The Myth of Hiawatha, and Other Oral Legends, Mythologic and Allegoric, of the North American Indians Part 21

The Star Family 335

Song of the Wolf-Brother 339

Abbinochi 341

To Pauguk 342

NOTES.

THE PIBBIGWUN.[107]

I ope my voice, not with the organ's tone, Deep, solemn and majestic; not with sounds Of trump or drum, that cheer armed squadrons on, In coats of steel, o'er lines of b.l.o.o.d.y grounds, Nor is my tone, the tone of rushing storms, That sweep in mad career through forests tall, Up-tearing gnarled oaks, with sounds of h.e.l.lish forms, That bode destruction black, and death to all.

Nor is it yet the screaming warrior, loud, With hand upraised to mouth, hyena-strong, That tells of midnight onrush, h.e.l.l-endowed, And bleeding scalp of aged, mild and young.

Ah no! it is a note that's only blown, Where kindness fills the heart, and every thrill Is peace and love, while music's softer tone Steals on the evening air, its simple aims to fill, Waking the female ear to carols of the Pibbigwun.

[107] Indian flute.

THE CHIPPEWA GIRL.

They tell me, the men with a white-white face Belong to a purer, n.o.bler race; But why, if they do, and it may be so, Do their tongues cry, "Yes"--and their actions, "No?"

They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue, And it may be so, but the sky is blue; And the first of men--as our old men say, Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.

But throughout my life, I've heard it said, There's nothing surpa.s.ses a tint of red; Oh, the white man's cheeks look pale and sad, Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.

Then let them talk of their race divine, Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine; Give me a lodge, like my fathers had, And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.

DOUBT.

Ninimosha,[108] think'st thou of me, When beneath the forest tree?

Do'st thou in the pa.s.sing wind, Catch the sighs I've cast behind?

Ah! I fear--I fear--I fear, Evil bird hath filled thine ear.

Ninimosha, in the clear blue sky, Canst thou read my constancy, Or in whispering branches near, Aught from thy true lover hear?

Ah! I fear--I fear--I fear, Evil bird hath filled thine ear.

[108] My sweetheart.

FAIRY WHISPERINGS.

Supposed to be addressed to, and responded by a young pine-tree, in a state of transformation.

INVOCATION.

Spirit of the dancing leaves, Hear a throbbing heart that grieves, Not for joys this world can give, But the life that spirits live: Spirit of the foaming billow, Visit thou my nightly pillow, Shedding o'er it silver dreams, Of the mountain brooks and streams, Sunny glades, and golden hours, Such as suit thy buoyant powers: Spirit of the starry night, Pencil out thy fleecy light, That my footprints still my lead To the blush-let Miscodeed,[109]

Or the flower to pa.s.sion true Yielding free its carmine hue: Spirit of the morning dawn, Waft thy fleecy columns on, Snowy white, or tender blue, Such as brave men love to view.

Spirit of the greenwood plume, Shed around thy leaf perfume, Such as springs from buds of gold Which thy tiny hands unfold.

Spirits, hither quick repair, Hear a maiden's evening prayer.

[109] Claytonia Virginica.

RESPONSE.

Maiden, think me not a tree, But thine own dear lover free, Tall and youthful in my bloom With the bright green nodding plume.

Thou art leaning on my breast, Lean forever there, and rest!

Fly from man, that b.l.o.o.d.y race, Pards, a.s.sa.s.sins, bold and base; Quit their dim, and false parade For the quiet lonely shade.

Leave the windy birchen cot For my own light happy lot; O'er thee I my veil will fling, Light as beetle's silken wing; I will breathe perfume of flowers, O'er thy happy evening hours; I will in my sh.e.l.l canoe Waft thee o'er the waters blue; I will deck thy mantle fold, With the sun's last rays of gold.

Come, and on the mountain free Rove a fairy bright with me.

SONG OF THE OPECHEE, THE ROBIN.

The Chippewas relate that the robin originated from a youth who was subjected to too severe a task of fasting.

In the boundless woods there are berries of red, And fruits of a beautiful blue, Where, by nature's own hand, the sweet singers are fed, And to nature they ever are true.

We go not with arrow and bow to the field, Like men of the fierce ruddy race, To take away lives which they never can give, And revel the lords of the chase.

If danger approaches, with instant alarm We fly to our own leafy woods, And there, with an innocent carol and charm, We sing to our dear little broods.

At morning we sally in quest of the grain Kind nature in plenty supplies, We skip o'er the beautiful wide-stretching plain, And sport in the vault of the skies.

At evening we perch in some neighboring tree To carol our evening adieu, And feel, although man a.s.sert he is free, We only have liberty true.

We sing out our praises to G.o.d and to man, We live as heaven taught us to live, And I would not change back to mortality's plan For all that the mortal can give.

Here ceased the sweet singer; then pluming his breast, He winged the blue firmament free, Repeating, as homeward he flew to his rest, Tshee-ree-lee--Tshee-ree-lee--Tshee-ree-lee!