The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems Part 5

She hid like a grouse in the meadow-gra.s.s, And moaned--"I am lost!--I am lost! alas, And why did I fly from my native land To die by the cruel Ojibway's hand?"

And on rode the braves. She could hear the steeds Come galloping on o'er the level meads; And lowly she crouched in the waving gra.s.s, And hoped against hope that the braves would pa.s.s.

They have pa.s.sed; she is safe--she is safe!

Ah no! They have struck her trail and the hunters halt.

Like wolves on the track of the bleeding doe, That grappled breaks from the dread a.s.sault, Dash the warriors wild on Wiwaste's trail.

She flies--but what can her flight avail?

Her feet are fleet, but the flying feet Of the steeds of the prairies are fleeter still; And where can she fly for a safe retreat?

But hark to the shouting--"_Iho!--Iho!_"[22]

Rings over the wide plain sharp and shrill.

She halts, and the hunters come riding on; But the horrible fear from her heart is gone, For it is not the shout of the dreaded foe; 'Tis the welcome shout of her native land!

Up galloped the chief of the band, and lo-- The clutched knife dropped from her trembling hand; She uttered a cry and she swooned away; For there, on his steed in the blaze of day, On the boundless prairie so far away, With his polished bow and his feathers gay, Sat the manly form of her own Chaske!

There's a mote in my eye or a blot on the page, And I cannot tell of the joyful greeting; You may take it for granted, and I will engage, There were kisses and tears at the strange, glad meeting; For aye since the birth of the swift-winged years, In the desert drear, in the field of clover, In the cot, in the palace, and all the world over-- Yea, away on the stars to the ultimate spheres, The greeting of love to the long-sought lover-- Is tears and kisses and kisses and tears.

But why did the lover so long delay?

And whitherward rideth the chief to-day?

As he followed the trail of the buffalo, From the _tees_ of _Kapoza_ a maiden, lo, Came running in haste o'er the drifted snow.

She spoke to the chief of the tall _Hohe_: "Wiwaste requests that the brave Chaske Will abide with his band and his coming delay Till the moon when the strawberries are ripe and red, And then will the chief and Wiwaste wed-- When the Feast of the Virgins is past," she said.

Wiwaste's wish was her lover's law; And so his coming the chief delayed Till the mid May blossoms should bloom and fade-- But the lying runner was Harpstina.

And now with the gifts for the bridal day And his chosen warriors he took his way, And followed his heart to his moon-faced maid.

And thus was the lover so long delayed; And so as he rode with his warriors gay, On that bright and beautiful summer day, His bride he met on the trail mid-way.

G.o.d arms the innocent. He is there-- In the desert vast, in the wilderness, On the bellowing sea, in the lion's lair, In the mist of battle, and everywhere.

In his hand he holds with a father's care The tender hearts of the motherless; The maid and the mother in sore distress He shields with his love and his tenderness; He comforts the widowed--the comfortless-- And sweetens her chalice of bitterness; He clothes the naked--the numberless-- His charity covers their nakedness-- And he feeds the famished and fatherless With the hand that feedeth the birds of air.

Let the myriad tongues of the earth confess His infinite love and his holiness; For his pity pities the pitiless, His mercy flows to the merciless; And the countless worlds in the realms above, Revolve in the light of his boundless love.

And what of the lovers? you ask, I trow.

She told him all ere the sun was low-- Why she fled from the Feast to a safe retreat.

She laid her heart at her lover's feet, And her words were tears and her lips were slow.

As she sadly related the bitter tale His face was aflame and anon grew pale, And his dark eyes flashed with a brave desire, Like the midnight gleam of the sacred fire. [65]

"_Mitawin,_"[66] he said, and his voice was low, "Thy father no more is the false Little Crow; But the fairest plume shall Wiwaste wear Of the great _Wanmdee_ in her midnight hair.

In my lodge, in the land of the tall _Hohe_, The robins will sing all the long summer day To the happy bride of the brave Chaske.'"

Aye, love is tested by stress and trial Since the finger of time on the endless dial Began its rounds, and the orbs to move In the boundless vast, and the sunbeams clove The chaos; but only by fate's denial Are fathomed the fathomless depths of love.

Man is the rugged and wrinkled oak, And woman the trusting and tender vine That clasps and climbs till its arms entwine The brawny arms of the st.u.r.dy stock.

The dimpled babes are the flowers divine That the blessing of G.o.d on the vine and oak With their cooing and blossoming lips invoke.

To the pleasant land of the brave _Hohe_ Wiwaste rode with her proud Chaske.

She ruled like a queen in his bountiful _tee_, And the life of the twain was a jubilee Their wee ones climbed on the father's knee, And played with his plumes of the great _Wanmdee_.

The silken threads of the happy years They wove into beautiful robes of love That the spirits wear in the lodge above; And time from the reel of the rolling spheres His silver threads with the raven wove; But never the stain of a mother's tears Soiled the shining web of their happy years.

