The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems

From church and chapel and dome and tower,

Near-far and everywhere,

The merry bells chime loud and clear

Upon the frosty air.

All down the marble avenues

The lamp-lit casements glow,

And from an hundred palaces

Glad carols float and flow.

A thousand lamps from street to street

Blaze on the dusky air,

And light the way for happy feet

To carol, praise and prayer.

'Tis Christmas eve. In church and hall

The laden fir-trees bend;

Glad children throng the festival

And grandsires too attend.

Fur-wrapped and gemmed with pearls and gold,

Proud ladies rich and fair

As Egypt's splendid queen of old

In all her pomp are there.

And many a costly, golden gift

Hangs on each Christmas-tree,

While round and round the carols drift

In waves of melody.

In a dim and dingy attic,

Away from the pomp and glare,

A widow sits by a flickering lamp,

Bowed down by toil and care.

On her toil-worn hand her weary head,

At her feet a shoe half-bound,

On the bare, brown table a loaf of bread,

And hunger and want around.

By her side at the broken window,

With her rosy feet all bare,

Her little one carols a Christmas tune

To the chimes on the frosty air.

And the mother dreams of the by-gone years

And their merry Christmas-bells,

Till her cheeks are wet with womanly tears,

And a sob in her bosom swells.

[Illustration: AND THE MOTHER DREAMS OF THE BY GONE YEARS, AND THEIR MERRY CHRISTMAS BELLS]

The child looked up; her innocent ears

Had caught the smothered cry;

She saw the pale face wet with tears

She fain would pacify.

"Don't cry, mama," she softly said-

"Here's a Christmas gift for you,"

And on the mother's cheek a kiss

She printed warm and true.

"God bless my child!" the mother cried

And caught her to her breast-

"O Lord, whose Son was crucified,

Thy precious gift is best.

"If toil and trouble be my lot

While on life's sea I drift,

O Lord, my soul shall murmur not,

If Thou wilt spare Thy gift."

* * *

OUT OF THE DEPTHS

And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery, and when they had set her in the midst, they said unto him "Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act. Now Moses in the law commanded us that such be stoned; but what sayest thou?"-[St. John, Chap, viii; 3, 4, 5.

Reach thy hand to me, O Jesus;

Reach thy loving hand to me,

Or I sink, alas, and perish

In my sin and agony.

From the depths I cry, O Jesus,

Lifting up mine eyes to thee;

Save me from my sin and sorrow

With thy loving charity.

Pity, Jesus-blessed Savior;

I am weak, but thou art strong;

Fill my heart with prayer and praises,

Fill my soul with holy song.

Lift me up, O sacred Jesus-

Lift my bruised heart to thee;

Teach me to be pure and holy

As the holy angels be.

Scribes and Pharisees surround me:

Thou art writing in the sand:

Must I perish, Son of Mary?

Wilt thou give the stern command?

Am I saved?-for Jesus sayeth-

"Let the sinless cast a stone."

Lo the Scribes have all departed,

And the Pharisees are gone!

"Woman, where are thine accusers?"

(They have vanished one by one.)

"Hath no man condemned thee, woman?"

And she meekly answered-"None."

Then he spake His blessed answer-

Balm indeed for sinners sore-

"Neither then will I condemn thee:

Go thy way and sin no more."

* * *

FAME

Dust of the desert are thy walls

And temple-towers, O Babylon!

O'er crumbled halls the lizard crawls,

And serpents bask in blaze of sun.

In vain kings piled the Pyramids;

Their tombs were robbed by ruthless hands.

Who now shall sing their fame and deeds,

Or sift their ashes from the sands?

Deep in the drift of ages hoar

Lie nations lost and kings forgot;

Above their graves the oceans roar,

Or desert sands drift o'er the spot.

A thousand years are but a day

When reckoned on the wrinkled earth;

And who among the wise shall say

What cycle saw the primal birth

Of man, who lords on sea and land,

And builds his monuments to-day,

Like Syrian on the desert sand,

To crumble and be blown away.

Proud chiefs of pageant armies led

To fame and death their followers forth,

Ere Helen sinned and Hector bled,

Or Odin ruled the rugged North.

And poets sang immortal praise

To mortal heroes ere the fire

Of Homer blazed in Ilion lays,

Or Brage tuned the Northern lyre.

For fame men piled the Pyramids;

Their names have perished with their bones:

For fame men wrote their boasted deeds

On Babel bricks and Runic stones-

On Tyrian temples, gates of brass,

On Roman arch and Damask blades,

And perished like the desert grass

That springs to-day-to-morrow-fades.

And still for fame men delve and die

In Afric heat and Arctic cold;

For fame on flood and field they vie,

Or gather in the shining gold.

Time, like the ocean, onward rolls

Relentless, burying men and deeds;

The brightest names, the bravest souls,

Float but an hour like ocean weeds,

Then sink forever. In the slime-

Forgotten, lost forevermore,

Lies Fame from every age and clime;

Yet thousands clamor on the shore.

Immortal Fame!-O dust and death!

The centuries as they pass proclaim

That Fame is but a mortal breath,

That man must perish-name and fame.

The earth is but a grain of sand-

An atom in a shoreless sea;

A million worlds lie in God's hand-

Yea, myriad millions-what are we?

O mortal man of bone and blood!

Then is there nothing left but dust?

God made us; He is wise and good,

And we may humbly hope and trust.

* * *

WINONA.

When the meadow-lark trilled o'er the leas and the oriole piped in the maples,

From my hammock, all under the trees, by the sweet-scented field of red clover,

I harked to the hum of the bees, as they gathered the mead of the blossoms,

And caught from their low melodies the air of the song of Winona.

(In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah,"-"e" the sound of "a,"-"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo." Sound "ee" as in English. The numerals refer to Notes in appendix.)

* * *

Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer,

Since here on the oak-shaded shore of the dark-winding, swift Mississippi,

Where his foaming floods tumble and roar o'er the falls and the white-rolling rapids,

In the fair, fabled center of Earth, sat the Indian town of Ka-thá-ga. [86]

Far rolling away to the north, and the south, lay the emerald prairies,

All dotted with woodlands and lakes, and above them the blue bent of ether.

And here where the dark river breaks into spray and the roar of the Ha-Ha, [76]

Where gathered the bison-skin tees[F] of the chief tawny tribe of Dakotas;

For here, in the blast and the breeze, flew the flag of the chief of Isantees, [86]

Up-raised on the stem of a lance-the feathery flag of the eagle.

And here to the feast and the dance, from the prairies remote and the forests,

Oft gathered the out-lying bands, and honored the gods of the nation.

On the islands and murmuring strands they danced to the god of the waters,

Unktéhee, [69] who dwelt in the caves, deep under the flood of the Ha-Ha; [76]

And high o'er the eddies and waves hung their offerings of furs and tobacco,[G]

And here to the Master of life-Anpé-tu-wee, [70] god of the heavens,

Chief, warrior, and maiden, and wife, burned the sacred green sprigs of the cedar. [50]

And here to the Searcher-of-hearts-fierce Tá-ku Skan-skán, [51] the avenger,

Who dwells in the uppermost parts of the earth, and the blue, starry ether,

Ever watching, with all-seeing eyes, the deeds of the wives and the warriors,

As an osprey afar in the skies, sees the fish as they swim in the waters,

Oft spread they the bison-tongue feast, and singing preferred their petitions,

Till the Day-Spirit[70] rose in the East-in the red, rosy robes of the morning,

To sail o'er the sea of the skies, to his lodge in the land of the shadows,

Where the black-winged tornadoes[H] arise, rushing loud from the mouths of their caverns.

And here with a shudder they heard, flying far from his tee in the mountains,

Wa-kín-yan,[32] the huge Thunder-Bird, with the arrows of fire in his talons.

[Illustration: FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. FACSIMILE OF THE CUT IN CARVER'S TRAVELS, PUBLISHED AT LONDON, IN 1778, FROM A SURVEY AND SKETCH MADE BY CAPT. J. CARVER, NOV. 17, 1766. PERPENDICULAR FALL, 30 FEET; BREADTH NEAR 600 FEET.]

Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer

Since here by the cataract's roar, in the moon of the red-blooming lilies,[71]

In the tee of Ta-té-psin[I] was born Winona-wild-rose of the prairies.

Like the summer sun peeping, at morn, o'er the hills was the face of Winona.

And here she grew up like a queen-a romping and lily-lipped laughter,

And danced on the undulant green, and played in the frolicsome waters,

Where the foaming tide tumbles and whirls o'er the murmuring rocks in the rapids;

And whiter than foam were the pearls that gleamed in the midst of her laughter.

Long and dark was her flowing hair flung like the robe of the night to the breezes;

And gay as the robin she sung, or the gold-breasted lark of the meadows.

Like the wings of the wind were her feet, and as sure as the feet of Ta-tó-ka[J]

And oft like an antelope fleet o'er the hills and the prairies she bounded,

Lightly laughing in sport as she ran, and looking back over her shoulder

At the fleet-footed maiden or man that vainly her flying feet followed.

The belle of the village was she, and the pride of the aged Ta-té-psin,

Like a sunbeam she lighted his tee, and gladdened the heart of her father.

