Niagara, an Allegory
An old gray man on a mountain lived,
He had daughters four and one,
And a tall bright lodge of the betula bark
That glittered in the sun.
He lived on the very highest top.
For he was a hunter free,
Where he could spy, on the clearest day,
Gleams of the distant sea.
“Come out! come out!” cried the youngest one;
“Let us off to look at the sea!”
And out they ran, in their gayest robes,
And skipped and ran with glee.
“Come, Su;110 come, Mi;111 come, Hu;112 come, Cla;”113
Cried laughing little Er;114
“Let us go to yonder deep blue sea,
Where the breakers foam and roar.”
And on they scampered by valley and wood,
By earth and air and sky,
Till they came to a steep where the bare rocks stood,
In a precipice mountain high.
“Inya!”115 cried Er, “here’s a dreadful leap!
But we are gone so far,
That, if we flinch and return in fear,
Nos[116] he will cry, ‘Ha! ha!’”
Now, each was clad in a vesture light,
That floated far behind,
With sandals of frozen water drops,
And wings of painted wind.
And down they plunged with a merry skip,
Like birds that skim the plain;
And “Hey!” they cried, “let us up and try,
And down the steep again!”
And up and down the daughters skipped,
Like girls on a holiday,
And laughed outright at the sport and foam
They called Niagara.
If ye would see a sight so rare,
Where Nature’s in her glee,
Go, view the spot in the wide wild West,
The land of the brave and free!
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.
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 pass 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—bloody—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 shores 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’s117 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
Pricks 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 hell.
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 shores,
Or the North God’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 shore.
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.