in the hearts of men The love of change, and sown the seeds of change In earth and air and sea and shoreless space. Day follows night and night the dying day, And every day--and every hour--is change; From when on dewy hills the rising dawn Sprinkles her mists of silver in the east, Till in the west the golden dust up-wheels Behind the chariot of the setting sun; From when above the hills the evening star Sparkles a diamond 'mong the grains of gold, Until her last faint flicker on the sea. The voices of the hoar and hurrying years Cry from the silence--"Change!--perpetual Change!" Man's heart responding throbs--"Perpetual Change," And grinds like a mill-stone: wanting grists of change It grinds and grinds upon its troubled self.

Behold the flowers that spring and bloom and fade. Behold the blooming maid: the song of larks Is in her warbling throat; the blue of heaven Is in her eyes; her loosened tresses fall A shower of gold on shoulders tinged with rose; Her form a seraph's and her gladsome face A benediction. Lo beneath her feet The loving crocus bursts in sudden bloom. Fawn-eyed and full of gentleness she moves-- A sunbeam on the lawn. The hearts of men Follow her footsteps. He whose sinewy arms Might burst through bars of steel like bands of straw, Caught in the net of her unloosened hair, A helpless prisoner lies and loves his chains. Blow, ye soft winds, from sandal-shaded isle, And bring the _mogra's_ breath and orange-bloom.

Fly, fleet-winged doves, to Ponce de Leon's spring, And in your bills bring her the pearls of youth; For lo the fingers of relentless Time Weave threads of silver in among the gold, And seam her face with pain and carking care, Till, bent and bowed, the shriveled hands of Death Reach from the welcome grave and draw her in.

FIDO

Hark, the storm is raging high;
Beat the breakers on the coast,
And the wintry waters cry
Like the wailing of a ghost.

On the rugged coast of Maine
Stands the frugal farmer's cot:
What if drive the sleet and rain?
John and Hannah heed it not.

On the hills the mad winds roar,
And the tall pines toss and groan;
Round the headland--down the shore--
Stormy spirits shriek and moan.

Inky darkness wraps the sky;
Not a glimpse of moon or star;
And the stormy-petrels cry
Out along the harbor-bar.

Seated by their blazing hearth--
John and Hannah--snug and warm--
What if darkness wrap the earth?
Drive the sleet and howl the storm!

Let the stormy-petrels fly!
Let the moaning breakers beat!
Hark! I hear an infant cry
And the patter of baby-feet:

And Hannah listened as she spoke,
But only heard the driving rain,
As on the cottage-roof it broke
And pattered on the window-pane.

And she sat knitting by the fire
While pussy frolicked at her feet;
And ever roared the tempest higher,
And ever harder the hailstones beat.

"Hark! the cry--it comes again!"
"Nay, it is the winds that wail,
And the patter on the pane
Of the driving sleet and hail"

Replied the farmer as he piled
The crackling hemlock on the coals,
And lit his corn-cob pipe and smiled
The smile of sweet contented souls.

Aye, let the storm rave o'er the earth;
Their kine are snug in barn and byre;
The apples sputter on the hearth,
The cider simmers on the fire.

But once again at midnight high,
She heard in dreams, through wind and sleet,
An infant moan, an infant cry,
And the patter of baby-feet.

Half-waking from her dreams she turned
And heard the driving wind and rain;
Still on the hearth the fagots burned,
And hail beat on the window-pane.

John rose as wont, at dawn of day;
The earth was white with frozen sleet;
And lo his faithful Fido lay
Dead on the door-stone at his feet.

THE REIGN OF REASON

The day of truth is dawning. I behold O'er darksome hills the trailing robes of gold And silent footsteps of the gladsome dawn. The morning breaks by sages long foretold; Truth comes to set upon the world her throne. Men lift their foreheads to the rising sun, And lo the reign of Reason is begun. Fantastic phantasms fly before the light-- Pale, gibbering ghosts and ghouls and goblin fears: Man who hath walked in sleep--what thousands years? Groping among the shadows of the night, Moon-struck and in a weird somnambulism, Mumbling some cunning cant or catechism, Thrilled by the electric magic of the skies-- Sun-touched by Truth--awakes and rubs his eyes.

Old Superstition, mother of cruel creeds, O'er all the earth hath sown her dragon-teeth. Lo centuries on centuries the seeds Grew rank, and from them all the haggard breeds Of Hate and Fear and Hell and cruel Death. And still her sunken eyes glare on mankind; Her livid lips grin horrible; her hands, Shriveled to bone and sinew, clutch all lands And with blind fear lead on or drive the blind. Ah ignorance and fear go hand in hand, Twin-born, and broadcast scatter hate and thorns, They people earth with ghosts and hell with horns, And sear the eyes of truth with burning brand.