In the golden-hued Wázu-pe-weé-the moon when the wild-rice is gathered;

When the leaves on the tall sugar-tree are as red as the breast of the robin,

And the red-oaks that border the lea are aflame with the fire of the sunset,

From the wide, waving fields of wild-rice-from the meadows of Psin-ta-wak-pá-dan,[K]

Where the geese and the mallards rejoice, and grow fat on the bountiful harvest,

Came the hunters with saddles of moose and the flesh of the bear and the bison,

And the women in birch-bark canoes well laden with rice from the meadows.

With the tall, dusky hunters, behold, came a marvelous man or a spirit,

White-faced and so wrinkled and old, and clad in the robe of the raven.

Unsteady his steps were and slow, and he walked with a staff in his right hand,

And white as the first-falling snow were the thin locks that lay on his shoulders.

Like rime-covered moss hung his beard, flowing down from his face to his girdle;

And wan was his aspect and weird, and often he chanted and mumbled

In a strange and mysterious tongue, as he bent o'er his book in devotion,

Or lifted his dim eyes and sung, in a low voice, the solemn "Te Deum,"

Or Latin, or Hebrew, or Greek-all the same were his words to the warriors,-

All the same to the maids and the meek, wide-wondering-eyed, hazel-brown children.

Father René Menard [L]-it was he, long lost to his Jesuit brothers,

Sent forth by an holy decree to carry the Cross to the heathen.

In his old age abandoned to die, in the swamps, by his timid companions,

He prayed to the Virgin on high, and she led him forth from the forest;

For angels she sent him as men-in the forms of the tawny Dakotas,

And they led his feet from the fen, from the slough of despond and the desert,

Half dead in a dismal morass, as they followed the red-deer they found him,

In the midst of the mire and the grass, and mumbling "Te Deum laudamus."

"Unktómee[72]-Ho!" muttered the braves, for they deemed him the black Spider-Spirit

That dwells in the drearisome caves, and walks on the marshes at midnight,

With a flickering torch in his hand, to decoy to his den the unwary.

His tongue could they not understand, but his torn hands all shriveled with famine

He stretched to the hunters and said: "He feedeth his chosen with manna;

And ye are the angels of God sent to save me from death in the desert."

His famished and woe-begone face, and his tones touched the hearts of the hunters;

They fed the poor father apace, and they led him away to Ka-thá-ga.

There little by little he learned the tongue of the tawny Dakotas;

And the heart of the good father yearned to lead them away from their idols-

Their giants[16] and dread Thunder-birds-their worship of stones[73] and the devil.

"Wakán-de!"[M] they answered his words, for he read from his book in the Latin,

Lest the Nazarene's holy commands by his tongue should be marred in translation;

And oft with his beads in his hands, or the cross and the crucified Jesus,

He knelt by himself on the sands, and his dim eyes uplifted to heaven.

But the braves bade him look to the East-to the silvery lodge of Han-nán-na;[N]

And to dance with the chiefs at the feast-at the feast of the Giant Heyó-ka.[16]

They frowned when the good father spurned the flesh of the dog in the kettle,

And laughed when his fingers were burned in the hot, boiling pot of the giant.

"The Black-robe" they called the poor priest, from the hue of his robe and his girdle;

And never a game or a feast but the father must grace with his presence.

His prayer-book the hunters revered,-they deemed it a marvelous spirit;

It spoke and the white father heard,-it interpreted visions and omens.

And often they bade him to pray this marvelous spirit to answer,

And tell where the sly Chippewa might be ambushed and slain in his forest.

For Menard was the first in the land, proclaiming, like John in the desert,

"The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand; repent ye, and turn from your idols."

The first of the brave brotherhood that, threading the fens and the forest,

Stood afar by the turbulent flood at the falls of the Father of Waters.

[Illustration: FATHER RENE MENARD]

In the lodge of the Stranger[O] he sat, awaiting the crown of a martyr;

His sad face compassion begat in the heart of the dark-eyed Winona.

Oft she came to the teepee and spoke; she brought him the tongue of the bison,

Sweet nuts from the hazel and oak, and flesh of the fawn and the mallard.

Soft hánpa[P] she made for his feet and leggins of velvety fawn-skin,

A blanket of beaver complete, and a hood of the hide of the otter.

And oft at his feet on the mat, deftly braiding the flags and the rushes,

Till the sun sought his teepee she sat, enchanted with what he related

Of the white-wingèd ships on the sea and the teepees far over the ocean,

Of the love and the sweet charity of the Christ and the beautiful Virgin.

She listened like one in a trance when he spoke of the brave, bearded Frenchmen,

From the green, sun-lit valleys of France to the wild Hochelága[Q] transplanted,

Oft trailing the deserts of snow in the heart of the dense Huron forests,

Or steering the dauntless canoe through the waves of the fresh-water ocean.

"Yea, stronger and braver are they," said the aged Menard to Winona,

"Than the head-chief, tall Wazi-kuté,[74] but their words are as soft as a maiden's,

Their eyes are the eyes of the swan, but their hearts are the hearts of the eagles;

And the terrible Mása Wakán[R] ever walks by their side like a spirit;

Like a Thunder-bird, roaring in wrath, flinging fire from his terrible talons,

He sends to their enemies death in the flash of the fatal Wakándee."[S]

The Autumn was past and the snow lay drifted and deep on the prairies;

From his teepee of ice came the foe-came the storm-breathing god of the winter.

Then roared in the groves, on the plains, on the ice-covered lakes and the river,

The blasts of the fierce hurricanes blown abroad from the breast of Wazíya. [3]

The bear cuddled down in his den, and the elk fled away to the forest;

The pheasant and gray prairie-hen made their beds in the heart of the snow-drift;

The bison herds huddled and stood in the hollows and under the hill-sides,

Or rooted the snow for their food in the lee of the bluffs and the timber;

And the mad winds that howled from the north, from the ice-covered seas of Wazíya,

Chased the gray wolf and silver-fox forth to their dens in the hills of the forest.

Poor Father Menard-he was ill; in his breast burned the fire of a fever;

All in vain was the magical skill of Wicásta Wakán [61] with his rattle;

Into soft, child-like slumber he fell, and awoke in the land of the blessèd-

To the holy applause of "Well-done!" and the harps in the hands of the angels.

Long he carried the cross and he won the coveted crown of a martyr.

In the land of the heathen he died, meekly following the voice of his Master,

One mourner alone by his side-Ta-té-psin's compassionate daughter.

She wailed the dead father with tears, and his bones by her kindred she buried.

Then winter followed winter. The years sprinkled frost on the head of her father;

And three weary winters she dreamed of the fearless and fair, bearded Frenchmen;

At midnight their swift paddles gleamed on the breast of the broad Mississippi,

And the eyes of the brave strangers beamed on the maid in the midst of her slumber.

She lacked not admirers; the light of the lover oft burned in her teepee-

At her couch in the midst of the night,-but she never extinguished the flambeau.

The son of Chief Wazi-kuté-a fearless and eagle-plumed warrior-

Long sighed for Winona, and he was the pride of the band of Isántees.

Three times, in the night at her bed, had the brave held the torch of the lover, [75]

And thrice had she covered her head and rejected the handsome Tamdóka. [T]

'Twas Summer. The merry-voiced birds trilled and warbled in woodland and meadow;

And abroad on the prairies the herds cropped the grass in the land of the lilies,-

And sweet was the odor of rose wide-wafted from hillside and heather;

In the leaf-shaded lap of repose lay the bright, blue-eyed babes of the summer;

And low was the murmur of brooks, and low was the laugh of the Ha-Ha; [76]

And asleep in the eddies and nooks lay the broods of magá [60]and the mallard.

'Twas the moon of Wasúnpa. [71] The band lay at rest in the tees at Ka-thá-ga,

And abroad o'er the beautiful land walked the spirits of Peace and of Plenty-

Twin sisters, with bountiful hand wide scattering wild-rice and the lilies.

An-pé-tu-wee[70] walked in the west-to his lodge in the far-away mountains,

And the war-eagle flew to her nest in the oak on the Isle of the Spirit.[U]

And now at the end of the day, by the shore of the Beautiful Island,[V]

A score of fair maidens and gay made joy in the midst of the waters.

Half-robed in their dark, flowing hair, and limbed like the fair Aphroditè,

They played in the waters, and there they dived and they swam like the beavers,

Loud-laughing like loons on the lake when the moon is a round shield of silver,

And the songs of the whippowils wake on the shore in the midst of the maples.

But hark!-on the river a song,-strange voices commingled in chorus;

On the current a boat swept along with DuLuth and his hardy companions;

To the stroke of their paddles they sung, and this the refrain that they chanted:

"Dans mon chemin j'ai rencontré

Deux cavaliers bien montés.

Lon, lon, laridon daine,

Lon, lon, laridon da."

"Deux cavaliers bien montés;

L'un à cheval, et l'autre à pied.

Lon, lon, laridon daine,

Lon, lon, laridon da."[W]

[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF DULUTH AT KATHAGA]

Like the red, dappled deer in the glade alarmed by the footsteps of hunters,

Discovered, disordered, dismayed, the nude nymphs fled forth from the waters,

And scampered away to the shade, and peered from the screen of the lindens.

