Heyóka Wacípee — The Giant’s Dance16
The night-sun 17 sails in his gold canoe,
The spirits 18 walk in the realms of air
With their glowing faces and flaming hair,
And the shrill, chill winds o’er the prairies blow.
In the Tee 19 of the Council the Virgins light
The Virgin-fire 20 for the feast to-night;
For the Sons of Heyóka will celebrate
The sacred dance to the giant great.
The kettle boils on the blazing fire,
And the flesh is done to the chief’s desire.
With his stoic face to sacred East, 21 He takes his seat at the Giant’s Feast.
For the feast of Heyóka 22 the braves are dressed
With crowns from the bark of the white-birch trees,
And new skin leggins that reach the knees;
With robes of the bison and swarthy bear,
And eagle-plumes in their coal-black hair,
And marvelous rings in their tawny ears,
Which were pierced with the points of their shining spears.
To honor Heyóka, Wakâwa lifts
His fuming pipe from the Red-stone Quarry. 23 The warriors follow. The white cloud drifts
From the Council-lodge to the welkin starry,
Like a fog at morn on the fir-clad hill,
When the meadows are damp and the winds are still.
They dance to the tune of their wild “Ha-ha!”
A warrior’s shout and a raven’s caw—
Circling the pot and the blaming fire
To the tom-tom’s bray and the rude bassoon;
Round and round to their heart’s desire,
And ever the same wild chant and tune—
A warrior’s shout and a raven’s caw—
“Ha-ha,—ha-ha,—ha-ha,—ha!”
They crouch, they leap, and their burning eyes
Flash fierce in the light of the flaming fire,
As fiercer and fiercer and higher and higher
The rude, wild notes of their chant arise.
They cease, they sit, and the curling smoke
Ascends again from their polished pipes,
And upward curls from their swarthy lips
To the God whose favor their hearts invoke.
Then tall Wakâwa arose and said:
“Brave warriors, listen, and give due heed.
Great is Heyóka, the magical god;
He can walk on the air; he can float on the flood.
He’s a worker of magic and wonderful wise;
He cries when he laughs and he laughs when he cries;
He sweats when he’s cold, and he shivers when hot,
And the water is cold in his boiling pot.
He hides in the earth and he walks in disguise,
But he loves the brave and their sacrifice.
We are sons of Heyóka. The Giant commands
In the boiling water to thrust our hands;
And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire
Heyóka will crown with his hearts desire.”
They thrust their hands in the boiling pot;
They swallow the bison meat steaming hot,
Not a wince on their stoical faces bold.
For the meat and the water, they say, are cold,
And great is Heyóka and wonderful wise;
He floats on the flood and he walks in the skies,
And ever appears in a strange disguise;
But he loves the brave and their sacrifice;
And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire
Heyóka will crown with his heart’s desire.
Proud was the chief of his warriors proud,
The sinewy sons of the Giant’s race;
But the bravest of all was the tall Red Cloud;
The eyes of the panther were set in his face;
He strode like a stag and he stood like a pine;
Ten feathers he wore at the great Wanmdeé; 13 With crimsoned quills of the porcupine
His leggins were worked to his brawny knee.
Blood-red were the stripes on his swarthy cheek,
And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck
Was the polished claws of the great Mató 14 He grappled and slew in the northern snow.
Proud Red Cloud turned to the braves and said,
As he shook the plumes on his haughty head:
“Ho! the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire
Heyóka will crown with his heart’s desire!”
He snatched from the embers a red-hot brand,
And held it aloft in his naked hand.
He stood like a statue in bronze or stone,—
Not a muscle moved, and the braves looked on.
He turned to the chieftain,—“I scorn the fire,—
Ten feathers I wear of the great Wanmdeé;
Then grant me, Wakâwa, my heart’s desire;
Let the sunlight shine in my lonely tee. 19 I laugh at red death and I laugh at red fire;
Brave Red Cloud is only afraid of fear;
But Wiwâstè is fair to his heart and dear;
Then grant him, Wakâwa, his heart’s desire.”
The warriors applauded with loud “Ho! Ho!” 24 And he flung the brand to the drifting snow.
Three times Wakâwa puffed forth the smoke
From his silent lips; then he slowly spoke:
“Mâhpíya is strong as the stout-armed oak
That stands on the bluff by the windy plain,
And laughs at the roar of the hurricane.
He has slain the foe and the great Mató
With his hissing arrow and deadly stroke.
My heart is swift but my tongue is slow.
Let the warrior come to my lodge and smoke;
He may bring the gifts; 25 but the timid doe
May fly from the hunter and say him no.”
Wiwâstè sat late in the lodge alone,
Her dark eyes bent on the glowing fire.
She heard not the wild winds shrill and moan;
She heard not the tall elms toss and groan;
Her face was lit like the harvest moon;
For her thoughts flew far to her heart’s desire.
Far away in the land of the Hóhé 15 dwelt
The warrior she held in her secret heart;
But little he dreamed of the pain she felt,
For she hid her love with a maiden’s art.
Not a tear she shed, not a word she said,
When the fair young chief from the lodge departed;
But she sat on the mound when the day was dead,
And gazed at the full moon mellow hearted.
Fair was the chief as the morning-star;
His eyes were mild and his words were low,
But his heart was stouter than lance or bow;
And her young heart flew to her love afar
O’er his trail long covered with drifted snow.
