Anpetusapa
A Legend of St. Anthony Falls
’Tis autumn, and the breezes lift
Their melancholy tones;
’Tis evening: through each passing rift
The stars, like precious stones
In lustrous beauty (clouded soon),
Sweet incense to the sight,
Attend their white-robed mistress moon,
Queen of romantic night.
Anon, as the cloud hosts fly
Before the wind across the sky,
The court of the queen is suddenly seen,
With its pomp sublime and array
Of sparkling and glittering sheen,
More lovely than the light of day,
More glorious than the twilight gleam
That mingles with the sun’s last beam
Where the waves of ocean play.
By the river’s bank a wandering band
Have reared their teepee walls,
Here where the warriors all may stand
And view the mighty falls.
The ivory moon is mounting high,
The lodge fires flicker low,
And slumbering forms are visible by
The embers’ last faint glow,
When lightly steps a youthful brave
Out from the forest ways
Into the star-roofed nave,
Out from the shadowing trees
(Leaves fluttering slow in the slow night breeze)
Into the broad, revealing rays,
Into the silvery glow.
With step as buoyant as the air
He glides above the glistening sward;
The largest, whitest teepee there
Doth seem to center his regard,
For there his unmarked path doth end,
And there his burning glances send
Their passionate lightnings, wild, yet all
Made reverent by the spot on which they fall.
This lodge doth tower
Above the poles on every hand
Like some strange chieftain o’er his band.
Why comes he at this hour?
Hath dark revenge a purpose here?
Shall bloody strife appear
On such a scene? Ah, no! the power
That spurs him hath a softer spell;
For here the tribe’s most cherished flower,
The daughter of the chief, doth dwell.
His deep, rich voice floats down the glade,
In soft, unwonted tones
Like gentle winds through pine-tree cones;
He sings the Warrior’s Serenade;
While at the end of every strain—
With more effect his cause to plead—
He plays a wild and shrill refrain
Upon a flute of rude-cut reed.
Lonely warbling bird of night!
Leave thy bough and perch above
The silent, dewy folds of white
That screen my sleeping love.
Drink the moonlight rays that fall
Pure and mellow, like the beams
Of starry eyes beyond my call,
Far in the land of dreams.
Tell her I am brave and strong;
Tell her I have loved her long;
Singing softly, like a dove,
Tell her all you know of love
I cannot tell in song.
Tell her I am waiting here
At the threshold of her bower;
Winds are lifting far and near
The sweets of every flower,
All the stars are out in state,
Music breathes in every stir,
All of nature seems to wait
For a glimpse of her.
Tell her I am brave and strong;
Tell her I have loved her long;
Singing softly like a dove,
Tell her all you know of love
I cannot tell in song.
Is it the wind that swings apart
The deerskin door from the lodge away?
Is it a sudden leap of his heart
That makes too vivid fancy play?
Or is it a nut-brown arm that holds
The trembling folds,
And are those liquid eyes that shine
Like diamonds fine?
Sing on, sing on, bold youth,
And hope shall lead thee to the truth!
She is lovelier than the sky,
Sweeter than the freshest bud,
I can no longer wait and sigh
Here in the moonlight flood;
All my heart is at her feet,
All my strength at her behest;
O sing, and bid her come to greet
The one who loves her best!
Tell her I am brave and strong;
Tell her I have loved her long;
Singing softly, like a dove,
Tell her all you know of love
I cannot tell in song.
His manly voice entreating calls
As softly as the dewdrop falls.
He ceases, and the night winds hush
As if they too had waited long;
The organ river’s chanting rush
Seems but an echo of his song.
And shall he wait and plead in vain?
Ah, no! love is not always pain;
For see, the folds are drawn aside,
And dimly there may be descried
A shadowy form of shadowy grace,
That halts while still in gloom arrayed,
With eyes that light the tawny face
And tresses darker than the shade.
O spell of song! O power and thrill
Of love! O dream that sways
The blood of youth, that feels no chill
Till love betrays!
O hark! ye sprites that haunt this time,—
This quiet moon-lit hour,
When Cupid weaves, in every clime,
His web of subtlest power,—
O, can ye hear, and not rejoice,
The music of a maiden’s voice?
“Anpetusapa’s glance would meet
The night bird that can sing so sweet.”
With what a bounding stride he goes!
With what a light his dark eye glows!
With what a look he seeks to fire
Those gentle eyes with his desire!
“O multiply what voice reveals;
The bird can sing not half it feels!
Too deep, too deep, to tell in words,
And even too sweet for song of birds,
Is passion like this heart of mine
Doth feel for thine!”
She lightly steps into the light,
She gently lifts her gentle eyes,
She flies not, though her heart takes flight
And soars without disguise.
“I know thee; thou art strong and tall,
Thy fearless deeds are known to all.
O may this eve be not more fair
Than life to thee, is all my prayer.”
His mighty sinews, sternly trained,
Are now with manly grace restrained,
And the fortunate touch of a fairy’s wand
Far ruder would seem than the touch of his hand;
And the light of his eye like a streamlet doth flow
Where passion and tenderness mingle and flash
On the dancing ripples, whose murmuring low
From his lips seem to dash
A faithful, harmonious echo:
“Of happiness all my life will tell
If thou in my lodge doth dwell.
