The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886 Part 55

_Enter_ LEFROY.

_Lefroy._ What tidings have you glean'd of Iena?

_Tec.u.mseh._ My brother meant to wed her to Tarhay-- The chief who led his warriors to ruin; But, in the gloom and tumult of the night, She fled into the forest all alone.

_Lefroy._ Alone! In the wide forest all alone!

Angels are with her now, for she is dead.

_Tec.u.mseh._ You know her to be skilful with the bow.

'Tis certain she would strike for some great Lake-- Erie or Michigan. At the Detroit Are people of our nation, and perchance She fled for shelter there. I go at once To join the British force. [_Exit_ TEc.u.mSEH.

_Lefroy._ But yesterday I climb'd to Heaven upon the shining stairs Of love and hope, and here am quite cast down.

My little flower amidst a weedy world, Where art thou now? In deepest forest shade?

Or onward, where the sumach stands array'd In autumn splendor, its alluring form Fruited, yet odious with the hidden worm?

Or, farther, by some still sequester'd lake, Loon-haunted, where the sinewy panthers slake Their noon-day thirst, and never voice is heard Joyous of singing waters, breeze or bird, Save their wild wailings.--[_A halloo without._] 'Tis Tec.u.mseh calls!

Oh Iena! If dead, where'er thou art-- Thy saddest grave will be this ruin'd heart! [_Exit._

FOOTNOTES:

[Q] These scenes are enacted at the "Prophet's Town," an Indian village, situated at the junction of the Tippecanoe river with the Wabash, the latter a tributary of the Ohio. Tec.u.mseh is gone on a mission to the Southern Indians to induce them to unite in a confederation of all the Indian tribes, leaving his brother, the Prophet, in charge of the tribes already a.s.sembled, having strictly enjoined upon him not to quarrel with the Americans, or Long-Knives, as the Indians called them, during his absence. General Harrison, Governor of Indiana, and commander of the American forces, having learned of Tec.u.mseh's plans, marches to attack the Prophet; but the latter, pretending to be friendly, sends out some chiefs to meet Harrison. By the advice of these chiefs, the Americans encamp on an elevated plateau, near the Prophet's Town,--"a very fitting place,"

to the mind of Harrison's officers, but to the practised eye of Harrison himself, also well fitted for a night attack by the Indians.

He, therefore, very wisely makes all necessary preparations for defence against any sudden attack. Tec.u.mseh has left behind him, under the protection of the Prophet, his wife, Mamatee, and his niece, Iena. He is accompanied on his mission by Lefroy, an English poet-artist, "enamoured of Indian life, and in love with Iena." The Prophet, who is hostile to Lefroy, intends to marry Iena to Tarhay, one of his chiefs, but Mamatee has gone to intercede with her brother-in-law for Iena, and, if possible, to turn him from his purpose.

[R] Tec.u.mseh had long foreseen that nothing but combination could prevent the encroachments of the whites upon the Ohio, and had long been successfully endeavoring to bring about a union of the tribes who inhabited its valley. The Fort Wayne treaties gave a wider scope to his design, and he now originated his great scheme of a federation of the entire red race. In pursuance of this object, his exertions, hitherto very arduous, became almost superhuman. He made repeated journeys, and visited almost every tribe from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes, and even north of them, and far to the west of the Mississippi. In order to further his scheme he took advantage of his brother's growing reputation as a prophet, and allowed him to gain a powerful hold upon the superst.i.tious minds of his people by his preaching and predictions. The Prophet professed to have obtained from the Great Spirit a magic bowl, which possessed miraculous qualities; also a mystic torch, presumably from Nanabush, the keeper of the sacred fire. He a.s.serted that a certain belt, said to make those invulnerable who touched it whilst in his hands, was composed of beans which had grown from his flesh; and this belt was circulated far and wide by Indian runners, finding its way even to the Red River of the North. These, coupled with his oratory and mummeries, greatly enhanced an influence which was possibly added to by a gloomy and saturnine countenance, made more forbidding still by the loss of an eye. Unfortunately for Tec.u.mseh's enterprise, the Prophet was more bent upon personal notoriety than upon the welfare of his people; and, whilst professing the latter, indulged his ambition, in Tec.u.mseh's absence, by a precipitate attack upon Harrison's force on the Tippecanoe. His defeat discredited his a.s.sumption of supernatural powers, led to distrust and defection, and wrecked Tec.u.mseh's plan of independent action. But the protection of his people was Tec.u.mseh's sole ambition; and, true statesman that he was, he joined the British at Amherstburg (Fort Malden), in Upper Canada, with a large force, and in the summer of 1812 began that series of services to the British interest which has made his name a household word in Canada, and endeared him to the Canadian heart.--_From_ AUTHOR'S NOTE.

CV. THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS.

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.--1849-

"Out in the meadows the young gra.s.s springs, Shivering with sap," said the larks, "and we Shoot into air with our strong young wings Spirally up over level and lea; Come, O Swallows, and fly with us Now that horizons are luminous!

Evening and morning the world of light, Spreading and kindling, is infinite!"