A bold and adventuresome man was DuLuth, and a dauntless in danger,

And straight to Kathága he ran, and boldly advanced to the warriors,

Now gathering, a cloud on the strand, and gazing amazed on the strangers;

And straightway he offered his hand unto Wázi-kuté, the Itáncan.[X]

To the Lodge of the Stranger were led DuLuth and his hardy companions;

Robes of beaver and bison were spread, and the Peace-pipe[23] was smoked with the Frenchman.

There was dancing and feasting at night, and joy at the presents he lavished.

All the maidens were wild with delight with the flaming red robes and the ribbons,

With the beads and the trinkets untold, and the fair, bearded face of the giver;

And glad were they all to behold the friends from the Land of the Sunrise.

But one stood apart from the rest-the queenly and silent Winona,

Intently regarding the guest-hardly heeding the robes and the ribbons,

Whom the White Chief beholding admired, and straightway he spread on her shoulders

A lily-red robe and attired with necklet and ribbons the maiden.

The red lilies bloomed in her face, and her glad eyes gave thanks to the giver,

And forth from her teepee apace she brought him the robe and the missal

Of the father-poor René Menard; and related the tale of the "Black Robe."

She spoke of the sacred regard he inspired in the hearts of Dakotas;

That she buried his bones with her kin, in the mound by the Cave of the Council;

That she treasured and wrapt in the skin of the red-deer his robe and his prayer book-

"Till his brothers should come from the East-from the land of the far Hochelága,

To smoke with the braves at the feast, on the shores of the Loud-laughing Waters. [16]

For the 'Black Robe' spake much of his youth and his friends in the Land of the Sunrise;

It was then as a dream; now in truth I behold them, and not in a vision."

But more spake her blushes, I ween, and her eyes full of language unspoken,

As she turned with the grace of a queen and carried her gifts to the teepee.

Far away from his beautiful France-from his home in the city of Lyons,

A noble youth full of romance, with a Norman heart big with adventure,

In the new world a wanderer, by chance DuLuth sought the wild Huron forests.

But afar by the vale of the Rhone, the winding and musical river,

And the vine-covered hills of the Sa?ne, the heart of the wanderer lingered,-

'Mid the vineyards and mulberry trees, and the fair fields of corn and of clover

That rippled and waved in the breeze, while the honey-bees hummed in the blossoms.

For there, where th' impetuous Rhone, leaping down from the Switzerland mountains,

And the silver-lipped, soft-flowing Sa?ne, meeting, kiss and commingle together,

Down winding by vineyards and leas, by the orchards of fig-trees and olives,

To the island-gemmed, sapphire-blue seas of the glorious Greeks and the Romans;

Aye, there, on the vine-covered shore,'mid the mulberry-trees and the olives,

Dwelt his blue-eyed and beautiful Flore, with her hair like a wheat-field at harvest,

All rippled and tossed by the breeze, and her cheeks like the glow of the morning,

Far away o'er the emerald seas, as the sun lifts his brow from the billows,

Or the red-clover fields when the bees, singing sip the sweet cups of the blossoms.

Wherever he wandered-alone in the heart of the wild Huron forests,

Or cruising the rivers unknown to the land of the Crees or Dakotas-

His heart lingered still on the Rhone,'mid the mulberry trees and the vineyards,

Fast-fettered and bound by the zone that girdled the robes of his darling.

Till the red Harvest Moon[71] he remained in the vale of the swift Mississippi.

The esteem of the warriors he gained, and the love of the dark-eyed Winona.

He joined in the sports and the chase; with the hunters he followed the bison,

And swift were his feet in the race when the red elk they ran on the prairies.

At the Game of the Plum-stones[77] he played, and he won from the skillfulest players;

A feast to Wa'tánka[78] he made, and he danced at the feast of Hey?ka.[16]

With the flash and the roar of his gun he astonished the fearless Dakotas;

They called it the "Máza Wakán"-the mighty, mysterious metal.

"'Tis a brother," they said, "of the fire in the talons of dreadful Wakinyan,'[32]

When he flaps his huge wings in his ire, and shoots his red shafts at Unktéhee."[69]

The Itáncan,[74] tall Wází-kuté, appointed a day for the races.

From the red stake that stood by his tee, on the southerly side of the Ha-ha,

O'er the crest of the hills and the dunes and the billowy breadth of the prairie,

To a stake at the Lake of the Loons[79]-a league and return-was the distance.

They gathered from near and afar, to the races and dancing and feasting;

Five hundred tall warriors were there from Kapóza[6] and far-off Keóza;[8]

Remnica[Y] too, furnished a share of the legions that thronged to the races,

And a bountiful feast was prepared by the diligent hands of the women,

And gaily the multitudes fared in the generous tees of Kathága.

The chief of the mystical clan appointed a feast to Unktéhee-

The mystic "Wacípee Wakán"[Z]-at the end of the day and the races.

A band of sworn brothers are they, and the secrets of each one are sacred,

And death to the lips that betray is the doom of the swarthy avengers,

And the son of tall Wází-kuté was the chief of the mystical order.

* * *

THE FOOT RACES.

On an arm of an oak hangs the prize for the swiftest and strongest of runners-

A blanket as red as the skies, when the flames sweep the plains in October.

And beside it a strong, polished bow, and a quiver of iron-tipped arrows,

Which Kapóza's tall chief will bestow on the fleet-footed second that follows.

A score of swift runners are there from the several bands of the nation,

And now for the race they prepare, and among them fleet-footed Tamdóka.

With the oil of the buck and the bear their sinewy limbs are annointed,

For fleet are the feet of the deer and strong are the limbs of the bruin.

Hark!-the shouts and the braying of drums, and the Babel of tongues and confusion!

From his teepee the tall chieftain comes, and DuLuth brings a prize for the runners-

A keen hunting-knife from the Seine, horn-handled and mounted with silver.

The runners are ranged on the plain, and the Chief waves a flag as a signal,

And away like the gray wolves they fly-like the wolves on the trail of the red-deer;

O'er the hills and the prairie they vie, and strain their strong limbs to the utmost,

While high on the hills hangs a cloud of warriors and maidens and mothers,

To see the swift-runners, and loud are the cheers and the shouts of the warriors.

Now swift from the lake they return o'er the emerald hills of the prairies;

Like grey-hounds they pant and they yearn, and the leader of all is Tamdóka.

At his heels flies Hu-pá-hu,[AA] the fleet-the pride of the band of Kaóza,-

A warrior with eagle-winged feet, but his prize is the bow and the quiver.

Tamdóka first reaches the post, and his are the knife and the blanket,

By the mighty acclaim of the host and award of the chief and the judges.

Then proud was the tall warrior's stride, and haughty his look and demeanor;

He boasted aloud in his pride, and he scoffed at the rest of the runners.

"Behold me, for I am a man![AB] my feet are as swift as the West-wind.

With the coons and the beavers I ran; but where is the elk or the cabri?80

Come!-where is the hunter will dare match his feet with the feet of Tamdóka?

Let him think of Taté[AC] and beware, ere he stake his last robe on the trial."

"Ohó! Ho! Hó-héca!"[AD] they jeered, for they liked not the boast of the boaster;

But to match him no warrior appeared, for his feet wore the wings of the west-wind.

Then forth from the side of the chief stepped DuLuth and he looked on the boaster;

"The words of a warrior are brief,-I will run with the brave," said the Frenchman;

"But the feet of Tamdóka are tired; abide till the cool of the sunset."

All the hunters and maidens admired, for strong were the limbs of the stranger.

"Hiwó Ho!"[AE] they shouted and loud rose the cheers of the multitude mingled;

And there in the midst of the crowd stood the glad-eyed and blushing Winona.

Now afar o'er the plains of the west walked the sun at the end of his journey,

And forth came the brave and the guest, at the tap of the drum, for the trial.

Like a forest of larches the hordes were gathered to witness the contest;

As loud as the drums were their words and they roared like the roar of the Ha-ha.

For some for Tamdóka contend, and some for the fair, bearded stranger,

And the betting runs high to the end, with the skins of the bison and beaver.

A wife of tall Wází-kuté-the mother of boastful Tamdóka-

Brought her handsomest robe from the tee with a vaunting and loud proclamation:

She would stake her last robe on her son who, she boasted, was fleet as the cabri,

And the tall, tawny chieftain looked on, approving the boast of the mother.

Then fleet as the feet of a fawn to her lodge ran the dark-eyed Winona,

She brought and she spread on the lawn, by the side of the robe of the boaster,

The lily-red mantel DuLuth, with his own hands, had laid on her shoulders.

"Tamdóka is swift, but forsooth, the tongue of his mother is swifter,"

She said, and her face was aflame with the red of the rose and the lily,

And loud was the roar of acclaim; but dark was the face of Tamdóka.

They strip for the race and prepare,-DuLuth in his breeches and leggins;

And the brown, curling locks of his hair down droop to his bare, brawny shoulders,

And his face wears a smile debonair, as he tightens his red sash around him;

But stripped to the moccasins bare, save the belt and the breech-clout of buckskin,

Stands the haughty Tamdóka aware that the eyes of the warriors admire him;

For his arms are the arms of a bear and his legs are the legs of a panther.

The drum beats,-the chief waves the flag, and away on the course speed the runners,

And away leads the brave like a stag,-like a bound on his track flies the Frenchman;

And away haste the hunters once more to the hills, for a view to the lakeside,

And the dark-swarming hill-tops, they roar with the storm of loud voices commingled.

