The Myth Of The Hiawatha Part 9

But mark-their shapes are only seen In Fancy's deepest play; But she plainly shows their wings and feet In the dancing sunny spray.

CHILEELI.

The Chippewas relate that the spirit of a young lover, who was killed in battle, determined to return to his affianced maid, in the shape of a bird, and console her by his songs. He found her in a chosen retreat, where she daily resorted to pa.s.s her pensive hours.

Stay not here-the men are base, I have found a happier place, Where no war, or want severe, Haunts the mind with thoughts of fear; Men are cruel-b.l.o.o.d.y-cold, Seeking like lynx the rabbit's wold, Not to guard from winds or drought, But to suck its life's blood out.

Stay not here-oh, stay not here, 'Tis a world of want and fear.

I have found those happy plains, Where the blissful Spirit reigns, Such, as by our wise men old, All our fathers have foretold.

Streams of sparkling waters flow, Pure and clear, with silver glow; Woods and shady groves abound, Long sweet lawns and painted ground; Lakes, in winding sh.o.r.es extend, Fruits, with flowers, inviting blend; While, throughout the green-wood groves, Gayest birds sing out their loves.

Stay not here, my trustful maid, 'Tis a world for robbers made.

I will lead you, soul of love, To those flowery haunts above, Where no tears or pain are found- Where no war-cry shakes the ground; Where no mother hangs her head, Crying: "Oh, my child is dead!"

Where no human blood is spilt, Where there is no pain, or guilt; But the new-freed spirit roves Round and round, in paths of loves.

Pauguk's[117] not admitted there, Blue the skies, and sweet the air; There are no diseases there; There no famished eyeball rolls, Sickness cannot harm the souls; Hunger is not there a guest, Souls are not with hunger press'd, All are happy, all are blest.

Rife the joys our fathers sought, Sweet to eye and ear and thought, Stay not here, my weeping maid, 'Tis a world in glooms arrayed.

Wishes there, all wants supply, Wants of hand, and heart, and eye; Labor is not known-that thorn p.r.i.c.ks not there, at night or morn, As it goads frail mortals here, With its pain, and toil, and fear; Shadows typical and fair, Fill the woods, the fields, the air, Stately deer, the forests fill, Just to have them is to will; Birds walk kindly from the lakes, And whoever wants them, takes; There no drop of blood is drawn, Darts are for an earthy lawn.

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.

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.

I stood upon an eminence, that wide O'erlooked a length of land, where spread The sounding sh.o.r.es of Lake Superior; And at my side there lay a vale Replete with little glens, where oft The Indian wigwam rose, and little fields Of waving corn displayed their ta.s.selled heads.

A stream ran through the vale, and on its marge There grew wild rice, and bending alders dipped Into the tide, and on the rising heights The ever-verdant pine laughed in the breeze.

I turned around, to gaze upon the scenes More perfectly, and there beheld a man Tall and erect, with feathers on his head, And air and step majestic; in his hands Held he a bow and arrows, and he would have pa.s.sed, Intent on other scene, but that I spake to him: "Pray, whither comest thou? and whither goest?"

"My coming," he replied, "is from the Master of Life, The Lord of all things, and I go at his commands."

"Then why," I further parleyed, "since thou art So much the friend of Him, whom white men seek By prayer and rite so fervently to obey-why, tell, Art thou so oft in want of e'en a meal To satisfy the cravings of a man? Why cast abroad To live in wilds, where oft the scantiest shapes Of foot and wing must fill thy board, while pallid hunger strays With hideous shouts, by mountain, vale, and stream?"

"The Great Spirit," he replied, "hath not alike Made all men; or, if once alike, the force of climes, And wants and wanderings have estranged them quite.

To me, and to my kind, forest, and lake, and wood, The rising mountain, and the drawn-out stream That sweeps, meandering, through wild ranges vast, Possess a charm no marble halls can give.