Behold, the serried ranks of Truth advance, And stubborn Science shakes her shining lance Full in the face of stolid Ignorance. But Superstition is a monster still-- An Hydra we may scotch but hardly kill; For if with sword of Truth we lop a head, How soon another groweth in its stead! All men are slaves. Yea, some are slave to wine And some to women, some to shining gold, But all to habit and to customs old. Around our stunted souls old tenets twine And it is hard to straighten in the oak The crook that in the sapling had its start: The callous neck is glad to wear the yoke; Nor reason rules the head, but aye the heart: The head is weak, the throbbing heart is strong; But where the heart is right the head is not far wrong.

Men have been learning error age on age, And superstition is their heritage Bequeathed from age to age and sire to son Since the dim history of the world begun. Trust paves the way for treachery to tread; Under the cloak of virtue vices creep; Fools chew the chaff while cunning eats the bread, And wolves become the shepherds of the sheep. The mindless herd are but the cunning's tools; For ages have the learned of the schools Furnished pack-saddles for the backs of fools. Pale Superstition loves the gloom of night; Truth, like a diamond, ever loves the light. But still 'twere wrong to speak but in abuse, For priests and popes have had, and have, their use. Yea, Superstition since the world began Hath been an instrument to govern man: For men were brutes, and brutal fear was given To chain the brute till Reason came from heaven. Aye, men were beasts for lo how many ages! And only fear held them in chains and cages.

Wise men were priests, and gladly I accord They were the priests and prophets of the Lord; For love was lust and o'er all earth's arena Hell-fire alone could tame the wild hyena. All history is the register, we find, Of the crimes and lusts and sufferings of mankind; And there are still dark lands where it is well That Superstition wear the horns of hell, And hold her torches o'er the brutal head, And fright the beast with fire and goblin dread Till Reason come the darkness to dispel.

How hard it is for mortals to unlearn Beliefs bred in the marrow of their bones! How hard it is for mortals to discern The truth that preaches from the silent stones, The silent hills, the silent universe, While Error cries in sanctimonious tones That all the light of life and God is hers! Lo in the midst we stand: we cannot see Either the dark beginning or the end, Or where our tottering footsteps turn or trend In the vast orbit of Eternity. Let Reason be our light--the only light That God hath given unto benighted man, Wherewith to see a glimpse of his vast plan And stars of hope that glimmer on our night. Lo all-pervading Unity is His; Lo all-pervading Unity is He: One mighty heart throbs in the earth and sea, In every star through heaven's immensity, And God in all things breathes, in all things is. God's perfect order rules the vast expanse, And Love is queen and all the realms are hers; But strike one planet from the Universe And all is chaos and unbridled chance.

And is there life beyond this life below? Aye, is death death?--or but a happy change From night to light--on angel wings to range, And sing the songs of seraphs as we go? Alas, the more we know the less we know we know.

God hath laid down the limits we cannot pass; And it is well he giveth us no glass Wherewith to see beyond the present glance, Else we might die a thousand deaths perchance Before we lay our bones beneath the grass. What is the soul, and whither will it fly? We only know that matter cannot die, But lives and lived through all eternity, And ever turns from hoary age to youth. And is the soul not worthier than the dust? So in His providence we put our trust; And so we humbly hope, for God is just-- Father all-wise, unmoved by wrath or ruth: What then is certain--what eternal? Truth, Almighty God, Time, Space and Cosmic Dust.

LOVE WILL FIND

Seek ye the fairest lily of the field, The fairest lotus that in lakelet lies, The fairest rose that ever morn revealed, And Love will find--from other eyes concealed-- A fairer flower in some fair woman's eyes.

List ye the lark that warbles to the morn, The sweetest note that linnet ever sung, Or trembling lute in tune with silver horn, And Love will list--and laugh your lute to scorn-- A sweeter lute in some fair woman's tongue.

Seek ye the dewy perfume seaward blown From flowering orange-groves to passing ships; Nay, sip the nectared dew of Helicon, And Love will find--and claim it all his own-- A sweeter dew on some fair woman's lips.

Seek ye a couch of softest eider-down, The silken floss that baby birdling warms, Or shaded moss with blushing roses strown, And Love will find--when they are all alone-- A softer couch in some fair woman's arms.