Far away o'er the prairie they fly, and still in the lead is Tamdóka,

But the feet of his rival are nigh, and slowly he gains on the hunter.

Now they turn on the post at the lake,-now they run full abreast on the home-stretch:

Side by side they contend for the stake for a long mile or more on the prairie

They strain like a stag and a hound, when the swift river gleams through the thicket,

And the horns of the riders resound, winding shrill through the depths of the forest.

But behold!-at full length on the ground falls the fleet-footed Frenchman abruptly,

And away with a whoop and a bound springs the eager, exulting Tamdóka

Long and loud on the hills is the shout of his swarthy admirers and backers,

"But the race is not won till it's out," said DuLuth, to himself as he gathered,

With a frown on his face, for the foot of the wily Tamdóka had tripped him.

Far ahead ran the brave on the route, and turning he boasted exultant.

Like spurs to the steed to DuLuth were the jeers and the taunts of the boaster;

Indignant was he and red wroth at the trick of the runner dishonest;

And away like a whirlwind he speeds-like a hurricane mad from the mountains;

He gains on Tamdóka,-he leads!-and behold, with the spring of a panther,

He leaps to the goal and succeeds, 'mid the roar of the mad acclamation.

Then glad as the robin in May was the voice of Winona exulting;

Tamdóka turned sullen away, and sulking he walked by the river;

He glowered as he went and the fire of revenge in his bosom was kindled:

Dark was his visage with ire and his eyes were the eyes of a panther.

* * *

THE WAKAN-WACEPEE, OR SACRED DANCE. [81]

Lo the lights in the "Teepee-Wákan!" 'tis the night of the Wákan Wacépee.

Round and round walks the chief of the clan, as he rattles the sacred Ta-shá-kay; [81]

Long and loud on the Chán-che-ga [81] beat the drummers with magical drumsticks,

And the notes of the Ch?-tánka [81] greet like the murmur of winds on the waters.

By the friction of white-cedar wood for the feast was a Virgin-fire [20] kindled.

They that enter the firm brotherhood first must fast and be cleansed by E-neé-pee;[81]

And from foot-sole to crown of the head must they paint with the favorite colors;

For Unktéhee likes bands of blood-red, with the stripings of blue intermingled.

In the hollow earth, dark and profound, Unktéhee and fiery Wakínyan

Long fought, and the terrible sound of the battle was louder than thunder;

The mountains were heaved and around were scattered the hills and the boulders,

And the vast solid plains of the ground rose and fell like the waves of the ocean.

But the god of the waters prevailed. Wakín-yan escaped from the cavern,

And long on the mountains he wailed, and his hatred endureth forever.

When Unktéhee had finished the earth, and the beasts and the birds and the fishes,

And men at his bidding came forth from the heart of the huge hollow mountains,[69]

A band chose the god from the hordes, and he said: "Ye are the sons of Unktéhee:

Ye are lords of the beasts and the birds, and the fishes that swim in the waters.

But hearken ye now to my words,-let them sound in your bosoms forever:

Ye shall honor Unktéhee and hate Wakinyan, the Spirit of Thunder,

For the power of Unktéhee is great, and he laughs at the darts of Wakinyan.

Ye shall honor the Earth and the Sun,-for they are your father and mother; [70]

Let your prayer to the Sun be:-Wakán Até; on-si-md-da oheé-neé."[AF]

And remember the Táku Wakán[73] all-pervading in earth and in ether-

Invisible ever to man, but He dwells in the midst of all matter;

Yea, he dwells in the heart of the stone-in the hard granite heart of the boulder;

Ye shall call him forever Tunkán-grandfather of all the Dakotas.

Ye are men that I choose for my own; ye shall be as a strong band of brothers,

Now I give you the magical bone and the magical pouch of the spirits,[AG]

And these are the laws ye shall heed: Ye shall honor the pouch and the giver.

Ye shall walk as twin-brothers; in need, one shall forfeit his life for another.

Listen not to the voice of the crow.[AH] Hold as sacred the wife of a brother.

Strike, and fear not the shaft of the foe, for the soul of the brave is immortal.

Slay the warrior in battle, but spare the innocent babe and the mother.

Remember a promise,-beware,-let the word of a warrior be sacred

When a stranger arrives at the tee-be he friend of the band or a foeman,

Give him food; let your bounty be free; lay a robe for the guest by the lodge-fire;

Let him go to his kindred in peace, if the peace-pipe he smoke in the teepee;

And so shall your children increase, and your lodges shall laugh with abundance.

And long shall ye live in the land, and the spirits of earth and the waters

Shall come to your aid, at command, with the power of invisible magic.

And at last, when you journey afar-o'er the shining "Wanágee Ta-chán-ku,"[68]

You shall walk as a red, shining star[8] in the land of perpetual summer."

All the night in the teepee they sang, and they danced to the mighty Unktéhee,

While the loud-braying Chán-che-ga rang and the shrill-piping flute and the rattle,

Till Anpétuwee [70] rose in the east-from the couch of the blushing Han-nan-na,

And thus at the dance and the feast sang the sons of Unktéhee in chorus:

"Wa-dú-ta o-hná mi-ká-ge!

Wa-dú-ta o-hná mi-ká-ge!

Mini-yata ité wakandè makú,

Atè wakán-Tunkánsidan.

Tunkansidan pejihúta wakán

Micagè-he Wicagè!

Miniyáta ité wakándè makú.

Taukánsidan ité, nápè dú-win-ta woo,

Wahut?pa wan yúha, nápè dú-win-ta woo."

TRANSLATION.

In red swan-down he made it for me;

In red swan-down he made it for me;

He of the water-he of the mysterious face-

Gave it to me;

Sacred Father-Grandfather!

Grandfather made me magical medicine.

That is true!

Being of mystery,-grown in the water-

He gave it to me!

To the face of our Grandfather stretch out your hand;

Holding a quadruped, stretch out your hand!

Till high o'er the hills of the east Anpétuwee walked on his journey,

In secret they danced at the feast, and communed with the mighty Unktéhee.

Then opened the door of the tee to the eyes of the wondering Dakotas,

And the sons of Unktéhee to be, were endowed with the sacred Ozúha[82]

By the son of tall Wazí-kuté, Tamdóka, the chief of the Magi.

And thus since the birth-day of man-since he sprang from the heart of the mountains,[69]

Has the sacred "Wacépee Wakán" by the warlike Dakotas been honored,

And the god-favored sons of the clan work their will with the help of the spirits.

* * *

WINONA'S WARNING.

'Twas sunrise; the spirits of mist trailed their white robes on dewy savannas,

And the flowers raised their heads to be kissed by the first golden beams of the morning.

The breeze was abroad with the breath of the rose of the Isles of the Summer,

And the humming-bird hummed on the heath from his home in the land of the rainbow.[AI]

'Twas the morn of departure. DuLuth stood alone by the roar of the Ha-ha;

Tall and fair in the strength of his youth stood the blue-eyed and fair-bearded Frenchman.

A rustle of robes on the grass broke his dream as he mused by the waters,

And, turning, he looked on the face of Winona, wild-rose of the prairies,

Half hid in her dark, flowing hair, like the round, golden moon in the pine-tops.

Admiring he gazed-she was fair as his own blooming Flore in her orchards,

With her golden locks loose on the air, like the gleam of the sun through the olives,

Far away on the vine-covered shore, in the sun-favored land of his fathers.

"Lists the chief to the cataract's roar for the mournful lament of the Spirit?"[AJ]

Said Winona,-"The wail of the sprite for her babe and its father unfaithful,

Is heard in the midst of the night, when the moon wanders dim in the heavens."

"Wild-Rose of the Prairies," he said, "DuLuth listens not to the Ha-ha,

For the wail of the ghost of the dead for her babe and its father unfaithful;

But he lists to a voice in his heart that is heard by the ear of no other,

And to-day will the White Chief depart; he returns to the land of the sunrise."

"Let Winona depart with the chief,-she will kindle the fire in his teepee;

For long are the days of her grief, if she stay in the tee of Ta-té-psin,"

She replied, and her cheeks were aflame with the bloom of the wild prairie lilies.

"Tanke[AK], is the White Chief to blame?" said DuLuth to the blushing Winona.

"The White Chief is blameless," she said, "but the heart of Winona will follow

Wherever thy footsteps may lead, O blue-eyed, brave Chief of the white men.

For her mother sleeps long in the mound, and a step-mother rules in the teepee,

And her father, once strong and renowned, is bent with the weight of his winters.

No longer he handles the spear,-no longer his swift, humming arrows

Overtake the fleet feet of the deer, or the bear of the woods, or the bison;

But he bends as he walks, and the wind shakes his white hair and hinders his footsteps;

And soon will he leave me behind, without brother or sister or kindred.

The doe scents the wolf in the wind, and a wolf walks the path of Winona.

Three times have the gifts for the bride[55] to the lodge of Ta-té-psin been carried,

But the voice of Winona replied that she liked not the haughty Tamdóka.

And thrice were the gifts sent away, but the tongue of the mother protested,

And the were-wolf[52] still follows his prey, and abides but the death of my father."