Oh! couldst thou but know
The new, the glad, the tender glow
That warms my heart, so fiercely brave
When breasting battle’s fiercest wave—
Couldst thou but feel it pulse and bound
Whene’er my ear is charmed to hear
Thy gentle tongue’s melodious sound—
Couldst thou but see how these fond eyes
Rejoice to look upon thy face
When like a dream before them rise
Thy matchless form and wondrous grace—
How deeply, thirstily they drink
Thy dew-bright eyes, whose flashing glance
Doth like a luring firefly dance
(Along an island’s shadowy brink
Where rippling waters, restless waters,
Sing their low, unchanging song
Upon the pebbles all night long).
Thou art a flower whose smile hath made
A sunbeam pierce the forest shade;
Thou art a rose that fragrant grows
To beautify the darksome glade
And sweeten every breeze that blows.
Anpetusapa! wilt thou give
The promise that shall make me live
As I have never lived before?
I love thee, and the powers divine
Shall teach thy heart to pulse with mine,
And bless our union evermore
While moons shall pass or starlight shine.”
The guardian bosom of her lover
Serves well her modest blush to cover;
Her willowy arms about him twine
As closely as the greenwood vine
Doth hang upon the towering oak,
That holds it safe from every stroke
And proudly shelters the delicate form
From all the buffets of the storm.
The moon and every heavenly gem
Now seem to shine alone for them.
O Time! why must thou speed away?
For knowest thou not that present joy
Bears no increase for such as they,
For whom all change must bring alloy?
And thou, young Love! canst thou not make
A lonely Eden for their sake?
’Tis better that but two should find
Gladness of heart and peace of mind,
Than all the greater sum of life—
With burning hearts that fates unbind
And crowding thoughts that gender strife.
But no, the gift of life is one
Of strangest form, of blended tints
And crossing lines, with mingled hints
Of glory from an unseen sun;
And shades that hourly darker grow
For those who seek that sun to know;—
And they must take the whole or none.
So they must wake to memory
Of other things, so they must be
Reminded of the powers that hold
Their future lives, to rule and mold.
“Anpetusapa need not name
The glory of her father’s fame;
He is a mighty chief, and none
Too quickly will he choose a son.”
“O fear not, my blossom,
For he shall not see
The flower of his bosom
Mismated with me.
Where war-whoops are sounding
Their blood-stirring call,
There I shall go bounding
The foremost of all.
When foemen shall fly me
And chiefs call me brave,
He will not deny me
The boon I shall crave.”
“Yes, thou art brave for one so young;
This voice of mine thy feats hath sung
When from the war-path thou returned
On which thy first renown was earned.
If my poor love can make thy bliss,
My service give the happier life,
All hope shall dwell in one kind kiss
For thine eternal-loving wife.”
“O blessed promise! future bright!
This feeble tongue of mine can never
Reveal how dear thou art to-night,
How cherished thou shalt be forever!”
The chief approved the suitor bold,
And for rich goods his daughter sold.
She thought not of the trade, but went
To her young lord with true content,
And while she dreamed of joy to come
Her heart was full, her lips were dumb;
And day by day her task was wrought,
Each hour with self-denial fraught;
His wants were met, his lodge was trim,
Her patient thoughts were all for him.
The powers divine did seem to bless
The promise of his wild caress;
And so the happy moons flew by,
Till new refulgence filled her sky
When there appeared a baby boy,
Whose laugh o’erflowed her cup of joy;
For this must prove, she could but feel,
A bond between them strong as steel.
Alas, thou too confiding wife,
What clouds were gathering o’er thy life!
For vanity alone will stay
With human nature to the last;
Each happy day will slip away
Into the valleys of the past,
Returning but a ghostly thing
When the spirit drinks at Memory’s spring.
Why did he vow to cherish ever?
Or why allow his heart to change?
What maid was she who came to sever
Thy love and thee? What magic strange
Had she to work her strange endeavor?
What mind shall solve the mystery
Of loves that come and loves that flee?
Why should Anpetusapa give
Her heart’s whole life, her richest treasure,
To one whose boasted flame could live
Through but a dozen moons’ small measure;
Whose passion was for selfish pleasure?
Yet so it was; another came
Her heart to cloud, her place to claim.
Her lodge became another’s nest;
The first wife, she was second now;
’Neath custom’s yoke compelled to bow
And see her rival fondly pressed.
The death gloom settled on her brow,
Day brought no sun, the night no rest.
The beam of sadness lit her eye,
And memories that could never die
Until her body, void of breath,
Became the precious spoil of Death.
Morn after morn beheld her still
Slow sinking, like a mountain rill
Whose fountain-head, once bubbling bright,
Hath dried away, and left the white
And pulseless sand to mark where long
Began the sparkle and the song.
One joy alone was left to bring
The heart-swept thrill of other days,
When to her baby she would sing
Her lullaby of love and praise;
And this, even this, renewed the thought
Of joyous hopes that came to naught.