When the wrinkled mask of the years they wore, And the raven hair of their youth was gray, Their love grew deeper, and more and more; For he was a lover for aye and aye, And ever her beautiful, brave Chaske.

Through the wrinkled mask of the h.o.a.ry years To the loving eyes of the lover aye The blossom of beautiful youth appears.

At last, when their locks were as white as snow, Beloved and honored by all the band, They silently slipped from their lodge below, And walked together, and hand in hand, O'er the Shining Path[68] to the Spirit-land, Where the hills and the meadows for aye and aye Are clad with the verdure and flowers of May, And the unsown prairies of Paradise Yield the golden maize and the sweet wild rice.

There, ever ripe in the groves and prairies, Hang the purple plums and the luscious berries, And the swarthy herds of the bison feed On the sun-lit slope and the waving mead; The dappled fawns from their coverts peep, And countless flocks on the waters sleep; And the silent years with their fingers trace No furrows for aye on the hunter's face.

To the memory of my devoted wife dead and gone yet always with me I dedicate

PAULINE

The Flower of my heart nursed into bloom by her loving care and ofttimes watered with her tears

H.L.G.

PAULINE

_PART I_

INTRODUCTION

Fair morning sat upon the mountain-top, Night skulking crept into the mountain-chasm.

The silent ships slept in the silent bay; One broad blue bent of ether domed the heavens, One broad blue distance lay the shadowy land, One broad blue vast of silence slept the sea.

Now from the dewy groves the joyful birds In carol-concert sang their matin songs Softly and sweetly--full of prayer and praise.

Then silver-chiming, solemn-voiced bells Rung out their music on the morning air, And Lisbon gathered to the festival In chapel and cathedral. Choral hymns And psalms of sea-toned organs mingling rose With sweetest incense floating up to heaven, Bearing the praises of the mult.i.tudes; And all was holy peace and holy happiness.

A rumbling of deep thunders in the deep; The vast sea shuddered and the mountains groaned; Up-heaved the solid earth--the nether rocks Burst--and the sea--the earth--the echoing heavens Thundered infernal ruin. On their knees The trembling mult.i.tudes received the shock, And dumb with sudden terror bowed their heads To toppling spire and plunging wall and dome.

So shook the mighty North the sudden roar Of Treason thundering on the April air-- An earthquake shock that jarred the granite hills And westward rolled against th' eternal walls Rock-built t.i.tanic--for a moment shook: Uprose a giant and with iron hands Grasped his huge hammer, claspt his belt of steel, And o'er the Midgard-monster mighty Thor Loomed for the combat.

Peace--O blessed Peace!

The war-worn veterans hailed thee with a shout Of Alleluias;--homeward wound the trains, And homeward marched the bayonet-bristling columns To "_Hail Columbia_" from a thousand horns-- Marched to the jubilee of chiming bells, Marched to the joyful peals of cannon, marched With blazing banners and victorious songs Into the outstretched arms of love and home.

But there be columns--columns of the dead That slumber on an hundred battle-fields-- No bugle-blast shall waken till the trump Of the Archangel. O the loved and lost!

For them no jubilee of chiming bells; For them no cannon-peal of victory; For them no outstretched arms of love and home.

G.o.d's peace be with them. Heroes who went down, Wearing their stars, live in the nation's songs And stories--there be greater heroes still, That molder in unnumbered nameless graves Erst bleached unburied on the fields of fame Won by their valor. Who will sing of these-- Sing of the patriot-deeds on field and flood-- Of these--the truer heroes--all unsung?

Where sleeps the modest bard in Quaker gray Who blew the pibroch ere the battle lowered, Then pitched his tent upon the balmy beach?

"Snow-bound," I ween, among his native hills.

And where the master hand that swept the lyre Till wrinkled critics cried "Excelsior"?

Gathering the "Aftermath" in frosted fields.

Then, timid Muse, no longer shake thy wings For airy realms and fold again in fear; A broken flight is better than no flight; Be thine the task, as best you may, to sing The deeds of one who sleeps at Gettysburg Among the thousands in a common grave.

The story of his life I bid you tell As it was told one windy winter night To veterans gathered around the festal board, Fighting old battles over where the field Ran red with wine, and all the battle-blare Was merry laughter and the merry songs-- Told when the songs were sung by him who heard The pith of it from the dying soldier's lips-- His Captain--tell it as the Captain told.

THE CAPTAIN'S STORY

"Well, comrades, let us fight one battle more; Let the c.o.c.k crow--we'll guard the camp till morn.

And--since the singers and the merry ones Are _hors de combat_--fill the cups again; Nod if you must, but listen to a tale Romantic--but the warp thereof is truth.

When the old Flag on Sumter's sea-girt walls From its proud perch a fluttering ruin fell, I swore an oath as big as Bunker Hill; For I was younger then, nor battle-scarred, And full of patriot-faith and patriot-fire.