But she heard a warrior’s stealthy tread,
And the tall Wakâwa appeared, and said—
“Is Wiwâstè afraid of the spirit dread
That fires the sky in the fatal north? 26 Behold the mysterious lights. Come forth
Some evil threatens,—some danger nears,
For the skies are pierced with the burning spears.”
The warriors rally beneath the moon;
They shoot their shafts at the evil spirit.
The spirit is slain and the flame is gone,
And his blood lies red on the snow fields near it.
But again from the dead will the spirit rise,
And flash his spears in the northern skies.
Then the chief and the queenly Wiwâstè stood
Alone in the moon-lit solitude,
And she was silent and he was grave.
“And fears not my daughter the evil spirit?
The strongest warriors and bravest fear it
The burning spears are an evil omen;
They threaten the wrath of a wicked woman,
Or a treacherous foe; but my warriors brave,
When danger nears, or the foe appears,
Are a cloud of arrows,—a grove of spears.”
“My Father,” she said, and her words were low,
“Why should I fear? for I soon will go
To the broad, blue lodge in the Spirit land,
Where my dark eyed mother went long ago,
And my dear twin sisters walk hand in hand.
My Father, listen,—my words are true,”
And sad was her voice as the whippowil
When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill,
“Wiwâstè lingers alone with you,
The rest are sleeping on yonder hill,—
Save one—and he an undutiful son,—
And you, my Father, will sit alone
When Sisóka 27 sings and the snow is gone.
I sat, when the maple leaves were red,
By the foaming falls of the haunted river;
The night sun was walking above my head,
And the arrows shone in his burnished quiver;
And the winds were hushed and the hour was dread
With the walking ghosts of the silent dead.
I heard the voice of the Water-Fairy; 28 I saw her form in the moon-lit mist,
As she sat on a stone with her burden weary,
By the foaming eddies of amethyst.
And robed in her mantle of mist the sprite
Her low wail poured on the silent night.
Then the spirit spake, and the floods were still—
They hushed and listened to what she said,
And hushed was the plaint of the whippowil
In the silver-birches above her head:
‘Wiwâstè,—the prairies are green and fair,
When the robin sings and the whippowil;
But the land of the Spirits is fairer still,
For the winds of winter blow never there;
And forever the songs of the whippowils
And the robins are heard on the leafy hills.
Thy mother looks from her lodge above,—
Her fair face shines in the sky afar,
And the eyes of thy sisters are bright with love,
As they peep from the tee of the mother-star.
To her happy lodge in the spirit-land
She beckons Wiwâstè with shining hand.’
“My Father,—my Father, her words were true;
And the death of Wiwâstè will rest on you.
You have pledged me as wife to the tall Red Cloud;
You will take the gifts of the warrior proud;
But I, Wakâwa,—I answer—never!
I will stain your knife in my heart’s red blood,
I will plunge and sink in the sullen river,
Ere I will be wife to the fierce Red Cloud!”
“Wiwâstè,” he said, and his voice was low,
“Let it be as you will, for Wakâwa’s tongue
Has spoken no promise;—his lips are slow,
And the love of a father is deep and strong.
Be happy, Micúnksee 29, the flames are gone,—
They flash no more in the Northern sky.
See the smile on the face of the watching moon;
No more will the fatal red arrows fly;
For the singing shafts of my warriors sped
To the bad spirit’s bosom and laid him dead,
And his blood on the snow of the North lies red.
Go,—sleep in the robe that you won to-day,
And dream of your hunter—the brave Chaskè.”
Light was her heart as she turned away;
It sang like the lark in the skies of May.
The round moon laughed, but a lone red star, 30 As she turned to the teepee and entered in,
Fell flashing and swift in the sky afar,
Like the polished point of a javelin.
Nor chief nor daughter the shadow saw
Of the crouching listener—Hârpstinà.
Wiwâstè, wrapped in her robe and sleep
Heard not the storm-sprites wail and weep,
As they rode on the winds in the frosty air;
But she heard the voice of her hunter fair;
For a shadowy spirit with fairy fingers
The curtains drew from the land of dreams;
And lo in her teepee her lover lingers;
The light of love in his dark eye beams,
And his voice is the music of mountain streams.
And then with her round, brown arms she pressed
His phantom form to her throbbing breast,
And whispered the name, in her happy sleep,
Of her Hóhé hunter so fair and far.
And then she saw in her dreams the deep
Where the spirit wailed, and a falling star;
Then stealthily crouching under the trees,
By the light of the moon, the Kan-ó-ti-dan, 31 The little, wizened, mysterious man,
With his long locks tossed by the moaning breeze.
Then a flap of wings, like a thunder-bird, 32 And a wailing spirit the sleeper heard;
And lo, through the mists of the moon, she saw
The hateful visage of Hârpstinà.
But waking she murmured—“And what are these—
The flap of wings and the falling star,
The wailing spirit that’s never at ease,
The little man crouching under the trees,
And the hateful visage of Hârpstinà?
My dreams are like feathers that float on the breeze,
And none can tell what the omens are—
Save the beautiful dream of my love afar
In the happy land of the tall Hóhé 15—
My beautiful hunter—my brave Chaskè.”
“Ta-tânka! Ta-tânka!” 33 the hunters cried,
With a joyous shout at the break of dawn;
And darkly lined on the white hill-side,
A herd of bison went marching on
Through the drifted snow like a caravan.
Swift to their ponies the hunters sped,
And dashed away on the hurried chase.
The wild steeds scented the game ahead,
And sprang like hounds to the eager race.