"I pity Winona," he said, "but my path is a pathway of danger,

And long is the trail for the maid to the far-away land of the sunrise;

And few are the braves of my band, and the braves of Tamdóka are many;

But soon I return to the land, and a cloud of my hunters will follow.

When the cold winds of winter return and toss the white robes of the prairies,

The fire of the White Chief will burn in his lodge at the Meeting-of-Waters;[AL]

And when from the Sunrise again comes the chief of the sons of the Morning,

Many moons will his hunters remain in the land of the friendly Dakotas.

The son of Chief Wází-Kuté guides the White Chief afar on his journey;

Nor long on the Tanka Medé[AM]-on the breast of the blue, bounding billows-

Shall the bark of the Frenchman delay, but his pathway shall kindle behind him."

She was pale, and her hurried voice swelled with alarm as she questioned replying-

"Tamdóka thy guide?-I beheld thy death in his face at the races.

He covers his heart with a smile, but revenge never sleeps in his bosom;

His tongue-it is soft to beguile; but beware of the pur of the panther!

For death, like a shadow, will walk by thy side in the midst of the forest,

Or follow thy path like a hawk on the trail of a wounded Mastínca.[AN]

A son of Unktéhee is he,-the Chief of the crafty magicians;

They have plotted thy death; I can see thy trail-it is red in the forest;

Beware of Tamdóka,-beware. Slumber not like the grouse of the woodlands,

With head under wing, for the glare of the eyes that sleep not are upon thee."

"Winona, fear not," said DuLuth, "for I carry the fire of Wakínyan[AO]

And strong is the arm of my youth, and stout are the hearts of my warriors;

But Winona has spoken the truth, and the heart of the White Chief is thankful.

Hide this in thy bosom, dear maid,-'tis the crucified Christ of the white men.[AP]

Lift thy voice to his spirit in need, and his spirit will hear thee and answer;

For often he comes to my aid; he is stronger than all the Dakotas;

And the Spirits of evil, afraid, hide away when he looks from the heavens."

In her swelling, brown bosom she hid the crucified Jesus in silver;

"Niwástè,"[AQ] she sadly replied; in her low voice the rising tears trembled;

Her dewy eyes turned she aside, and she slowly returned to the teepees.

But still on the swift river's strand, admiring the graceful Winona,

As she gathered, with brown, dimpled hand, her hair from the wind, stood the Frenchman.

* * *

DULUTH'S DEPARTURE

To bid the brave White Chief adieu, on the shady shore gathered the warriors;

His glad boatmen manned the canoe, and the oars in their hands were impatient.

Spake the Chief of Isántees: "A feast will await the return of my brother.

In peace rose the sun in the East, in peace in the West he descended.

May the feet of my brother be swift till they bring him again to our teepees,

The red pipe he takes as a gift, may he smoke that red pipe many winters.

At my lodge-fire his pipe shall be lit, when the White Chief returns to Kathága;

On the robes of my tee shall he sit; he shall smoke with the chiefs of my people.

The brave love the brave, and his son sends the Chief as a guide for his brother,

By the way of the Wákpa Wakán[AR] to the Chief at the Lake of the Spirits.

As light as the foot-steps of dawn are the feet of the stealthy Tamdóka;

He fears not the Máza Wakán;[AS] he is sly as the fox of the forest.

When he dances the dance of red war howl the wolves by the broad Mini-ya-ta,[AT]

For they scent on the south-wind afar their feast on the bones of Ojibways."

Thrice the Chief puffed the red pipe of peace, ere it passed to the lips of the Frenchman.

Spake DuLuth: "May the Great Spirit bless with abundance the Chief and his people;

May their sons and their daughters increase, and the fire ever burn in their teepees."

Then he waved with a flag his adieu to the Chief and the warriors assembled;

And away shot Tamdóka's canoe to the strokes of ten sinewy hunters;

And a white path he clove up the blue, bubbling stream of the swift Mississippi;

And away on his foaming trail flew, like a sea-gull, the bark of the Frenchman.

[Illustration:TWO HUNDRED WHITE WINTERS AND MORE HAVE FLED FROM THE FACE OF THE SUMMER ...

* * * * *

AH, LITTLE HE DREAMED THEN, FORSOOTH, THAT A CITY WOULD STAND ON THAT HILL SIDE]

Then merrily rose the blithe song of the voyageurs homeward returning,

And thus, as they glided along, sang the bugle-voiced boatmen in chorus:

SONG.

Home again! home again! bend to the oar!

Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.

He rides on the river with his paddle in his hand,

And his boat is his shelter on the water and the land.

The clam has his shell and the water-turtle too,

But the brave boatman's shell is his birch-bark canoe.

So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar;

Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.

Home again! home again! bend to the oar!

Merry is the life of the gay voyageur,

His couch is as downy as a couch can be,

For he sleeps on the feathers of the green fir-tree.

He dines on the fat of the pemmican-sack,

And his eau de vie is the eau de lac.

So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar;

Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.

Home again! home again! bend to the oar!

Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.

The brave, jolly boatman,-he never is afraid

When he meets at the portage a red, forest maid,

A Huron, or a Cree, or a blooming Chippeway;

And he marks his trail with the bois brulés[AU]

So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar;

Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.

Home again! home again! bend to the oar!

Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.

In the reeds of the meadow the stag lifts his branchy head stately and listens,

And the bobolink, perched on the flag, her ear sidelong bends to the chorus.

From the brow of the Beautiful Isle,[AV] half hid in the midst of the maples,

The sad-faced Winona, the while, watched the boat growing less in the distance,

Till away in the bend of the stream, where it turned and was lost in the lindens,

She saw the last dip and the gleam of the oars ere they vanished forever.

Still afar on the waters the song, like bridal bells distantly chiming,

The stout, jolly boatmen prolong, beating time with the stroke of their paddles;

And Winona's ear, turned to the breeze, lists the air falling fainter and fainter,

Till it dies like the murmur of bees when the sun is aslant on the meadows.

Blow, breezes,-blow softly and sing in the dark, flowing hair of the maiden;

But never again shall you bring the voice that she loves to Winona.

* * *

THE CANOE RACE.

Now a light rustling wind from the South shakes his wings o'er the wide, wimpling waters:

Up the dark-winding river DuLuth follows fast in the wake of Tamdóka.

On the slopes of the emerald shores leafy woodlands and prairies alternate;

On the vine-tangled islands the flowers peep timidly out at the white men;

In the dark-winding eddy the loon sits warily watching and voiceless,

And the wild-goose, in reedy lagoon, stills the prattle and play of her children.

The does and their sleek, dappled fawns prick their ears and peer out from the thickets,

And the bison-calves play on the lawns, and gambol like colts in the clover.

Up the still-flowing Wákpa Wakán's winding path through the groves and the meadows,

Now DuLuth's brawny boatmen pursue the swift-gliding bark of Tamdóka;

And hardly the red braves out-do the stout, steady oars of the white men.

Now they bend to their oars in the race-the ten tawny braves of Tamdóka;

And hard on their heels in the chase ply the six stalwart oars of the Frenchmen.

In the stern of his boat sits DuLuth; in the stern of his boat sits Tamdóka,

And warily, cheerily, both urge the oars of their men to the utmost.

Far-stretching away to the eyes, winding blue in the midst of the meadows,

As a necklet of sapphires that lies unclaspt in the lap of a virgin,

Here asleep in the lap of the plain lies the reed-bordered, beautiful river.

Like two flying coursers that strain, on the track, neck and neck on the home-stretch,

With nostrils distended and mane froth-flecked, and the neck and the shoulders,

Each urged to his best by the cry and the whip and the rein of his rider,

Now they skim o'er the waters and fly, side by side, neck and neck, through the meadows,

The blue heron flaps from the reeds, and away wings her course up the river:

Straight and swift is her flight o'er the meads, but she hardly outstrips the canoemen.

See! the voyageurs bend to their oars till the blue veins swell out on their foreheads;

And the sweat from their brawny breasts pours; but in vain their Herculean labor;

For the oars of Tamdóka are ten, and but six are the oars of the Frenchman,

And the red warriors' burden of men is matched by the voyageurs' luggage.

Side by side, neck and neck, for a mile, still they strain their strong arms to the utmost,

Till rounding a willowy isle, now ahead creeps the boat of Tamdóka,

And the neighboring forests profound, and the far-stretching plain of the meadows

To the whoop of the victors resound, while the panting French rest on their paddles.

* * *

IN CAMP.

With sable wings wide o'er the land night sprinkles the dew of the heavens;

And hard by the dark river's strand, in the midst of a tall, somber forest,

Two camp fires are lighted and beam on the trunks and the arms of the pine trees.

In the fitful light darkle and gleam the swarthy-hued faces around them.

And one is the camp of DuLuth, and the other the camp of Tamdóka.

But few are the jests and uncouth of the voyageurs over their supper,

While moody and silent the braves round their fire in a circle sit crouching;

And low is the whisper of leaves and the sough of the wind in the branches;

And low is the long-winding howl of the lone wolf afar in the forest;

But shrill is the hoot of the owl, like a bugle-blast blown in the pine-tops,

And the half-startled voyageurs scowl at the sudden and saucy intruder.

Like the eyes of the wolves are the eyes of the watchful and silent Dakotas;

Like the face of the moon in the skies, when the clouds chase each other across it,

Is Tamdóka's dark face in the light of the flickering flames of the camp-fire.