AN OLD ENGLISH OAK

Silence is the voice of mighty things. In silence dropped the acorn in the rain; In silence slept till sun-touched. Wondrous life Peeped from the mold and oped its eyes on morn. Up-grew in silence through a thousand years The Titan-armed, gnarl-jointed, rugged oak, Rock-rooted. Through his beard and shaggy locks Soft breezes sung and tempests roared: the rain A thousand summers trickled down his beard; A thousand winters whitened on his head; Yet spake he not. He, from his coigne of hills, Beheld the rise and fall of empire, saw The pageantry and perjury of kings, The feudal barons and the slavish churls, The peace of peasants; heard the merry song Of mowers singing to the swing of scythes, The solemn-voiced, low-wailing funeral dirge Winding slow-paced with death to humble graves; And heard the requiem sung for coffined kings. Saw castles rise and castles crumble down, Abbeys up-loom and clang their solemn bells, And heard the owl hoot ruin on their walls: Beheld a score of battle fields corpse-strewn-- Blood-fertiled with ten thousand flattered fools Who, but to please the vanity of one, Marched on hurrahing to the doom of death-- And spake not, neither sighed nor made a moan. Saw from the blood of heroes roses spring, And where the clangor of steel-sinewed War Roared o'er embattled rage, heard gentle Peace To bleating hills and vales of rustling gold Flute her glad notes from morn till even-tide. Grim with the grime of a thousand years he stood-- Grand in his silence, mighty in his years. Under his shade the maid and lover wooed; Under his arms their children's children played And lambkins gamboled; at his feet by night The heart-sick wanderer laid him down and died, And he looked on in silence.

Silent hours In ghostly pantomime on tip-toe tripped The stately minuet of the passing years, Until the horologe of Time struck _One_. Black Thunder growled and from his throne of gloom Fire-flashed the night with hissing bolt, and lo, Heart-split, the giant of a thousand years Uttered one voice and like a Titan fell, Crashing one hammer-clang, and passed away.

THE LEGEND OF THE FALLS[CG]

[CG] _An-pe-tu Sa-pa_--Clouded Day--was the name of the Dakota mother who committed suicide, as related in this legend, by plunging over the Falls of St. Anthony. Schoolcraft calls her "_Ampata Sapa_." _Ampata_ is not Dakota. There are several versions of this legend, all agreeing in the main points.

[Read at the Celebration of the Old Settlers of Hennepin County, at the Academy of Music, Minneapolis, July 4, 1879.]

[_The Numerals refer to Notes in Appendix._]

On the Spirit-Island [CH] sitting under midnight's misty moon, Lo I see the spirits flitting o'er the waters one by one! Slumber wraps the silent city, and the droning mills are dumb; One lone whippowil's shrill ditty calls her mate that ne'er will come. Sadly moans the mighty river, foaming down the fettered falls, Where of old he thundered ever o'er abrupt and lofty walls. Great _Unktehee_--god of waters--lifts no more his mighty head; Fled he with the timid otters?--lies he in the cavern dead? Hark!--the waters hush their sighing and the whippowil her call, Through the moon-lit mists are flying dusky shadows silent all. Lo from out the waters foaming--from the cavern deep and dread-- Through the glamour and the gloaming comes a spirit of the dead. Sad she seems; her tresses raven on her tawny shoulders rest; Sorrow on her brow is graven, in her arms a babe is pressed. Hark!--she chants the solemn story--sings the legend sad and old, And the river wrapt in glory listens while the tale is told. Would you hear the legend olden hearken while I tell the tale-- Shorn, alas, of many a golden, weird Dakota chant and wail.

[CH] The small island of rock a few rods below the Falls, was called by the Dakotas _Wanagee We-ta_--Spirit-Island. They say the spirit of _Anpetu Sapa_ sits upon that island at night and pours forth her sorrow in song. They also say that from time out of mind, war-eagles nested on that island, until the advent of white men frightened them away. This seems to be true. See _Carver's Travels_ (London, 1778), p. 71.

THE LEGEND

Tall was young Wanata, stronger than _Heyoka's_ [16] giant form,-- Laughed at flood and fire and hunger, faced the fiercest winter storm. When _Wakinyan_ [32] flashed and thundered, when Unktehee raved and roared, All but brave _Wanata_ wondered, and the gods with fear implored. When the war-whoop shrill resounded, calling friends to meet the foe, From the _teepee_ swift he bounded, armed with polished lance and bow. In the battle's din and clangor fast his fatal arrows flew, Flashed his fiery eyes with anger,--many a stealthy foe he slew. Hunter swift was he and cunning, caught the beaver, slew the bear, Overtook the roebuck running, dragged the panther from his lair. Loved was he by many a maiden; many a dark eye glanced in vain; Many a heart with sighs was laden for the love it could not gain. So they called the brave "_Ska Capa_;"[CI] but the fairest of the band-- Moon-faced, meek Anpetu-Sapa--won the hunter's heart and hand.

