The Myth of Hiawatha, and Other Oral Legends, Mythologic and Allegoric, of the North American Indians Part 24

Hunters, warriors, chiefs, are there, Plumed and radiant, bright and fair; But they are the ghosts of men, And ne'er mix in wars again; They no longer rove with ire, Wood or wold, or sit by fire; Council called--how best to tear, From the gray-head crown its hair, Dripping with its vital blood, Horror--echoed in the wood.

Stay not here--where horrors dwell, Earth is but a name for h.e.l.l.

Oh, the Indian paradise is sweet, Naught but smiles the gazers meet; All is fair--the sage's breast, Swells with joy to hail each guest-- Comes he, from these sounding sh.o.r.es, Or the North G.o.d's icy stores, Where the shivering children cry, In their snow-cots and bleak sky; Or the far receding south, Burned with heat, and palsied drought, All are welcome--all receive, Gifts great Chibiabos gives.

Stay not, maiden--weep no more, I have found the happy sh.o.r.e.

Come with me, and we will rove, O'er the endless plains of love, Full of flowers, gems, and gold, Where there is no heart that's cold, Where there is no tear to dry In a single human eye.

Stay not here; cold world like this, Death but opes the door to bliss.

ON THE STATE OF THE IROQUOIS, OR SIX NATIONS.

In 1845, the Legislature of New York directed a census of these cantons, which evinced an advanced state of industry.

The lordly Iroquois is tending sheep, Gone are the plumes that decked his brow, For his bold raid, no more the wife shall weep-- He holds the plough.

The bow and quiver which his fathers made; The gun, that filled the warrior's deadliest vow; The mace, the spear, the axe, the ambuscade-- Where are they now?

Mute are the hills that woke his dreadful yell-- Scared nations listen with affright no more; He walks a farmer over field and dell Once red with gore.

Frontlet and wampum, baldric, brand, and knife, Skill of the megalonyx, snake and fox, All now are gone!--transformed to peaceful life-- He drives the ox.

Algon, and Cherokee, and Illinese, No more beneath his stalwort blow shall writhe: Peace spreads her reign wide o'er his inland seas-- He swings the scythe.

Grain now, not men, employs his manly powers; To learn the white man's arts, and skill to rule, For this, his sons and daughters spend their hours-- They go to school.

Glory and fame, that erewhile fired his soul, And nerved for war his ever vengeful arm, Where are your charms his bosom to control?-- He tills a farm.

His war-scar'd visage, paints no more deform-- His garments, made of beaver, deer, and rat, Are now exchanged for woollen doublets warm-- He wears a hat.

His very pipe, surcharged with sacred weed, Once smoked to spirits dreamy, dread and sore, Is laid aside--to think, to plan, to read-- He keeps a store.

This is the law of progress--kindlier arts Have shaped his native energies of mind, And back he comes--from wandering, woods and darts Back to mankind.

His drum and rattles, both are thrown away-- His native altars stand without a blaze,-- Truth, robed in gospel light, hath found her way-- And hark! he prays!

THE LOON'S FOOT.

I thought it was the loon's foot, I saw beneath the tide, But no--it was my lover's shining paddle I espied; It was my lover's paddle, as my glance I upward cast, That dipped so light and gracefully as o'er the lake I pa.s.sed.

The loon's foot--the loon's foot, 'Tis graceful on the sea; But not so light and joyous as That paddle blade to me.

My eyes were bent upon the wave, I cast them not aside, And thought I saw the loon's foot beneath the silver tide.

But ah! my eyes deceived me--for as my glance I cast, It was my lover's paddle blade that dipped so light and fast.

The loon's foot--the loon's foot, 'Tis sweet and fair to see, But oh, my lover's paddle blade, Is sweeter far to me.

The lake's wave--the long wave--the billow big and free, It wafts me up and down, within my yellow light canoe; But while I see beneath heaven pictured as I speed, It is that beauteous paddle blade, that makes it heaven indeed.

The loon's foot--the loon's foot, The bird upon the sea, Ah! it is not so beauteous As that paddle blade to me.

TULCO, PRINCE OF NOTTO.

Tulco, a Cherokee chief, is said to have visited, in 1838, the rotunda, or excavations, under the great mound of Grave Creek, while the Indian antiquities were collected there, and the skeleton found in the lower vault was suspended to the wall, and the exudations of animal matter depended from the roof.

'Tis not enough that hated race Should hunt us out from grove and place, And consecrated sh.o.r.es, where long Our fathers raised the lance and song-- 'Tis not enough that we must go Where unknown streams and fountains flow, Whose murmurs heard amid our fears, Fall only now on foeman's ears-- 'Tis not enough, that with a wand They sweep away our pleasant land, And bid us, as some giant foe, Or willing or unwilling go; But they must ope our very graves, To tell the dead they too are slaves!

And hang their bones upon the wall, To please their gaze and gust of thrall; As if a dead dog from below Were made a jesting-stock and show!

See, from above! the restless dead Peer out, with exudation dread-- That hangs in robes of clammy white, Like clouds upon the inky night; Their very ghosts are in this place, I see them pa.s.s before my face; With frowning brows they whirl around Within this consecrated mound!

Away--away, vile caitiff race, And give the dead their resting-place.

They point--they cry--they bid me smite The Wa-bish-kiz-zee[118] in their sight!

Did Europe come to crush us dead, Because on flying deer we fed, And worshipped G.o.ds of airy forms, Who ride in thunder-clouds, the storms?

Because we use not plough or loom, Is ours a black and bitter doom That has no light--no world of bliss?-- Then is our h.e.l.l commenced in this.

[118] White men.

Nay, it is well--but tell me not The white race now possess the spot, That fury marks my brow, and all I see is but my fancy's pall That glooms my eyes--ah, white man, no!

The woe we taste is solid woe.

Comes then the thought of better things, When we were men, and we were kings.

Men are we now, and still there rolls A monarch's blood in all our souls!

A warrior's fire is in our hearts, Our hands are strong in feathery darts; And let us die as they have died Who are the Indian's boast and pride!

Nor creep to graves, in flying west, Unplumed, dishonored, and unblest!

ON PRESENTING A WILD ROSE

PLUCKED ON THE SOURCES OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

Take thou the rose, though blighted, Its sweetness is not gone, And like the heart, though slighted, In memory it blooms on.

Thy hand its leaves may nourish, Thy smiles its bloom restore; So warmed its buds may flourish, And bloom to life once more.

Yet if they bloom not ever, These thoughts may life impart To hopes I ne'er could sever One moment from my heart.

Oh, then, receive my token, From far-off northern sky, That speech, once kindly spoken, Can never--never die.

THE RED MAN.