But the brawny bulls in the swarthy van
Turned their polished horns to the charging foes,
And reckless rider and fleet foot-man
Were held at bay in the drifted snows,
While the bellowing herd o’er the hill-tops ran,
Like the frightened beasts of a caravan
On the Sahara’s sands when the simoon blows.
Sharp were the twangs of the hunters’ bows,
And swift and humming the arrows sped,
Till ten huge bulls on the bloody snows
Lay pierced with arrows and dumb and dead.
But the chief with the flankers had gained the rear,
And flew on the trail of the flying herd.
The shouts of the riders rang loud and clear,
As their frothing steeds to the chase they spurred.
And now like the roar of an avalanche
Rolls the sullen wrath of the maddened bulls.
They charge on the riders and runners stanch,
And a dying steed in the snow-drift rolls,
While the rider, flung to the frozen ground
Escapes the horns by a panther’s bound.
But the raging monsters are held at bay,
While the flankers dash on the swarthy rout.
With lance and arrow they slay and slay;
And the welkin rings to the gladsome shout—
To the loud Inâs and the wild Ihós, 34—
And dark and dead, on the bloody snows,
Lie the swarthy heaps of the buffaloes.
All snug in the teepee Wiwâstè lay,
All wrapped in her robe, at the dawn of day,—
All snug and warm from the wind and snow,
While the hunters followed the buffalo.
Her dreams and her slumber their wild shouts broke;
The chase was afoot when the maid awoke;
She heard the twangs of the hunter’s bows,
And the bellowing bulls and the loud Ihós,
And she murmured—“My hunter is far away
In the happy land of the tall Hóhé—
My beautiful hunter, my brave Chaskè;
But the robins will come and my warrior too,
And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo.”
And long she lay in a reverie,
And dreamed, wide-awake, of her brave Chaskè,
Till a trampling of feet on the crispy snow
She heard, and the murmur of voices low;—
Then the hunters’ greeting—Ihó! Ihó!
And behold, in the blaze of the risen day,
With the hunters that followed the buffalo,—
Came her beautiful hunter—her brave Chaskè.
Far south has he followed the bison-trail
With his band of warriors so brave and true.
Right glad is Wakâwa his friend to hail,
And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo.
Tall and straight as the larch tree stood
The manly form of the brave young chief,
And fair as the larch in its vernal leaf,
When the red fawn bleats in the feathering wood.
Mild was his face as the morning skies,
And friendship shone in his laughing eyes;
But swift were his feet o’er the drifted snow
On the trail of the elk or the buffalo;
And his heart was stouter than lance or bow,
When he heard the whoop of his enemies.
Five feathers he wore of the great Wanmdeè,
And each for the scalp of a warrior slain,
When down on his camp from the northern plain,
With their murder cries rode the bloody Cree. 35 But never the stain of an infant slain,
Or the blood of a mother that plead in vain,
Soiled the honored plumes of the brave Hóhé.
A mountain bear to his enemies,
To his friends like the red fawn’s dappled form;
In peace, like the breeze from the summer seas;
In war, like the roar of the mountain storm.
His fame in the voice of the winds went forth
From his hunting grounds in the happy north,
And far as the shores of the Great Medè 36 The nations spoke of the brave Chaskè.
Dark was the visage of grim Red Cloud,
Fierce were the eyes of the warrior proud,
When the chief to his lodge led the brave Chaskè,
And Wiwâstè smiled on the tall Hóhé.
Away he strode with a sullen frown,
And alone in his teepee he sat him down.
From the gladsome greeting of braves he stole,
And wrapped himself in his gloomy soul.
But the eagle eyes of the Hârpstinà
The clouded face of the warrior saw.
Softly she spoke to the sullen brave:
“Mah-pí-ya Dúta,—his face is sad.
And why is the warrior so glum and grave?
For the fair Wiwâstè is gay and glad.
She will sit in the teepee the live-long day,
And laugh with her lover—the brave Hóhé.
Does the tall Red Cloud for the false one sigh?
There are fairer maidens than she, and proud
Were their hearts to be loved by the brave Red Cloud.
And trust not the chief with the smiling eyes;
His tongue is swift, but his words are lies;
And the proud Mah-pí-ya will surely find
That Wakâwa’s promise is hollow wind.
Last night I stood by his lodge, and lo
I heard the voice of the Little Crow;
But the fox is sly and his words were low.
But I heard her answer her father—“Never!
I will stain your knife in my heart’s red blood,
I will plunge and sink in the sullen river,
Ere I will be wife to the fierce Red Cloud!”
Then he spake again, and his voice was low,
But I heard the answer of Little Crow:
“Let it be as you will, for Wakâwa’s tongue
Has spoken no promise,—his lips are slow,
And the love of a father is deep and strong.”
Mâh-pí-ya Dúta, they scorn your love,
But the false chief covets the warrior’s gifts.
False to his promise the fox will prove,
And fickle as snow in Wo-kâ-da-weè, 37 That slips into brooks when the gray cloud lifts,
Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts.
Mah-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me
There are fairer birds in the bush than she,
And the fairest would gladly be Red Cloud’s wife.
Will the warrior sit like a girl bereft,
When fairer and truer than she are left
That love Red Cloud as they love their life?
Mah-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me
I love him well,—I have loved him long:
A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong,
And a lovelorn brave is a scorn to see.
Mah-pí-ya Dúta, O listen to me!
Revenge is swift and revenge is strong,
And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree.
The proud Red Cloud will revenge his wrong
Let the brave be patient, it is not long
Till the leaves be green on the maple tree,
And the Feast of the Virgins is then to be;—
The Feast of the Virgins is then to be!”