[CI] Or _Capa Ska_--White beaver. White beavers are very rare, very cunning and hard to catch.

From the wars with triumph burning, from the chase of bison fleet, To his lodge the brave returning, spread his trophies at her feet. Love and joy sat in the _teepee_; him a black-eyed boy she bore; But alas, she lived to weep a love she lost forevermore. For the warriors chose Wanata first _Itancan_[CJ] of the band. At the council-fire he sat a leader brave, a chieftain grand. Proud was fair Anpetu-Sapa, and her eyes were glad with joy; Proud was she and very happy with her warrior and her boy. But alas, the fatal honor that her brave Wanata won, Brought a bitter woe upon her,--hid with clouds the summer sun. For among the brave Dakotas wives bring honor to the chief. On the vine-clad Minnesota's banks he met the Scarlet Leaf.

[CJ] _E-tan-can_--Chief.

Young and fair was Ape-duta[CK]--full of craft and very fair; Proud she walked a queen of beauty with her dark, abundant hair. In her net of hair she caught him--caught Wanata with her wiles; All in vain his wife besought him--begged in vain his wonted smiles. Ape-duta ruled the _teepee_--all Wanata's smiles were hers; When the lodge was wrapped in sleep a star[CL] beheld the mother's tears. Long she strove to do her duty for the black-eyed babe she bore; But the proud, imperious beauty made her sad forevermore. Still she dressed the skins of beaver, bore the burdens, spread the fare; Patient ever, murmuring never, though her cheeks were creased with care. In the moon _Maga-o kada_, [71] twice an hundred years ago-- Ere the "Black Robe's"[CM] sacred shadow stalked the prairies' pathless snow-- Down the swollen, rushing river, in the sunset's golden hues, From the hunt of bear and beaver came the band in swift canoes. On the queen of fairy islands, on the _Wita Waste's_ [CN] shore Camped Wanata, on the highlands just above the cataract's roar. Many braves were with Wanata; Ape-duta, too, was there, And the sad Anpetu-sapa spread the lodge with wonted care. Then above the leafless prairie leaped the fat-faced, laughing moon, And the stars--the spirits fairy--walked the welkin one by one. Swift and silent in the gloaming on the waste of waters blue, Speeding downward to the foaming, shot Wanata's birch canoe. In it stood Anpetu-sapa--in her arms her sleeping child; Like a wailing Norse-land _drapa_ [CO] rose her death-song weird and wild:

[CK] _A-pe_--leaf,--_duta_--Scarlet,--Scarlet leaf

[CL] Stars, the Dakotas say, are the faces of the departed watching over their friends and relatives on earth.

[CM] The Dakotas called the Jesuit priests "Black Robes," from the color of their vestments.

[CN] _Wee-tah Wah-stay_--Beautiful Island,--the Dakota name for Nicollet Island, just above the Falls.

[CO] _Drapa_, a Norse funeral wail in which the virtues of the deceased are recounted.

_Mihihna_,[CP] _Mihihna_, my heart is stone;
The light is gone from my longing eyes;
The wounded loon in the lake alone
Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, the path is long,
The burden is heavy and hard to bear;
I sink--I die, and my dying song
Is a song of joy to the false one's ear.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, my young heart flew
Far away with my brave to the bison-chase;
To the battle it went with my warrior true,
And never returned till I saw his face.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, my brave was glad
When he came from the chase of the roebuck fleet;
Sweet were the words that my hunter said
As his trophies he laid at Anpetu's feet.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, the boy I bore--
When the robin sang and my brave was true,
I can bear to look on his face no more,
For he looks, _Mihihna_, so much like you.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, the Scarlet Leaf
Has robbed my boy of his father's love;
He sleeps in my arms--he will find no grief
In the star-lit lodge in the land above.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, my heart is stone;
The light is gone from my longing eyes;
The wounded loon in the lake alone
Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.

[CP] _Mee-heen-yah_--My husband.

Swiftly down the turbid torrent, as she sung her song she flew; Like a swan upon the current, dancing rode the light canoe. Hunters hurry in the gloaming; all in vain Wanata calls; Singing through the surges foaming, lo she plunges o'er the Falls.