They have plotted red murder by night, and securely contemplate their victims.

But wary and armed to the teeth are the resolute Frenchmen, and ready,

If need be, to grapple with death, and to die hand to hand in the forest.

Yet skilled in the arts and the wiles of the cunning and crafty Algonkins[AW]

They cover their hearts with their smiles, and hide their suspicions of evil.

Round their low, smouldering fire, feigning sleep, lie the watchful and wily Dakotas;

But DuLuth and his voyageurs heap their fire that shall blaze till the morning,

Ere they lay themselves snugly to rest, with their guns by their sides on the blankets,

As if there were none to molest but the gray, skulking wolves of the forest.

'Tis midnight. The rising moon gleams, weird and still, o'er the dusky horizon;

Through the hushed, somber forest she beams, and fitfully gloams on the meadows;

And a dim, glimmering pathway she paves, at times, on the dark stretch of river.

The winds are asleep in the caves-in the heart of the far-away mountains;

And here on the meadows and there, the lazy mists gather and hover;

And the lights of the Fen-Spirits[72] flare and dance on the low-lying marshes,

As still as the footsteps of death by the bed of the babe and its mother;

And hushed are the pines, and beneath lie the weary-limbed boatmen in slumber.

Walk softly,-walk softly, O Moon, through the gray, broken clouds in thy pathway,

For the earth lies asleep and the boon of repose is bestowed on the weary.

Toiling hands have forgotten their care; e'en the brooks have forgotten to murmur;

But hark!-there's a sound on the air!-'tis the light-rustling robes of the Spirits,

Like the breath of the night in the leaves, or the murmur of reeds on the river,

In the cool of the mid-summer eyes, when the blaze of the day has descended.

Low-crouching and shadowy forms, as still as the gray morning's footsteps,

Creep sly as the serpent that charms, on her nest in the meadow, the plover;

In the shadows of pine-trunks they creep, but their panther-eyes gleam in the fire-light,

As they peer on the white-men asleep, in the glow of the fire, on their blankets.

Lo in each swarthy right-hand a knife; in the left-hand, the bow and the arrows!

Brave Frenchmen, awake to the strife!-or you sleep in the forest forever.

Nay, nearer and nearer they glide, like ghosts on the field of their battles,

Till close on the sleepers, they bide but the signal of death from Tamdóka.

Still the sleepers sleep on. Not a breath stirs the leaves of the awe-stricken forest;

The hushed air is heavy with death; like the footsteps of death are the moments.

"Arise!"-At the word, with a bound, to their feet spring the vigilant Frenchmen;

And the depths of the forest resound to the crack and the roar of their rifles;

And seven writhing forms on the ground clutch the earth. From the pine-tops the screech-owl

Screams and flaps his wide wings in affright, and plunges away through the shadows;

And swift on the wings of the night flee the dim, phantom-forms through the darkness.

Like cabris[80] when white wolves pursue, fled the four yet remaining Dakotas;

Through forest and fen-land they flew, and wild terror howled on their footsteps.

And one was Tamdóka. DuLuth through the night sent his voice like a trumpet:

"Ye are Sons of Unktéhee, forsooth! Return to your mothers, ye cowards!"

His shrill voice they heard as they fled, but only the echoes made answer.

At the feet of the brave Frenchmen, dead, lay seven swarthy Sons of whitehead;

And there, in the midst of the slain, they found, as it gleamed in the fire-light,

The horn-handled knife from the Seine, where it fell from the hand of Tamdóka.

[Illustration:NEARER AND NEARER THEY GLIDE LIKE GHOSTS ON THE FIELDS OF THEIR BATTLES. TILL CLOSE ON THE SLEEPERS, THEY BIDE FOR THE SIGNAL OF DEATH FROM TAMDOKA]

In the gray of the morn, ere the sun peeped over the dewy horizon,

Their journey again was begun, and they toiled up the swift, winding river;

And many a shallow they passed on their way to the Lake of the Spirits;[AX]

But dauntless they reached it at last, and found Akee-pá-kee-tin's[AY] village,

On an isle in the midst of the lake; and a day in his teepees they tarried.

Of the deed in the wilderness spake, to the brave Chief, the frank-hearted Frenchman.

A generous man was the Chief, and a friend of the fearless explorer;

And dark was his visage with grief at the treacherous act of the warriors.

"Brave Wází-kuté is a man, and his heart is as clear as the sunlight;

But the head of a treacherous clan and a snake-in-the-grass, is Tamdóka,"

Said the chief; and he promised DuLuth, on the word of a friend and a warrior,

To carry the pipe and the truth to his cousin, the chief at Kathága;

For thrice at the Tanka Medé he smoked in the lodge of the Frenchman;

And thrice had he carried away the bountiful gifts of the trader.

When the chief could no longer prevail on the white men to rest in his teepees,

He guided their feet on the trail to the lakes of the winding Rice-River.[AZ]

Now on speeds the light bark canoe, through the lakes to the broad Gitchee Seebee;[BA]

And up the great river they row,-up the Big Sandy Lake and Savanna;

And down through the meadows they go to the river of blue Gitchee-Gumee.[BB]

Still onward they speed to the Dalles-to the roar of the white-rolling rapids,

Where the dark river tumbles and falls down the ragged ravine of the mountains.

And singing his wild jubilee to the low-moaning pines and the cedars,

Rushes on to the unsalted sea o'er the ledges upheaved by volcanoes.

Their luggage the voyageurs bore down the long, winding path of the portage,[BC]

While they mingled their song with the roar of the turbid and turbulent waters.

Down-wimpling and murmuring there 'twixt two dewy hills winds a streamlet,

Like a long, flaxen ringlet of hair on the breast of a maid in her slumber.

All safe at the foot of the trail, where they left it, they found their felucca,

And soon to the wind spread the sail, and glided at ease through the waters,-

Through the meadows and lakelets and forth, round the point stretching south like a finger,

From the pine-plumed hills on the north, sloping down to the bay and the lake-side

And behold, at the foot of the hill, a cluster of Chippewa wigwams,

And the busy wives plying with skill their nets in the emerald waters.

Two hundred white winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer

Since DuLuth on that wild, somber shore, in the unbroken forest primeval,

From the midst of the spruce and the pines, saw the smoke of the wigwams up-curling,

Like the fumes from the temples and shrines of the Druids of old in their forests.

Ah, little he dreamed then, forsooth, that a city would stand on that hill-side,

And bear the proud name of DuLuth, the untiring and dauntless explorer,-

A refuge for ships from the storms, and for men from the bee-hives of Europe,

Out-stretching her long, iron arms o'er an empire of Saxons and Normans.

The swift west-wind sang in the sails, and on flew the boat like a sea-gull,

By the green, templed hills and the dales, and the dark, rugged rocks of the North Shore;

For the course of the brave Frenchman lay to his fort at the Gáh-mah-na-ték-wáhk,[83]

By the shore of the grand Thunder Bay, where the gray rocks loom up into mountains;

Where the Stone Giant sleeps on the Cape, and the god of the storms makes the thunder,[83]

And the Makinak[83] lifts his huge shape from the breast of the blue-rolling waters.

And thence to the south-westward led his course to the Holy Ghost Mission,[84]

Where the Black Robes, the brave shepherds, fed their wild sheep on the isle Wauga-bá-mè,[84]

In the enchanting Cha-quám-e-gon Bay defended by all the Apostles,[BD]

And thence, by the Ké-we-naw, lay his course to the Mission Sainte Marie,[BE]

Now the waves clap their myriad hands, and streams the white hair of the surges;

DuLuth at the steady helm stands, and he hums as he bounds o'er the billows:

O sweet is the carol of bird,

And sweet is the murmur of streams,

But sweeter the voice that I heard-

In the night-in the midst of my dreams.

* * *

WINONA AND TA-TE-PSIN.

'Tis the moon of the sere, falling leaves. From the heads of the maples the west-wind

Plucks the red-and-gold plumage and grieves on the meads for the rose and the lily;

Their brown leaves the moaning oaks strew, and the breezes that roam on the prairies,

Low-whistling and wanton pursue the down of the silk-weed and thistle.

All sere are the prairies and brown in the glimmer and haze of the Autumn;

From the far northern marshes flock down, by thousands, the geese and the mallards.

From the meadows and wide-prairied plains, for their long southward journey preparing.

In croaking flocks gather the cranes, and choose with loud clamor their leaders.

The breath of the evening is cold, and lurid along the horizon

The flames of the prairies are rolled, on the somber skies flashing their torches.

At noontide a shimmer of gold through the haze pours the sun from his pathway.

The wild-rice is gathered and ripe, on the moors, lie the scarlet po-pan-ka,[BF]

Michábo[85] is smoking his pipe,-'tis the soft, dreamy Indian Summer,

When the god of the South[3] as he flies from Wazíya, the god of the Winter,

For a time turns his beautiful eyes, and backward looks over his shoulder.

It is noon. From his path in the skies the red sun looks down on Kathága.

Asleep in the valley it lies, for the swift hunters follow the bison.