Proudly she turned from the silent brave,
And went her way; but the warrior’s eyes—
They flashed with the flame of a sudden fire,
Like the lights that gleam in the Sacred Cave, 38 When the black night covers the autumn skies,
And the stars from their welkin watch retire.
Three nights he tarried—the brave Chaskè;
Winged were the hours and they flitted away;
On the wings of Wakândee 39 they silently flew,
For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo.
Ah, little he cared for the bison-chase;
For the red lilies bloomed on the fair maid’s face;
Ah, little he cared for the winds that blew,
For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo.
Brown-bosomed she sat on her fox-robe dark,
Her ear to the tales of the brave inclined,
Or tripped from the tee like the song of a lark,
And gathered her hair from the wanton wind.
Ah, little he thought of the leagues of snow
He trode on the trail of the buffalo;
And little he recked of the hurricanes
That swept the snow from the frozen plains
And piled the banks of the Bloody River. 40 His bow unstrung and forgotten hung
With his beaver hood and his otter quiver;
He sat spell-bound by the artless grace
Of her star-lit eyes and her moon-lit face.
Ah, little he cared for the storms that blew,
For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo.
When he spoke with Wakâwa her sidelong eyes
Sought the handsome chief in his hunter-guise.
Wakâwa marked, and the lilies fair
On her round cheeks spread to her raven hair.
They feasted on rib of the bison fat,
On the tongue of the Ta 41 that the hunters prize,
On the savory flesh of the red Hogân, 42 On sweet tipsânna 43 and pemmican,
And the dun-brown cakes of the golden maize;
And hour after hour the young chief sat,
And feasted his soul on the maiden’s eyes.
The sweeter the moments the swifter they fly;
Love takes no account of the fleeting hours;
He walks in a dream mid the blooming of flowers,
And never awakes till the blossoms die.
Ah, lovers are lovers the wide world over—
In the hunter’s lodge and the royal palace.
Sweet are the lips of his love to the lover,—
Sweet as new wine in a golden chalice,
From the Tajo’s 44 slopes or the hills beyond;
And blindly he sips from his loved one’s lips,
In lodge or palace the wide world over,
The maddening honey of Trebizond. 45
O, what are leagues to the loving hunter,
Or the blinding drift of the hurricane,
When it raves and roars o’er the frozen plain!
He would face the storm,—he would death encounter
The darling prize of his heart to gain.
But his hunters chafed at the long delay,
For the swarthy bison were far away,
And the brave young chief from the lodge departed.
He promised to come with the robin in May,
With the bridal gifts for the bridal day;
And the fair Wiwâstè was happy-hearted,
For Wakâwa promised the brave Chaskè.
Birds of a feather will flock together.
The robin sings to his ruddy mate,
And the chattering jays, in the winter weather,
To prate and gossip will congregate;
And the cawing crows on the autumn heather,
Like evil omens, will flock together,
In extra-session, for high debate;
And the lass will slip from a doting mother
To hang with her lad on the garden gate.
Birds of a feather will flock together,—
’Tis an adage old,—it is nature’s law,
And sure as the pole will the needle draw,
The fierce Red Cloud with the flaunting feather,
Will follow the finger of Hârpstinà.
The winter wanes and the south-wind blows
From the Summer Islands legendary.
The skéskas 46 fly and the melted snows
In lakelets lie on the dimpled prairie.
The frost-flowers 47 peep from their winter sleep
Under the snow-drifts cold and deep.
To the April sun and the April showers,
In field and forest, the baby flowers
Lift their golden faces and azure eyes;
And wet with the tears of the winter-fairies,
Soon bloom and blossom the emerald prairies,
Like the fabled Garden of Paradise.
The plum-trees, white with their bloom in May,
Their sweet perfume on the vernal breeze
Wide strew like the isles of the tropic seas,
Where the paroquet chatters the livelong day.
But the May-days pass and the brave Chaskè—
O, why does the lover so long delay?
Wiwâstè waits in the lonely tee,
Has her fair face fled from his memory?
For the robin cherups his mate to please,
The blue bird pipes in the poplar trees,
The meadow lark warbles his jubilees,
Shrilling his song in the azure seas,
Till the welkin throbs to his melodies;
And low is the hum of the humble bees,
And the Feast of the Virgins is now to be.
THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS.
The sun sails high in his azure realms;
Beneath the arch of the breezy elms
The feast is spread by the murmuring river.
With his battle spear and his bow and quiver,
And eagle plumes in his ebon hair,
The chief Wakâwa himself is there;
And round the feast in the Sacred Ring, 48 Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing.
Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tasted
For three long days ere the holy feast;
They sat in their teepee alone and fasted,
Their faces turned to the Sacred East. 21 In the polished bowls lies the golden maize
And the flesh of fawn on the polished trays.
For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide—
The blushing pink and the meek blue-bell,
The purple plumes of the prairie’s pride, 49 The wild, uncultured asphodel,
And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet
That the Virgins call “Let-me-not-forget,”
In gay festoons and garlands twine
With the cedar sprigs 50 and the wildwood vine.
So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed,
And none but a virgin may enter there;
And clad is each in a scarlet vest,
And a fawn skin frock to the brown calves bare.
Wild rosebuds peep from their flowing hair,
And a rose half-blown on the budding breast;
And bright with the quills of the porcupine
The moccasined feet of the maidens shine.
Hand in hand round the feast they dance,
And sing to the notes of a rude bassoon,
And never a pause or a dissonance
In the merry dance or the merry tune.
Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon,
When she peeps o’er the hills of the dewy east,
Wiwâstè sings at the Virgins Feast;
And bright is the light in her luminous eyes;
They glow like the stars in the winter skies;
And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heart
Their golden blush to her cheeks impart—
Her cheeks half hid in her midnight hair.
Fair is her form—as the red fawn’s fair,
And long is the flow of her raven hair;
It falls to her knees, and it streams on the breeze
Like the path of a storm on the swelling seas.
Proud of their rites are the Virgins fair,
For none but a Virgin may enter there.
’Tis a custom of old and a sacred thing;
Nor rank nor beauty the warriors spare,
If a tarnished maiden should enter there.
And her that enters the Sacred Ring
With a blot that is known or a secret stain
The warrior who knows is bound to expose,
And lead her forth from the ring again.
And the word of the warrior is a sacred by law;
For the Virgins’ Feast is a sacred thing.
Aside with the mothers sat Hârpstinà:
She durst not enter the virgins’ ring.
Round and round to the merry song
The maidens dance in their gay attire.
While the loud “Ho-Ho’s” of the tawny throng
Their flying feet and their song inspire.
They have finished the song and the sacred dance,
And hand in hand to the feast advance—
To the polished bowls of the golden maize,
And the sweet fawn meat in the polished trays.
Then up from his seat in the silent crowd
Rose the frowning, fierce-eyed, tall Red Cloud;
Swift was his stride as the panther’s spring,
When he leaps on the fawn from his cavern lair;
Wiwâstè he caught by her flowing hair,
And dragged her forth from the Sacred Ring.
She turned on the warrior. Her eyes flashed fire;
Her proud lips quivered with queenly ire;
Her hand to the Spirits she raised and said,
And her sun browned cheeks were aflame with red:
“I am pure!—I am pure as falling snow!
Great Tâku-Skan-Skan 51 will testify!
And dares the tall coward to say me no?”
But the sullen warrior made no reply.
She turned to the chief with her frantic cries:
“Wakâwa—my Father; he lies!—he lies!
Wiwâstè is pure as the faun unborn;
Lead me back to the feast, or Wiwâstè dies!”
But the warriors uttered a cry of scorn,
And he turned his face from her pleading eyes.
Then the sullen warrior, the tall Red Cloud,
Looked up and spoke and his voice was loud;
But he held his wrath and spoke with care:
“Wiwâstè is young, she is proud and fair,
But she may not boast of the virgin snows.
The Virgins Feast is a Sacred thing:
How durst she enter the Virgins ring?
The warrior would fain, but he dares not spare;
She is tarnished and only the Red Cloud knows.”
She clutched her hair in her clenched hand:
She stood like statue bronzed and grand:
Wakân-deè 39 flashed in her fiery eyes;
Then, swift as the meteor cleaves the skies—
Nay, swift as the fiery Wakinyan’s dart, 32 She snatch the knife from the warriors belt,
And plunged it clean to the polished hilt—
With deadly cry—in the villain’s heart.
Staggering he clutched the air and fell;
His life-blood smoked on the trampled sand,
And dripped from the knife in the virgin’s hand.
Then rose his kinsmen’s savage yell.
Swift as the doe’s Wiwâstè’s feet
Fled away to the forest. The hunters fleet
In vain pursue, and in vain they prowl,
And lurk in the forest till dawn of day.
They hear the hoot of the mottled owl;
They hear the were-wolf’s 52 winding howl;
But the swift Wiwâstè is far away.
They found no trace in the forest land,
They found no trail in the dew-damp grass,
They found no track in the river sand,
Where they thought Wiwâstè would surely pass.
The braves returned to the troubled chief;
In his lodge he sat in his silent grief.
“Surely,” they said, “she has turned a spirit.
No trail she left with her flying feet;
No pathway leads to her far retreat.
She flew in the air, and her wail—we could hear it,
As she upward rose to the shining stars;
And we heard on the river, as we stood near it,
The falling drops of Wiwâstè’s tears.”
Wakâwa thought of his daughter’s words
Ere the south-wind came and the piping birds—
“My Father, listen,—my words are true,”
And sad was her voice as the whippowil
When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill,
“Wiwâstè lingers alone with you;
The rest are sleeping on yonder hill—
Save one—and he an undutiful son,—
And you, my Father, will sit alone
When Sisóka 53 sings and the snow is gone.”
His broad breast heaved on his troubled soul,
The shadow of grief o’er his visage stole
Like a cloud on the face of the setting sun.
“She has followed the years that are gone,” he said;
“The spirits the words of the witch fulfill;
For I saw the ghost of my father dead,
By the moon’s dim light on the misty hill.
He shook the plumes on his withered head,
And the wind through his pale form whistled shrill.
And a low, sad voice on the hill I heard.
Like the mournful wail of a widowed bird.”
Then lo, as he looked from his lodge afar,
He saw the glow of the Evening-star;
“And yonder,” he said, “is Wiwâstè’s face;
She looks from her lodge on our fading race.
Devoured by famine, and fraud, and war,
And chased and hounded from woe to woe,
As the white wolves follow the buffalo.”
And he named the planet the Virgin Star. 54
“Wakâwa,” he muttered, “the guilt is thine!
She was pure,—she was pure as the fawn unborn.
O, why did I hark to the cry of scorn,
Or the words of the lying libertine?
Wakâwa, Wakâwa, the guilt is thine!
The springs will return with the voice of birds,
But the voice of my daughter will come no more.
