The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems Part 3

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 la.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 ba.s.soon, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 gra.s.s; They found no track in the river sand, Where they thought Wiwaste would surely pa.s.s.

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.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"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 pa.s.sed, 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?