Ta-té-psin, the aged brave, bends as he walks by the side of Winona;

Her arm to his left hand she lends, and he feels with his staff for the pathway;

On his slow, feeble footsteps attends his gray dog, the watchful Wicháka; [BG]

For blind in his years is the chief of a fever that followed the Summer,

And the days of Ta-té-psin are brief. Once more by the dark-rolling river

Sits the Chief in the warm, dreamy haze of the beautiful Summer in Autumn;

And the faithful dog lovingly lays his head at the feet of his master.

On a dead, withered branch sits a crow, down-peering askance at the old man;

On the marge of the river below romp the nut-brown and merry-voiced children,

And the dark waters silently flow, broad and deep, to the plunge of the Ha-ha.

By his side sat Winona. He laid his thin, shriveled hand on her tresses,

"Winona my daughter," he said, "no longer thy father beholds thee;

But he feels the long locks of thy hair, and the days that are gone are remembered,

When Sisóka [BH] sat faithful and fair in the lodge of swift footed Ta-té-psin.

The white years have broken my spear; from my bow they have taken the bow-string;

But once on the trail of the deer, like a gray wolf from sunrise till sunset,

By woodland and meadow and mere, ran the feet of Ta-té-psin untiring.

But dim are the days that are gone, and darkly around me they wander,

Like the pale, misty face of the moon when she walks through the storm of the winter;

And sadly they speak in my ear. I have looked on the graves of my kindred.

The Land of the Spirits is near. Death walks by my side like a shadow.

Now open thine ear to my voice, and thy heart to the wish of thy father,

And long will Winona rejoice that she heeded the words of Ta-té-psin.

The cold, cruel winter is near, and famine will sit in the teepee.

What hunter will bring me the deer, or the flesh of the bear or the bison?

For my kinsmen before me have gone; they hunt in the land of the shadows.

In my old age forsaken, alone, must I die in my teepee of hunger?

Winona, Tamdóka can make my empty lodge laugh with abundance;

For thine aged and blind father's sake, to the son of the Chief speak the promise.

For gladly again to my tee will the bridal gifts come for my daughter.

A fleet-footed hunter is he, and the good spirits feather his arrows;

And the cold, cruel winter will be a feast-time instead of a famine."

"My father," she said, and her voice was filial and full of compassion,

"Would the heart of Ta-té-psin rejoice at the death of Winona, his daughter?

The crafty Tamdóka I hate. Must I die in his teepee of sorrow?

For I love the White Chief and I wait his return to the land of Dakotas.

When the cold winds of winter return, and toss the white robes of the prairies,

The fire of the White Chief will burn in his lodge at the Meeting-of-Waters.

Winona's heart followed his feet far away to the land of the Morning,

And she hears in her slumber his sweet, kindly voice call the name of thy daughter.

My father, abide, I entreat, the return of the brave to Katáhga.

The wild-rice is gathered, the meat of the bison is stored in the teepee;

Till the Coon-Moon[71] enough and to spare; and if then the white warrior return not,

Winona will follow the bear and the coon to their dens in the forest.

She is strong; she can handle the spear; she can bend the stout bow of the hunter;

And swift on the trail of the deer will she run o'er the snow on her snow-shoes.

Let the step-mother sit in the tee, and kindle the fire for my father;

And the cold, cruel winter shall be a feast-time instead of a famine."

"The White Chief will never return," half angrily muttered Ta-té-psin;

"His camp-fire will nevermore burn in the land of the warriors he slaughtered.

I grieve, for my daughter has said that she loves the false friend of her kindred;

For the hands of the White Chief are red with the blood of the trustful Dakotas."

Then warmly Winona replied, "Tamdóka himself is the traitor,

And the brave-hearted stranger had died by his treacherous hand in the forest,

But thy daughter's voice bade him beware of the sly death that followed his footsteps.

The words of Tamdóka are fair, but his heart is the den of the serpents.

When the braves told their tale like a bird sang the heart of Winona rejoicing,

But gladlier still had she heard of the death of the crafty Tamdóka.

The Chief will return; he is bold, and he carries the fire of Wakínyan:

To our people the truth will be told, and Tamdóka will hide like a coward."

His thin locks the aged brave shook; to himself half inaudibly muttered;

To Winona no answer he spoke,-only moaned he "Micúnksee! Micúnksee![BI]

In my old age forsaken and blind! Yun-hé-hé! Micúnksee! Micúnksee!"[BJ]

And Wicháka, the pitying dog, whined as he looked on the face of his master.

* * *

FAMINE.

Wazíya came down from the North-from the land of perpetual winter.

From his frost-covered beard issued forth the sharp-biting, shrill-whistling North-wind;

At the touch of his breath the wide earth turned to stone, and the lakes and the rivers:

From his nostrils the white vapors rose, and they covered the sky like a blanket.

Like the down of Magá[BK] fell the snows, tossed and whirled into heaps by the North-wind.

Then the blinding storms roared on the plains, like the simoons on sandy Sahara;

From the fangs of the fierce hurricanes fled the elk and the deer and the bison.

Ever colder and colder it grew, till the frozen ground cracked and split open;

And harder and harder it blew, till the hillocks were bare as the boulders.

To the southward the buffalos fled, and the white rabbits hid in their burrows;

On the bare sacred mounds of the dead howled the gaunt, hungry wolves in the night-time,

The strong hunters crouched in their tees; by the lodge-fires the little ones shivered;

And the Magic-Men[BL] danced to appease, in their teepee, the wrath of Wazíya;

But famine and fatal disease, like phantoms, crept into the village.

The Hard Moon[BM] was past, but the moon when the coons make their trails in the forest[BN]

Grew colder and colder. The coon, or the bear, ventured not from his cover;

For the cold, cruel Arctic simoon swept the earth like the breath of a furnace.

In the tee of Ta-té-psin the store of wild-rice and dried meat was exhausted;

And Famine crept in at the door, and sat crouching and gaunt by the lodge-fire.

But now with the saddle of deer and the gifts came the crafty Tamdóka;

And he said, "Lo I bring you good cheer, for I love the blind Chief and his daughter.

Take the gifts of Tamdóka, for dear to his heart is the dark-eyed Winona."

The aged Chief opened his ears; in his heart he already consented:

But the moans of his child and her tears touched the age-softened heart of the father,

And he said, "I am burdened with years,-I am bent by the snows of my winters;

Ta-té-psin will die in his tee; let him pass to the Land of the Spirits;

But Winona is young; she is free and her own heart shall choose her a husband."

The dark warrior strode from the tee; low-muttering and grim he departed;

"Let him die in his lodge," muttered he, "but Winona shall kindle my lodge-fire."

Then forth went Winona. The bow of Ta-té-psin she took and his arrows,

And afar o'er the deep, drifted snow through the forest she sped on her snow shoes.

Over meadow and ice-covered mere, through the thickets of red-oak and hazel,

She followed the tracks of the deer, but like phantoms they fled from her vision.

From sunrise to sunset she sped; half famished she camped in the thicket;

In the cold snow she made her lone bed; on the buds of the birch[BO] made her supper.

To the dim moon the gray owl preferred, from the tree-top, his shrill lamentation,

And around her at midnight she heard the dread famine-cries of the gray wolves.

In the gloam of the morning again on the trail of the red-deer she followed-

All day long through the thickets in vain, for the gray wolves were chasing the roebucks;

And the cold, hungry winds from the plain chased the wolves and the deer and Winona.

In the twilight of sundown she sat in the forest, all weak and despairing;

Ta-té-psin's bow lay at her feet, and his otter-skin quiver of arrows

"He promised,-he promised," she said,-half-dreamily uttered and mournful,-

"And why comes he not? Is he dead? Was he slain by the crafty Tamdóka?

Must Winona, alas, make her choice-make her choice between death and Tamdóka?

She will die, but her soul will rejoice in the far Summer-land of the spirits.

Hark! I hear his low, musical voice! he is coming! My White Chief is coming!

Ah, no, I am half in a dream!-'twas the memory of days long departed;

But the birds of the green Summer seem to be singing above in the branches."

Then forth from her bosom she drew the crucified Jesus in silver.

In her dark hair the cold north-wind blew, as meekly she bent o'er the image.

"O Christ of the Whiteman," she prayed, "lead the feet of my brave to Kathága;

Send a good spirit down to my aid, or the friend of the White Chief will perish."

Then a smile on her wan features played, and she lifted her pale face and chanted

"E-ye-he-ktá! E-ye-he-ktá!

Hé-kta-cè; é-ye-ce-quón.

Mí-Wamdee-ská, he-he-ktá,

He-kta-cè, é-ye-ce-quón,

Mí-Wamdee-ská."

[TRANSLATON]

He will come; he will come;

He will come, for he promised.

My White Eagle, he will come;

He will come, for he promised--

My White Eagle.

Thus sadly she chanted, and lo-allured by her sorrowful accents-

From the dark covert crept a red roe and wonderingly gazed on Winona.

Then swift caught the huntress her bow; from her trembling hand hummed the keen arrow.

Up-leaped the red roebuck and fled, but the white snow was sprinkled with scarlet,

And he fell in the oak thicket dead. On the trail ran the eager Winona.

Half-famished the raw flesh she ate. To the hungry maid sweet was her supper

Then swift through the night ran her feet, and she trailed the sleek roebuck behind her;

And the guide of her steps was a star-the cold-glinting star of Wazíya[BP]-

Over meadow and hilltop afar, on the way to the lodge of her father.