She wakened the woods with her musical words,
And the sky-lark, ashamed of his voice, forbore.
She called back the years that had passed, and long
I heard their voice in her happy song.
Her heart was the home of the sunbeam. Bright
Poured the stream of her song on the starry night.
O, why did the chief of the tall Hóhé
His feet from Kapóza 6 so long delay?
For his father sat at my father’s feast,
And he at Wakâwa’s—an honored guest.
He is dead!—he is slain on the Bloody Plain,
By the hand of the treacherous Chippeway;
And the face shall I never behold again
Of my brave young brother—the chief Chaskè.
Death walks like a shadow among my kin;
And swift are the feet of the flying years
That cover Wakâwa with frost and tears,
And leave their tracks on his wrinkled skin.
Wakâwa, the voice of the years that are gone
Will follow thy feet like the shadow of death,
Till the paths of the forest and desert lone
Shall forget thy footsteps. O living breath,
Whence art thou, and whither so soon to fly?
And whence are the years? Shall I overtake
Their flying feet in the star-lit sky?
From his last long sleep will the warrior wake?
Will the morning break in Wakâwa’s tomb,
As it breaks and glows in the eastern skies?
Is it true?—will the spirits of kinsmen come
And bid the bones of the brave arise?”
“Wakâwa, Wakâwa, for thee the years
Are red with blood and bitter with tears.
Gone,—brothers, and daughters, and wife,—all gone
That are kin to Wakâwa,—but one—but one—
Wakínyan Tanka—undutiful son!
And he estranged from his fathers tee,
Will never return till the chief shall die.
And what cares he for his father’s grief?
He will smile at my death,—it will make him chief.
Woe burns in my bosom. Ho, Warriors,—Ho!
Raise the song of red war; for your chief must go
To drown his grief in the blood of the foe!
I shall fall. Raise my mound on the sacred hill.
Let my warriors the wish of their chief fulfill;
For my fathers sleep in the sacred ground.
The Autumn blasts o’er Wakâwa’s mound
Shall chase the hair of the thistle’s head,
And the bare armed oak o’er the silent dead.
When the whirling snows from the north descend,
Shall wail and moan in the midnight wind.
In the famine of winter the wolf shall prowl,
And scratch the snow from the heap of stones,
And sit in the gathering storm and howl,
On the frozen mound, for Wakâwa’s bones.
But the years that are gone shall return again.
As the robin returns and the whippowil
When my warriors stand on the sacred hill
And remember the deeds of their brave chief slain.”
Beneath the glow of the Virgin Star
They raised the song of the red war dance.
At the break of dawn with the bow and lance
They followed the chief on the path of war.
To the north—to the forests of fir and pine—
Led their stealthy steps on the winding trail,
Till they saw the Lake of the Spirit 55 shine
Through somber pines of the dusky dale.
Then they heard the hoot of the mottled owl; 56 They heard the gray wolf’s dismal howl;
Then shrill and sudden the war whoop rose
From an hundred throats of their swarthy foes,
In ambush crouched in the tangled wood.
Death shrieked in the twang of their deadly bows,
And their hissing arrows drank brave men’s blood.
From rock, and thicket, and brush, and brakes,
Gleamed the burning eyes of the forest snakes. 57 From brake, and thicket, and brush, and stone,
The bow string hummed and the arrow hissed,
And the lance of a crouching Ojibway shone,
Or the scalp-knife gleamed in a swarthy fist.
Undaunted the braves of Wakâwa’s band
Jumped into the thicket with lance and knife,
And grappled the Chippewas hand to hand;
And foe with foe, in the deadly strife,
Lay clutching the scalp of his foe and dead,
With a tomahawk sunk in his ghastly head,
Or his still heart sheathing a bloody blade.
Like a bear in the battle Wakâwa raves,
And cheers the hearts of his falling braves.
But a panther crouches along his track,—
He springs with a yell on Wakâwa’s back!
The tall Chief, stabbed to the heart, lies low;
But his left hand clutches his deadly foe,
And his red right clenches the bloody hilt
Of his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed.
And thus was the life of Wakâwa spilt,
And slain and slayer lay side by side.
The unscalped corpse of their honored chief
His warriors snatched from the yelling pack,
And homeward fled on their forest track
With their bloody burden and load of grief.
The spirits the words of the brave fulfill,—
Wakâwa sleeps on the sacred hill,
And Wakínyan Tânka, his son, is chief.
Ah, soon shall the lips of men forget
Wakâwa’s name, and the mound of stone
Will speak of the dead to the winds alone,
And the winds will whistle their mock-regret.
The speckled cones of the scarlet berries 58 Lie red and ripe in the prairie grass.
The Sí-yo 59 clucks on the emerald prairies
To her infant brood. From the wild morass,
On the sapphire lakelet set within it,
Magâ 60 sails forth with her wee ones daily.
They ride on the dimpling waters gaily,
Like a fleet of yachts and a man of war.
The piping plover, the laughing linnet,
And the swallow sail in the sunset skies.
The whippowil from her cover hies,
And trills her song on the amber air.
Anon, to her loitering mate she cries
“Flip, O Will!—trip, O Will!—skip, O Will!”
And her merry mate from afar replies:
“Flip I will,—skip I will,—trip I will;”
And away on the wings of the wind he flies.
And bright from her lodge in the skies afar
Peeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star.
The fox pups 60 creep from the mother’s lair
And leap in the light of the rising moon;
And loud on the luminous moonlit lake
Shrill the bugle notes of the lover loon;
And woods and waters and welkin break
Into jubilant song,—it is joyful June.