We rove, as winds escaped the Master's fists- Now, sweeping over beds of prairie flowers- Now, dallying on the tops of leafy trees, Or murmuring in the corn-fields, and, when tired With roving, we lie down on beds where springs The simple wild flower, and some shreds of bark, Plucked from the white, white birch, defends our heads, And hides us from the blue ethereal skies, Where, in his sovereign majesty, this Spirit rules; Now, casting lightning from his glowing eyes- Now, uttering thunder with his mighty voice.

"To you, engendered in another clime Of which our fathers knew not, he hath given Arts, arms, and skill we know not, or if ever knew, Have quite forgot. Your hands are thickened up With toils of field and shop, where whirring wheels resound, And hammers clink. The anvil and the plough Belong to you; the very ox construes your speech, And turns him to obey you. All this toil We deem a slavery too heavy to be borne, And which our tribes revolt at. Oft we stand To view the reeking smith, who pounds his iron With blow on blow, to fit it for the beast That drags your ploughshares through the rooty soil.

The very streams-bright ribbons of the woods!-are yoked, And made to turn your mills, and grind your corn; And yet this progress stays not in its toils To alter nature and pervert her plans.

Steam drags your vessels now, that once Leapt in their beauty by the winds of heaven.

Some subtle principle ye find in fire, And with a cunning art fit rattling cars To run on strips of iron, with scream and clang That seem symbolic of an angry power Which dwells below, and is infernal called.

The war-crowned lightning skips from pole to pole On strings of iron, to haste with quick intelligence.

"Once, nature could be hid, and fondly think She had some jewels in the earth, but now ye dig Into her very bowels, to recover morsels sweet She erst with deglut.i.tion had drawn in. The rocks Your toils dissolve, to find perchance some treasure Lying there. Is yonder land of gold alone Your care? Observe along these sh.o.r.es The wheezing engine clank-the stamper ring.

Once, hawks and eagles here pursued their prey, But now the white man ravens more than they.

No! give me but my water and G.o.d's meats, And take your cares, your riches, and your thrones.

What the Great Spirit gives, I take with joy, And scorn those gains which nothing can content.

"Drudge ye, and grind ye, white man! make your pence, And store your purses with the shining poison.

It was not Manito who made this trash To curse the human race, but Vatipa the black, Who rules below-he changed the blood of innocence And tears of pity into gold, and strewed it wide O'er lands where still the murderer digs And the deceptious delve, to find the c.o.c.kle out And pick it up, but laughs the while to see What fools they are, and how himself has foiled The Spirit of Good, that made mankind Erst friends and brothers. Scanty is my food, But that sweet bird, chileelee, blue of wing, Sings songs of peace within the wild-wood dell And round the enchanted sh.o.r.es of these blue seas- Not long, perhaps, our own-which tell me of a rest In far-off lands-the islands of the blest!"

THE SKELETON WRAPPED IN GOLD.

In digging, in 1854, a railroad in Chili, seventy feet below the surface, in a sandy plain, which had been an ancient graveyard, an Indian skeleton, wrapped in a sheet of solid gold, rolled into the excavation. Its appearance denoted an ancient Inca, of the Atacama period.

The Indian laid in his shroud of gold, Where his friends had kindly bound him; For, in their raid so strong and bold, The Spaniards had never found him.

Kind guardian spirits had watched him there, From ages long-long faded, Embalmed with gems and spices rare, And in folds of sweet gra.s.s braided.

And priestly rites were duly done, And hymns upraised to bless him, And that gold mantle of the sun, Put on, as a monarch to dress him.

"Sleep on," they said, in whispers low, "Nor fear the white man's coming, For we have put no glyph to show, The spot of thy entombing.

"Inca, thy warfare here is done, Each bitter scene or tender, Go to thy sire, the shining Sun, In kingly garb and splendor.

"Earth hath no honors thou hast not, Brave, wise, in every station, Or battle, temple, council, cot, Beloved of all thy nation.

"Take thou this wand of magic might, With signet-jewels glowing, As heralds to the G.o.d of Light, Where, father, thou art going.

"A thousand years the charm shall last, The charm of thy ensealment, Till there shall come a spirit vast, To trouble thy concealment."