Long they searched the sullen river--searched for leagues along the shore, Bark or babe or mother never saw the sad Dakotas more; But at night or misty morning oft the hunters heard her song, Oft the maidens heard her warning in their mellow mother-tongue. On the bluffs they sat enchanted till the blush of beamy dawn; Spirit Isle, they say, is haunted, and they call the spot Wakan[CQ] Many summers on the highland in the full moon's golden glow-- In the woods on Fairy Island,[CR] walked a snow-white fawn and doe-- Spirits of the babe and mother sadly seeking evermore For a father's love another turned away with evil power.

Sometimes still when moonbeams shimmer through the maples on the lawn, In the gloaming and the glimmer walk the silent doe and fawn; And on Spirit Isle or near it, under midnight's misty moon, Oft is seen the mother's spirit, oft is heard her mournful tune.

[CQ] Pronounced Walk-on,--Sacred, inhabited by a spirit.

[CR] Fairy Island,--_Wita-Waste_--Nicollet Island.

CHICKADEE

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee! That was the song that he sang to me--Sang from his perch in the willow tree-- Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee. My little brown bird, The song that I heard Was a happier song than the minstrels sing-- A paean of joy and a carol of spring; And my heart leaped throbbing and sang with thee Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

My birdie looked wise
With his little black eyes,
As he peeked and peered from his perch at me
With a throbbing throat and a flutter of glee,
As if he would say--
Sing trouble away,
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

Only one note From his silver throat; Only one word From my wise little bird; But a sweeter note or a wiser word From the tongue of mortal I never have heard, Than my little philosopher sang to me From his bending perch in the willow tree-- Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

Come foul or fair, Come trouble and care-- No--never a sigh Or a thought of despair! For my little bird sings in my heart to me, As he sang from his perch in the willow tree-- Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee dee: Chickadee-dee, chickadee-dee; Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

ANTHEM

[APRIL, 1861.]

Spirit of Liberty,
Wake in the Land!
Sons of our Forefathers,
Raise the strong hand!
Burn in each heart anew
Liberty's fires;
Wave the old Flag again,
Flag of our sires;
Glow all thy stars again,
Banner of Light!
Wave o'er us forever,
Emblem of might;
God for our Banner!
God for the Right!

Minions of Tyranny, Tremble and kneel! The sons of the Pilgrims Are sharpening their steel. Pledge for our Land again Honor and life; Wave the old Flag again; On to the strife! Shades of our Forefathers, Witness our fright! Wave o'er us forever, Emblem of might; God for our Banner! God for our Right!

HURRAH FOR THE VOLUNTEERS

[May, 1861.]

Come then, brave men, from the Land of Lakes
With steady steps and cheers;
Our country calls, as the battle breaks,
On the Northwest Pioneers.
Let the eagle scream, and the bayonet gleam!
Hurrah for the Volunteers!

CHARGE OF "THE BLACK-HORSE"

[First battle of Bull Run.]

Our columns are broken, defeated, and fled; We are gathered, a few from the flying and dead, Where the green flag is up and our wounded remain Imploring for water and groaning in pain. Lo the blood-spattered bosom, the shot-shattered limb, The hand-clutch of fear as the vision grows dim, The half-uttered prayer and the blood-fettered breath, The cold marble brow and the calm face of death. O proud were these forms at the dawning of morn, When they sprang to the call of the shrill bugle-horn: There are mothers and wives that await them afar; God help them!--Is this then the glory of war? But hark!--hear the cries from the field of despair; "The Black-Horse" are charging the fugitives there; They gallop the field o'er the dying and dead, And their blades with the blood of their victims are red. The cries of the fallen and flying are vain; They saber the wounded and trample the slain; And the plumes of the riders wave red in the sun, As they stoop for the stroke and the murder goes on. They halt for a moment--they form and they stand; Then with sabers aloft they ride down on our band Like the samiel that sweeps o'er Arabia's sand. "Halt!--down with your sabers!--the dying are here! Let the foeman respect while the friend sheds a tear." Nay; the merciless butchers were thirsting for blood, And mad for the murder still onward they rode. "_Stand firm and be ready_!"--Our brave, gallant few Have faced to the foe, and our rifles are true; Fire!--a score of grim riders go down in a breath At the flash of our guns--in the tempest of death! They wheel, and they clutch in despair at the mane! They reel in their saddles and fall to the plain!