But where is Wiwâstè? O where is she—
The Virgin avenged—the queenly queen—
The womanly woman—the heroine?
Has she gone to the spirits and can it be
That her beautiful face is the Virgin Star
Peeping out from the door of her lodge afar,
Or upward sailing the silver sea.
Star-beaconed and lit like an avenue,
In the shining stern of her gold canoe?
No tidings came—nor the brave Chaskè:
O, why did the lover so long delay?
He promised to come with the robins in May,
With the bridal gifts for the bridal day;
But the fair May mornings have slipped away,
And where is the lover—the brave Chaskè?
But what of the venomous Hârpstinà—
The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud,
And kindled revenge in his savage soul?
He paid for his crime with his false heart’s blood,
But his angry spirit has brought her dole; 61 It has entered her breast and her burning head,
And she raves and burns on her fevered bed.
“He is dead! He is dead!” is her wailing cry.
“And the blame is mine,—it was I,—it was I!
I hated Wiwâstè, for she was fair,
And my brave was caught in her net of hair.
I turned his love to a bitter hate;
I nourished revenge, and I pricked his pride;
Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait.
He had his revenge, but he died,—he died!
And the blame is mine,—it was I,—it was I!
And his spirit burns me, I die,—I die!”
Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies,
She wails to the winds of the night, and dies.
But where is Wiwâstè? Her swift feet flew
To the somber shades of the tangled thicket.
She hid in the copse like a wary cricket,
And the fleetest hunters in vain pursue.
Seeing unseen from her hiding place,
She sees them fly on the hurried chase;
She sees their fierce eyes glance and dart,
As they pass and peer for a track or trace,
And she trembles with fear in the copse apart.
Lest her nest be betrayed by her throbbing heart.
Weary the hours; but the sun at last
Went down to his lodge in the west, and fast
The wings of the spirits of night were spread
O’er the darkling woods and Wiwâstè’s head.
Then, slyly she slipped from her snug retreat,
And guiding her course by Wazíya’s star, 62 That shone through the shadowy forms afar,
She northward hurried with silent feet;
And long ere the sky was aflame in the east,
She was leagues from the place of the fatal feast.
’Twas the hoot of the owl that the hunters heard,
And the scattering drops of the threat’ning shower,
And the far wolf’s cry to the moon preferred.
Their ears were their fancies,—the scene was weird,
And the witches 63 dance at the midnight hour.
She leaped the brook and she swam the river;
Her course through the forest Wiwâstè wist
By the star that gleamed through the glimmering mist
That fell from the dim moon’s downy quiver.
In her heart she spoke to her spirit-mother:
“Look down from your teepee, O starry spirit.
The cry of Wiwâstè, O mother, hear it;
And touch the heart of my cruel father.
He hearkened not to a virgin’s words;
He listened not to a daughter’s wail.
O give me the wings of the thunder-birds,
For his were-wolves 52 follow Wiwâstè’s trail;
O, guide my flight to the far Hóhé—
The sheltering lodge of my brave Chaskè.”
The shadows paled in the hazy east,
And the light of the kindling morn increased.
The pale-faced stars fled one by one,
And hid in the vast from the rising sun.
From woods and waters and welkin soon
Fled the hovering mists of the vanished moon.
The young robins chirped in their feathery beds,
The loon’s song shrilled like a winding horn,
And the green hills lifted their dewy heads
To greet the god of the rising morn.
She reached the rim of the rolling prairie—
The boundless ocean of solitude;
She hid in the feathery hazel wood,
For her heart was sick and her feet were weary;
She fain would rest, and she needed food.
Alone by the billowy, boundless prairies,
She plucked the cones of the scarlet berries;
In feathering copse and the grassy field
She found the bulbs of the young Tipsânna, 43 And the sweet medó 64 that the meadows yield.
With the precious gift of his priceless manna
God fed his fainting and famished child.
At night again to the northward far
She followed the torch of Wazíya’s star.
For leagues away o’er the prairies green,
On the billowy vast, may a man be seen,
When the sun is high and the stars are low;
And the sable breast of the strutting crow
Looms up like the form of the buffalo.
The Bloody River 40 she reached at last,
And boldly walked in the light of day,
On the level plain of the valley vast;
Nor thought of the terrible Chippeway.
She was safe from the wolves of her father’s band,
But she trode on the treacherous “Bloody Land.”
And lo—from afar o’er the level plain—
As far as the sails of a ship at sea
May be seen as they lift from the rolling main—
A band of warriors rode rapidly.
She shadowed her eyes with her sun browned hand;
All backward streamed on the wind her hair,
And terror spread o’er her visage fair,
As she bent her brow to the far off band.
For she thought of the terrible Chippeway—
The fiends that the babe and the mother slay;
And yonder they came in their war-array!
She hid like a grouse in the meadow-grass,
And moaned—“I am lost!—I am lost! alas;
And why did I fly my native land
To die by the cruel Ojibway’s hand?”
And on rode the braves. She could hear the steeds
Come galloping on o’er the level meads;
And lowly she crouched in the waving grass,
And hoped against hope that the braves would pass.
They have passed, she is safe,—she is safe! Ah, no,
They have struck her trail and the hunters halt.
Like wolves on the track of the bleeding doe,
That grappled breaks from the dread assault,
Dash the warriors wild on Wiwâstè’s trail.
She flies,—but what can her flight avail?