Betrayed by faith, yet faithful to the last,
She murmured not; but patiently she passed
Each day in kindly service, given
As if her heart were all unriven,
Until at length heroic strength
Could bear no more.
Upon the shore
Of wild Messipi’s plunging flood,
Where they were camped so long before,
They camped again; again their blood
Marched to the music of its roar.
’Tis morning: every bird its matin sings
And beats the air with throbbing wings,
The air so sweet and quick; the glistening dew
Hangs crystal beauty on all verdant things,—
Each trembling drop reflecting true
The overspread, unclouded blue;
While from the east the cohorts of the sun
With dazzling spears begin to strew
The morning vapors, damp and dun,
Whose melting ranks are closed anew
To vanish where the rapid waters run.
Anpetusapa hides her woe
Until her husband and her foe
Have left the lodge and gone from sight.
Then with a tearless eye and bright,
She gazes madly round the place
Where every comfort bears the trace
Of wifely labor wrought with pain,
Of woman’s love that lives in vain.
Here moccasins lie with bead-work gay;
Here on the wall the breezes sway
The music-breathing flute,
Whose lips are dry and mute,
While she who once inspired its tone
Now sits despairing and alone.
The very curls of smoke that rise
And mingle with the morning skies,
Are tokens of the duties done
Beneath the red eye of the rising sun.
Awhile she sits in cruel thought,
Till, with her anguish overwrought,
She flies to him who sweetly bears
The image of her faithless god,
And on each infant feature wears
The smiling hopes on which he trod.
Convulsively she clasps her child,
Whose love, alone left undefiled,
Is not enough to nerve her soul
Beneath its crushing weight of dole.
She listens to the roaring water,
Whose voice she heard in music grand
When she was but the old chief’s daughter,
When love such wondrous fortunes planned;
And ruthless phantoms of the past
Across her mind are flitting fast,
Each with a keen, envenomed dart
That poisons brain and tortures heart.
With breath too quick to lift a sigh,
With marble firmness on her brow,
With glassy wildness in her eye,
She seeks the river’s margin now.
She springs into a birch canoe,
All beaded with the morning dew,
And clasping close her mother’s pride,
Soon gains the middle of the tide.
O hark! thou selfish one who gave
Embrace more treacherous than the wave:
Does not her song which mounts the air
Reproach thee with its grand despair?
Why dost thou hurry to the river?
Why dost thou call, why dost thou shiver,
While she whom thou hast driven away
Is bold amidst the chilly spray?
What good is all thy vain remorse?
Thinkst thou from jaws of death to force
A sacrifice so lightly thrust
Upon the altar of thy lust?
A host like thee could nothing urge
To meet one tone of her sad dirge:
My heart cannot live without loving;
My heart cannot give up its own;
No more will I linger with sorrow,
But follow the joys that have flown;
With Death I will rest me to-morrow
On a kind, dreamless bed of stone.
I fear not the rush of the water,
For me all its terrors are vain;
It cannot bring less than gladness,
For it banishes all my pain;
I will sink with my burden of sadness
And mix with the earth again.
My baby, my darling, my blossom,
Nor anguish nor falsehood shall know;
Together we cleave the wild billow—
Unfaltering together we go
To rest on the same rocky pillow,
To slumber and mingle below.
Plunging on the sunlit stream,
The frail canoe, with trembling leaps,
Hurries toward the mists that gleam
To veil the awful steeps.
What need has she for any veil?
Despairing eyes will never quail!
See, now upon the glowing crest,
Where clouds of spray beneath her lie,
She clasps her boy upon her breast,
She gazes on the cloudless sky,
And in its blue depth seems to see
Death, robed in peaceful purity;
Then down into the boiling tomb
That makes for her the happiest doom.
How strange that peace should thus be found
Amid such tumult-breathing sound!
To leap from life and light, and find
A darkness sweeter to the mind!
Long shall the mists of morning show
The spirit of her who long ago
Wrapped them round her wearily—
A victim of love and treachery.
Long shall her mournful death-song find
An echo in the moaning wind;
Long shall Dahkota legend bind
That echo with the roaring falls,
The ancient, foam-crowned, giant falls,
Whose voice so oft hath given
The welcome of its watery halls,
That lead the soul, when the Great Spirit calls,
To the hunting-grounds of heaven.
And though a child of the forest dark
Weary of life would here embark,
As to a portal hither comes,—
And yet who may not pass this way
Into eternal joy and day,—
The water hides and soon benumbs
The sorrow, and the cadence deep
Becomes a lullaby to hush
The spirit to its endless sleep
Beneath the surging rush,
Beneath the shrouding spray,
Where the tireless waters sweep
To their wild, unpausing leap—
Then fly to the South away!
The flood is cold, but the heart is bold
When the future that lives new sorrow gives;
And within the chamber halls
Of the grand and solemn falls
May be found a sleep so sweet and deep
That its darkness never palls,
While ages pass with silent creep.
Time hath no tooth to tear
The heart whose pulse is dead,
And sorrow may live in the air
But not in the river-bed!
I ween all peacefully there
Is pillowed forever the head
Of a woman whose heart was fair,
Though her cheeks were dusky red.