The riderless steeds, wild with wounds and with fear, Dash away o'er the field in unbridled career; Their stirrups swing loose and their manes are all gore From the mad cavaliers that shall ride them no more. Of the hundred so bold that rode down on us there But few rode away with the tale of despair; Their proud, plumed comrades so reckless, alas, Slept their long, dreamless sleep on the blood-spattered grass.

ONLY A PRIVATE KILLED

[The soldier was Louis Mitchell, of Co. 1, 1st Minn. Vols., killed in a skirmish, near Ball's Bluff, October 22, 1861.]

"We've had a brush," the Captain said, "And Rebel blood we've spilled; We came off victors with the loss Of only a _private_ killed." "Ah," said the orderly--"it was hot,"-- Then he breathed a heavy breath-- "Poor fellow!--he was badly shot, Then bayoneted to death."

And now was hushed the martial din;
The saucy foe had fled;
They brought the private's body in;
I went to see the dead;
For I could not think our Rebel foes--
So valiant in the van--
So boastful of their chivalry--
Could kill a wounded man.

A musket ball had pierced his thigh--
A frightful, crushing wound--
And then with savage bayonets
They pinned him to the ground.
One deadly thrust drove through the heart,
Another through the head;
Three times they stabbed his pulseless breast
When he lay cold and dead.

His hair was matted with his gore,
His hands were clinched with might,
As if he still his musket bore
So firmly in the fight.
He had grasped the foemen's bayonets
Their murderous thrusts to fend:
They raised the coat-cape from his face,
And lo--it was my friend!

Think what a shudder chilled my heart!
'Twas but the day before
We laughed together merrily,
As we talked of days of yore.
"How happy we shall be," he said,
"When the war is o'er, and when
With victory's song and victory's tread
We all march home again."

Ah little he dreamed--that soldier brave
So near his journey's goal--
How soon a heavenly messenger
Would claim his Christian soul.
But he fell like a hero--fighting,
And hearts with grief are filled;
And honor is his,--tho' the Captain says
"Only a _private_ killed."

I knew him well,--he was my friend;
He loved our land and laws,
And he fell a blessed martyr
To our Country's holy cause;
And I know a cottage in the West
Where eyes with tears are filled
As they read the careless telegram--
"Only a _private_ killed."

Comrades, bury him under the oak,
Wrapped in his army-blue;
He is done with the battle's din and smoke,
With drill and the proud review.
And the time will come ere long, perchance,
When our blood will thus be spilled,
And what care we if the Captain say--
"Only a _private_ killed."

For the glorious Old Flag beckons.
We have pledged her heart and hand,
And we'll brave even death to rescue
Our dear old Fatherland.
We ask not praise--nor honors,
Then--as each grave is filled--
What care we if the Captain say--
"Only a _private_ killed."

DO THEY THINK OF US?

[October, 1861, after the Battle of Ball's Bluff.]

Do they think of us, say--in the far distant West-- On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest? On the long dusty march when the suntide is hot, O say, are their sons and their brothers forgot? Are our names on their lips, is our comfort their care When they kneel to the God of our fathers in prayer? When at night on their warm, downy pillows they lie, Wrapped in comfort and ease, do they think of us, say? When the rain patters down on the roof overhead, Do they think of the camps without shelter or bed? Ah many a night on the cold ground we've lain-- Chilled, chilled to the heart by the merciless rain, And yet there stole o'er us the peace of the blest, For our spirits went back to our homes in the West. O we think of them, and it sharpens our steel, When the battle-smoke rolls and the grim cannon peal, When forward we rush at the shrill bugle's call To the hail-storm of conflict where many must fall.

When night settles down on the slaughter-piled plain, And the dead are at rest and the wounded in pain, Do they think of us, say, in the far distant West-- On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest? Aye, comrades, we know that our darlings are there With their hearts full of hope and their souls full of prayer, And it steadies our rifles--it steels every breast-- The thought of our loved ones at home in the West-- On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest.

CHARGE OF FREMONT'S BODY-GUARD

On they ride--on they ride-- Only three hundred,-- Ride the brave Body-Guard, From the "Prairie Scouts" sundered: Two thousand riflemen, Ambushed on either side, The signal of slaughter bide: Ho! has the farmer-guide Led them astray and lied? How can they pass the wood? On they ride--on they ride-- Fearlessly, readily, Silently, steadily Ride the brave Body-Guard Led by Zagonyi.

Up leap the Southrons there; Loud breaks the battle-blare; Now swings his hat in air; Flashes his saber bare: "_Draw sabers;--follow me_!" Shouts the brave Captain: "_Union and Liberty_!" Thunders the Captain. Three hundred sabers flash; Three hundred Guardsmen dash On to the fierce attack; Into the _cul-de-sac_ Plunge the Three Hundred. Yell the mad ambushed pack-- Two thousand rifles crack At the Three Hundred.