Far away, by the sea in the south, The hills of olive and slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, Under the heavens that beam and burn; And all the swallows were gather'd there Flitting about in the fragrant air, And heard no sound from the larks, but flew Flashing under the blinding blue.

Out of the depths of their soft rich throats Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said: "Musical thought in the mild air floats, Spring is coming and winter is dead!

Come, O Swallows, and stir the air, For the buds are all bursting unaware, And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long To hear the sound of your low sweet song."

Over the roofs of the white Algiers, Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar, Flitted the swallows, and not one hears The call of the thrushes from far, from far; Sigh'd the thrushes; then, all at once, Broke out singing the old sweet tones, Singing the bridal of sap and shoot, The tree's slow life between root and fruit.

But just when the dingles of April flowers Shine with the earliest daffodils, When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils,-- Deep in the leaf.a.ge the cuckoo cried, Perch'd on a spray by a rivulet-side, "Swallows, O Swallows, come back again To swoop and herald the April rain."

And something awoke in the slumbering heart Of the alien birds in their African air, And they paused, and alighted, and twitter'd apart, And met in the broad white dreamy square; And the sad slave woman, who lifted up From the fountain her broad-lipp'd earthen cup, Said to herself, with a weary sigh, "To-morrow the swallows will northward fly!"

CVI. DAWN ANGELS.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.--1856-

All night I watch'd, awake, for morning: At last the East grew all aflame, The birds for welcome sang, or warning, And with their singing morning came.

Along the gold-green heavens drifted Pale wandering souls that shun the light, Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted, Had beat the bars of Heaven all night.

These cl.u.s.ter'd round the Moon; but higher A troop of shining spirits went, Who were not made of wind or fire, But some divine dream-element.

Some held the Light, while those remaining Shook out their harvest-color'd wings, A faint unusual music raining (Whose sound was Light) on earthly things.

They sang, and as a mighty river Their voices wash'd the night away: From East to West ran one white shiver, And waxen strong their song was Day.

CVII. LE ROI EST MORT.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

And shall I weep that Love's no more, And magnify his reign?

Sure never mortal man before Would have his grief again.

Farewell the long-continued ache, The days a-dream, the nights awake, I will rejoice and merry make, And never more complain.

King Love is dead and gone for aye, Who ruled with might and main, For with a bitter word one day, I found my tyrant slain, And he in Heathenesse was bred, Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said, Nor is of any creed, and dead Can never rise again.

CVIII. TO WINTER.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.--1859-

Ruling with an iron hand O'er the intermediate land 'Twixt the plains of rich completeness, And the realms of budding sweetness, Winter! from thy crystal throne, With a keenness all thy own Dartest thou, through gleaming air, O'er the glorious barren glare Of thy sunlit wildernesses, Thine undazzled level glances, Where thy minions' silver tresses Stream among their icy lances; While thy universal breathing, Frozen to a radiant swathing For the trees, their bareness hides, And upon their sunward sides Shines and flushes rosily To the chill pink morning sky.

Skilful artists thou employest, And in chastest beauty joyest-- Forms most delicate, pure, and clear, Frost-caught starbeams fallen sheer In the night, and woven here In jewel-fretted tapestries.

But what magic melodies, As in the bord'ring realms are throbbing, Hast thou, Winter?--Liquid sobbing Brooks, and brawling waterfalls, Whose responsive-voiced calls Clothe with harmony the hills, Gurgling meadow-threading rills, Lakelets' lisping wavelets lapping Round a flock of wild ducks napping, And the rapturous-noted wooings, And the molten-throated cooings, Of the amorous mult.i.tudes Flashing through the dusky woods, When a veering wind hath blown A glare of sudden daylight down?-- Naught of these!--And fewer notes Hath the wind alone that floats Over naked trees and snows; Half its minstrelsy it owes To its orchestra of leaves.

Ay! weak the meshes music weaves For thy snared soul's delight, 'Less, when thou dost lie at night 'Neath the star-sown heavens bright, To thy sin-unchoked ears Some dim harmonies may pierce From the high-consulting spheres: 'Less the silent sunrise sing Like a vibrant silver string When its prison'd splendors first O'er the crusted snow-fields burst.

But thy days the silence keep, Save for grosbeaks' feeble cheep, Or for snow-birds' busy twitter When thy breath is very bitter.

So my spirit often acheth For the melodies it lacketh 'Neath thy sway, or cannot hear For its mortal-cloaked ear.

And full thirstily it longeth For the beauty that belongeth To the Autumn's ripe fulfilling;-- Heaped orchard-baskets spilling 'Neath the laughter-shaken trees; Fields of buckwheat full of bees, Girt with ancient groves of fir Shod with berried juniper; Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves; Heavy-headed nodding sheaves; Clumps of luscious blackberries; Purple-cl.u.s.ter'd traceries Of the cottage climbing-vines; Scarlet-fruited eglantines; Maple forests all aflame When thy sharp-tongued legates came.

Ruler with an iron hand O'er an intermediate land!

Glad am I thy realm is border'd By the plains more richly order'd,-- Stock'd with sweeter-glowing forms,-- Where the prison'd brightness warms In lush crimsons through the leaves, And a gorgeous legend weaves.