Her feet are fleet, but the flying feet
Of the steeds of the prairie are fleeter still;
And where can she fly for a safe retreat?
But hark to the shouting:—“Ihó!—Ihó!” 9 Rings over the wide plain sharp and shrill.
She halts, and the hunters come riding on;
But the horrible fear from her heart is gone,
For it is not the shout of the dreaded foe;
’Tis the welcome shout of her native land!
Up galloped the chief of the band, and lo—
The clutched knife dropped from her trembling hand;
She uttered a cry and she swooned away;
For there; on his steed in the blaze of day,
On the boundless prairie, so far away,
With his burnished lance and his feathers gay,
Sat the manly form of her own Chaskè!
There’s a mote in my eye or a blot on the page,
And I cannot tell of the joyful greeting;
You may take it for granted and I will engage,
There were kisses and tears at the strange, glad meeting;
For aye since the birth of the swift-winged years,
In the desert drear, in the field of clover,
In the cot, and the palace, and all the world over,—
Yea, away on the stars to the ultimate spheres,
The language of love to the long sought lover,—
Is tears and kisses and kisses and tears.
But why did the lover so long delay?
And whitherward rideth the chief to-day?
As he followed the trail of the buffalo,
From the tees of Kapóza a maiden, lo,
Came running in haste o’er the drifted snow.
She spoke to the chief of the tall Hóhé:
“Wiwâstè requests that the brave Chaskè
Will abide with his band and his coming delay
’Till the moon when the strawberries are ripe and red,
And then will the chief and Wiwâstè wed—
When the Feast of the Virgins is past,” she said.
Wiwâstè’s wish was her lover’s law;
And so his coming the chief delayed
Till the mid-May blossoms should bloom and fade,—
But the lying runner was Hârpstinà.
And now with the gifts for the bridal day
And his chosen warriors he took his way,
And followed his heart to his moon-faced maid,
And thus was the lover so long delayed;
And so as he rode with his warriors gay,
On that bright and beautiful summer day,
His bride he met on the trail mid-way,
By the haunts of the treacherous Chippeway.
God arms the innocent. He is there—
In the desert vast, in the wilderness,
On the bellowing sea, in the lion’s lair,
In the midst of battle, and everywhere.
In his hand he holds with a father’s care
The tender hearts of the motherless;
The maid and the mother in sore distress
He shields with his love and his tenderness;
He comforts the widowed—the comfortless,
And sweetens her chalice of bitterness;
He clothes the naked—the numberless,—
His charity covers their nakedness,—
And he feeds the famished and fatherless
With the hand that feedeth the birds of air.
Let the myriad tongues of the earth confess
His infinite love and his holiness;
For his pity pities the pitiless,
His wayward children his bounties bless,
And his mercy flows to the merciless;
And the countless worlds in the realms above,
Revolve in the light of his boundless love.
And what of the lovers? you ask, I trow.
She told him all ere the sun was low,—
Why she fled from the Feast to a safe retreat.
She laid her heart at her lover’s feet,
And her words were tears and her lips were slow.
As she sadly related the bitter tale
His face was aflame and anon grew pale,
And his dark eyes flashed with a brave desire,
Like the midnight gleam of the sacred fire. 65 “Mitâwin,” 66 he said, and his voice was low,
“Thy father no more is the false Little Crow;
But the fairest plume shall Wiwâstè wear
Of the great Wanmdeè 13 in her midnight hair.
In my lodge, in the land of the tall Hóhé,
The robins will sing all the long summer day
To the beautiful bride of the brave Chaskè.”
Aye, love is tested by stress and trial
Since the finger of time on the endless dial
Began its rounds, and the orbs to move
In the boundless vast, and the sunbeams clove
The chaos; but only by fate’s denial
Are fathomed the fathomless depths of love.
Man is the rugged and wrinkled oak,
And woman the trusting and tender vine—
That clasps and climbs till its arms entwine
The brawny arms of the sturdy stoke. 67 The dimpled babes are the flowers divine
That the blessing of God on the vine and oak
With their cooing and blossoming lips invoke.
To the pleasant land of the brave Hóhé
Wiwâstè rode with her proud Chaskè.
She ruled like a queen in his bountiful tee,
And the life of the twain was a jubilee.
Their wee ones climbed on the father’s knee,
And played with his plumes of the great Wanmdeè.
The silken threads of the happy years
They wove into beautiful robes of love
That the spirits wear in the lodge above;
And time from the reel of the rolling spheres
His silver threads with the raven wove;
But never the stain of a mother’s tears
Soiled the shining web of their happy years.
When the wrinkled mask of the years they wore,
And the raven hair of their youth was gray,
Their love grew deeper, and more and more;
For he was a lover for aye and aye,
And ever her beautiful, brave Chaskè.
Through the wrinkled mask of the hoary years
To the loving eyes of the lover aye
The blossom of beautiful youth appears.
At last, when their locks were as white as snow,
Beloved and honored by all the band,
They silently slipped from their lodge below,
And walked together, and hand in hand,
O’er the Shining Path 68 to the Spirit-land;
Where the hills and the meadows for aye and aye
Are clad with the verdure and flowers of May,
And the unsown prairies of Paradise
Yield the golden maize and the sweet wild rice.
There ever ripe in the groves and prairies
Hang the purple plums and the luscious berries.
And the swarthy herds of bison feed
On the sun-lit slope and the waving mead;
The dappled fawns from their coverts peep,
And countless flocks on the waters sleep;
And the silent years with their fingers trace
No furrows for aye on the hunter’s face.