Dire is the death they deal, Gleams the steel--volleys peal-- Horses plunge--riders reel; Sabers and bayonets clash; Guns in their faces flash; Blue coats are spattered red-- Fifty brave Guards are dead-- Zagonyi is still ahead, Swinging his hat in air, Flashing his saber: "Steady men;--steady there; Forward--Battalion!"

On they plunge--on they dash Thro' the dread gantlet; Death gurgles in the gash Of furious-dealt saber-slash; Over them the volleys crash Thro' the trees like a whirlwind. They pass through the fire of death; Pant riders and steeds for breath; "_Halt!_" cried the Captain Then he looked up the hill; There on the summit still The "Third Company" paltered. Right through the fire of hell, Where fifty brave Guardsmen fell, Zagonyi had ridden well; Foley had faltered.

Flashed like a flame of fire-- Flashed with a menace dire-- Flashed with a yell of ire The sword of the Captain. Kennedy saw the flash, And ordered the "Third" to dash Gallantly forward: "Come on, Boys, for Liberty! Forward, and follow me! Remember Kentucky!" Into the hell they broke-- Into the fire and smoke-- Dealing swift saber-stroke-- The gallant Kentuckians. Horses plunge, Riders lunge Heavily forward; Over the fallen they ride Down to Zagonyi's side, Mowing a swath of death Either side,--right and left Piling the slaughtered!

Under the storm of lead, Still hissing overhead, They re-formed the battle-line; Then the brave Captain said: "Guardsmen: avenge our dead! _Charge_!"--Up the hill they go,-- Right into the swarming foe! Woe to the foemen--woe! See mad Zagonyi there; Streams on the wind his hair, Flashes his saber bare; On they go--on they go; Volleys flash, Sabers clash, On they plunge, on they dash, Following Zagonyi Into the hell again.

Hand to hand fight and die Infantry, cavalry; Grappled and mixed they lie-- Infantry, cavalry: Hurra!--the Rebels fly! Bravo!--Three Hundred! "Forward and follow me!" Shouted the Captain; "Union and Liberty!" All the Guards thundered. With mad hearts and sabers stout Into the Rebel-rout Gallop the Guardsmen, Thundering their cry again, Cleaving their foes in twain, Piling the heaps of slain Sabered and sundered. Three hundred foes they slayed, Glorious the charge they made, Victorious the charge they made-- The gallant Three Hundred! Let the Crown-Poet paid Sing of the "Light Brigade" And "The wild charge they made" When "Some one had blundered;" Following the British Bard, I sing of the Body-Guard-- The Heroes that fought so hard-- Where nobody blundered. Hail, brave Zagonyi--hail! All hail, the Body-Guard!-- The glorious-- The victorious-- The invincible Three Hundred.

A MILLION MORE

[AUGUST, 1862.]

The nation calls aloud again, For Freedom wounded writhes in pain. Gird on your armor, Northern men; Drop scythe and sickle, square and pen; A million bayonets gleam and flash; A thousand cannon peal and crash; Brothers and sons have gone before; A million more!--a million more!

Fire and sword!--aye, sword and fire! Let war be fierce and grim and dire; Your path be marked by flame and smoke, And tyrant's bones and fetters broke: Stay not for foe's uplifted hand; Sheathe not the sword; quench not the brand Till Freedom reign from shore to shore, Or might 'mid ashes smoke and gore.

If leader stay the vengeance-rod, Let him beware the wrath of God; The maddened millions long his trust Will crush his puny bones to dust, And all the law to guide their ire Will be the law of blood and fire. Come, then--the shattered ranks implore-- A million more--a million more!

Form and file and file and form; This war is but God's thunder-storm To purify our cankered land And strike the fetter from the hand. Forced by grim fate our Chief at last Shall blow dear Freedom's bugle-blast; And then shall rise from shore to shore Four millions more--four millions more.[CS]

[CS] There were four millions of slaves in the South when the war began.

ON READING PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S LETTER

To Horace Greeley, of date Aug. 22, 1862--"If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it," etc.

Perish the power that, bowed to dust, Still wields a tyrant's rod-- That dares not even then be just, And leave the rest with God.

THE DYING VETERAN

All-day-long the crash of cannon
Shook the battle-covered plain;
All-day-long the frenzied foemen
Dashed against our lines in vain;
All the field was piled with slaughter;
Now the lurid setting sun
Saw our foes in wild disorder,
And the bloody day was won.

Foremost on our line of battle
All-day-long a veteran stood--
Stalwart, brawny, grim and steady,
Black with powder, smeared with blood;
Never flinched and never faltered
In the deadliest storm of lead,
And before his steady rifle
Lay a score of foemen dead.

Never flinched and never faltered
Till our shout of victory rose,
Till he saw defeat, disaster,
Overwhelmed our flying foes;
Then he trembled, then he tottered,
Gasped for breath and dropped his gun,
Staggered from the ranks and prostrate
Fell to the earth. His work was done.

Silent comrades gathered round him,
And his Captain sadly came,
Bathed his quivering lips with water,
Took his hand and spoke his name;
And his fellow soldiers softly
On his knapsack laid his head;
Then his eyes were lit with luster,
And he raised his hand and said:

"Good-bye, comrades; farewell, Captain!
I am glad the day is won;
I am mustered out, I reckon--
Never mind-my part is done.
We have marched and fought together
Till you seem like brothers all,
But I hope again to meet you
At the final bugle-call.

"Captain, write and tell my mother
That she must not mourn and cry,
For I never flinched in battle,
And I do not fear to die.
You may add a word for Mary;
Tell her I was ever true.
Mary took a miff one Sunday,
And so I put on the "blue."

"And I know she has repented,
But I never let her see
How it cut--her crusty answer--
When she turned away from me.
I was never good at coaxing,
So I didn't even try;
But you tell her I forgive her,
And she must not mourn and cry,"

Then he closed his eyes in slumber,
And his spirit passed away,
And his comrades spread a blanket
O'er his cold and silent clay.
At dawn of morn they buried him,
Wrapped in his army-blue.
On the bloody field of Fair Oaks
Sleeps the soldier tried and true.

GRIERSON'S RAID

Mount to horse--mount to horse;
Forward, Battalion!
Gallop the gallant force;
Down with Rebellion!
Over hill, creek and plain
Clatter the fearless--
Dash away--splash away--
Led by the Peerless.

Carbines crack--foemen fly
Hither and thither;
Under the death-fire
They falter and wither.
Burn the bridge--tear the track--
Down with Rebellion!
Cut the wires--cut the wires!
Forward, Battalion!
Day and night--night and day,
Gallop the fearless--
Swimming the rivers' floods--
Led by the Peerless;
Depots and powder-trains
Blazing and thundering
Masters and dusky slaves
Gazing and wondering.
Eight hundred miles they ride--
Dauntless Battalion--
Down through the Southern Land
Mad with Rebellion.
Into our lines they dash--
Brave Cavaliers--
Greeting our flag with
A thunder of cheers.

THE OLD FLAG

[Written July 4, 1863.]

Have ye heard of Fort Donelson's desperate fight, Where the giant Northwest bared his arm for the right, Where thousands so bravely went down in the slaughter, And the blood of the West ran as freely as water; Where the Rebel Flag fell and our banner arose O'er an army of captured and suppliant foes? Lo--torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye of Shiloh, where fierce Beauregard O'erwhelmed us with numbers and pressed us so hard, Till our veteran supporters came up to our aid And the tide of defeat and disaster was staid-- Where like grain-sheaves the slaughtered were piled on the plain And the brave rebel Johnston went down with the slain? Lo--torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye the cannon-roar down by Stone River? Saw ye the bleeding braves stagger and quiver? Heard ye the shout and the roar and the rattle? And saw ye the desperate surging of battle? Volley on volley and steel upon steel-- Breast unto breast--how they lunge and they reel! Lo--torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye of Vicksburg--the Southern Gibraltar, Where the hands of our foemen built tyranny's altar, Where their hosts are walled in by a cordon of braves, And the pits they have dug for defense are their graves, Where the red bombs are bursting and hissing the shot, Where the nine thunders death and the charge follows hot? Lo--torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye from Gettysburg?--Glory to God! Bare your heads, O ye Freemen, and kneel on the sod! Praise the Lord!--praise the Lord!--it is done!--it is done! The battle is fought and the victory won! They first took the sword, and they fall by the sword; They are scattered and crushed by the hand of the Lord! Lo--torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

GETTYSBURG: CHARGE OF THE FIRST MINNESOTA

[Written for and read at the Camp Fire of the G.A.R. Department of Minnesota, National Encampment of the Grand Army of the Republic, at Minneapolis, June 22, 1884.]