But hark! on the keen frosty air wind the shrill hunger-howls of the gray-wolves!

And nearer,-still nearer!-the blood of the deer have they scented and follow;

Through the thicket, the meadow, the wood, dash the pack on the trail of Winona.

Swift she speeds with her burden, but swift on her track fly the minions of famine;

Now they yell on the view from the drift, in the reeds at the marge of the meadow;

Red gleam their wild, ravenous eyes, for they see on the hill-side their supper;

The dark forest echoes their cries, but her heart is the heart of a warrior.

From its sheath snatched Winona her knife, and a leg from the roebuck she severed;

With the carcass she ran for her life,-to a low-branching oak ran the maiden;

Round the deer's neck her head-strap[BQ] was tied; swiftly she sprang to the arms of the oak-tree;

Quick her burden she drew to her side, and higher she clomb on the branches,

While the maddened wolves battled and bled, dealing death o'er the leg to each other;

Their keen fangs devouring the dead,-yea, devouring the flesh of the living,

They raved and they gnashed and they growled, like the fiends in the regions infernal;

The wide night re-echoing howled, and the hoarse North-wind laughed o'er the slaughter.

But their ravenous maws unappeased by the blood and the flesh of their fellows,

To the cold wind their muzzles they raised, and the trail to the oak-tree they followed.

Round and round it they howled for the prey, madly leaping and snarling and snapping;

But the brave maiden's keen arrows slay, till the dead number more than the living.

All the long, dreary night-time, at bay, in the oak sat the shivering Winona;

But the sun gleamed at last, and away skulked the gray cowards[BR] down through the forest.

Then down dropped the deer and the maid. Ere the sun reached the midst of his journey,

Her red, welcome burden she laid at the feet of her famishing father.

Wazíya's wild wrath was appeased, and homeward he turned to his teepee,[3]

O'er the plains and the forest-land breezed from the Islands of Summer the South-wind.

From their dens came the coon and the bear; o'er the snow through the woodlands they wandered;

On her snow-shoes with stout bow and spear on their trails ran the huntress Winona.

The coon to his den in the tree, and the bear to his burrow she followed;

A brave, skillful hunter was she, and Ta-té-psin's lodge laughed with abundance.

[Illustration]

* * *

DEATH OF TA-TE-PSIN.

The long winter wanes. On the wings of the spring come the geese and the mallards;

On the bare oak the red-robin sings, and the crocus peeps up on the prairies,

And the bobolink pipes, but he brings of the blue-eyed, brave White Chief no tidings.

With the waning of winter, alas, waned the life of the aged Ta-té-psin;

Ere the wild pansies peeped from the grass, to the Land of the Spirits he journeyed;

Like a babe in its slumber he passed, or the snow from the hill-tops of April;

And the dark-eyed Winona, at last, stood alone by the graves of her kindred.

When their myriad mouths opened the trees to the sweet dew of heaven and the raindrops,

And the April showers fell on the leas, on his mound fell the tears of Winona.

Round her drooping form gathered the years and the spirits unseen of her kindred,

As low, in the midst of her tears, at the grave of her father she chanted

E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!

E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!

E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!

Ma-kàh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày.

Tú-way ne ktáy snee e-yáy-chen e-wáh chày.

E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!

E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!

Ma-kàh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày.

[TRANSLATION].

Sore is my sorrow!

Sore is my sorrow!

Sore is my sorrow!

The earth alone lasts.

I speak as one dying;

Sore is my sorrow!

Sore is my sorrow!

The earth alone lasts.

Still hope, like a star in the night gleaming oft through the broken clouds somber,

Cheered the heart of Winona, and bright on her dreams beamed the face of the Frenchman.

As the thought of a loved one and lost, sad and sweet were her thoughts of the White Chief;

In the moon's mellow light, like a ghost, walked Winona alone by the Ha-Ha,

Ever wrapped in a dream. Far away-to the land of the sunrise-she wandered;

On the blue-rolling Tánka-Medé[BS] in the midst of her dreams, she beheld him-

In his white-winged canoe, like a bird, to the land of Dakotas returning,

And often in fancy she heard the dip of his oars on the river.

On the dark waters glimmered the moon, but she saw not the boat of the Frenchman.

On the somber night bugled the loon, but she heard not the song of the boatmen.

The moon waxed and waned, but the star of her hope never waned to the setting;

Through her tears she beheld it afar, like a torch on the eastern horizon.

"He will come,-he is coming," she said; "he will come, for my White Eagle promised,"

And low to the bare earth the maid bent her ear for the sound of his footsteps,

"He is gone, but his voice in my ear still remains like the voice of the robin;

He is far, but his footsteps I hear; he is coming; my White Chief is coming!"

But the moon waxed and waned. Nevermore will the eyes of Winona behold him.

Far away on the dark, rugged shore of the blue Gitchee Gúmee he lingers.

No tidings the rising sun brings; no tidings the star of the evening;

But morning and evening she sings, like a turtle-dove widowed and waiting:

Aké u, aké u, aké u;

Ma cántè maséeca.

Aké u, aké u, aké u;

Ma cántè maséca.

Come again, come again, come again;

For my heart is sad.

Come again, come again, come again;

For my heart is sad.

* * *

DEATH OF WINONA.

Down the broad Ha-Ha Wák-pa[BT] the band took their way to the Games at Keóza[8]

While the swift-footed hunters by land ran the shores for the elk and the bison.

Like magás[BU] ride the birchen canoes on the breast of the dark, winding river,

By the willow-fringed island they cruise, by the grassy hills green to their summits;

By the lofty bluffs hooded with oaks that darken the deep with their shadows;

And bright in the sun gleam the strokes of the oars in the hands of the women.

With the band went Winona. The oar plied the maid with the skill of a hunter.

They tarried a time on the shore of Remníca-the Lake of the Mountains.[BV]

There the fleet hunters followed the deer, and the thorny pahin[BW] for the women

From the tees rose the smoke of good cheer, curling blue through the tops of the maples,

Near the foot of a cliff that arose, like the battle-scarred walls of a castle,

Up-towering, in rugged repose, to a dizzy height over the waters.

But the man-wolf still followed his prey, and the step-mother ruled in the teepee;

Her will must Winona obey, by the custom and law of Dakotas.

The gifts to the teepee were brought-the blankets and beads of the White men,

And Winona, the orphaned, was bought by the crafty, relentless Tamdóka.

In the Spring-time of life, in the flush of the gladsome mid-May days of Summer,

When the bobolink sang and the thrush, and the red robin chirped in the branches,

To the tent of the brave must she go; she must kindle the fire in his teepee;

She must sit in the lodge of her foe, as a slave at the feet of her master.

Alas for her waiting! the wings of the East-wind have brought her no tidings;

On the meadow the meadow-lark sings, but sad is her song to Winona,

For the glad warbler's melody brings but the memory of voices departed.

The Day-Spirit walked in the west to his lodge in the land of the shadows;

His shining face gleamed on the crest of the oak-hooded hills and the mountains,

And the meadow-lark hied to her nest, and the mottled owl peeped from her cover.

But hark! from the teepees a cry! Hear the shouts of the hurrying warriors!

Are the feet of the enemy nigh,-of the crafty and cruel Ojibways?

Nay; look!-on the dizzy cliff high-on the brink of the cliff stands Winona!

Her sad face up-turned to the sky. Hark! I hear the wild wail of her death-song:

"My Father's Spirit, look down, look down-

From your hunting grounds in the shining skies;

Behold, for the light of my heart is gone;

The light is gone and Winona dies.

I looked to the East, but I saw no star;

The face of my White Chief was turned away.

I harked for his footsteps in vain; afar

His bark sailed over the Sunrise-sea.

Long have I watched till my heart is cold;

In my breast it is heavy and cold as a stone.

No more shall Winona his face behold,

And the robin that sang in her heart is gone.

Shall I sit at the feet of the treacherous brave?

On his hateful couch shall Winona lie?

Shall she kindle his fire like a coward slave?

No!-a warrior's daughter can bravely die.

My Father's Spirit, look down, look down-

From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies;

Behold, for the light in my heart is gone;

The light is gone and Winona dies."

[Illustration: DOWN WHIRLING AND FLUTTERING SHE FELL, AND HEADLONG PLUNGED INTO THE WATERS.]

Swift the strong hunters climbed as she sang, and the foremost of all was Tamdóka;

From crag to crag upward he sprang; like a panther he leaped to the summit.

Too late!-on the brave as he crept turned the maid in her scorn and defiance;

Then swift from the dizzy height leaped. Like a brant arrow-pierced in mid-heaven.

Down whirling and fluttering she fell, and headlong plunged into the waters.

Forever she sank mid the wail, and the wild lamentation of women.

Her lone spirit evermore dwells in the depths of the Lake of the Mountains,

And the lofty cliff evermore tells to the years as they pass her sad story.[BX]

In the silence of sorrow the night o'er the earth spread her wide, sable pinions;

And the stars[18] hid their faces; and light on the lake fell the tears of the spirits.

As her sad sisters watched on the shore for her spirit to rise from the waters,

They heard the swift dip of an oar, and a boat they beheld like a shadow,

Gliding down through the night in the gray, gloaming mists on the face of the waters.

'Twas the bark of DuLuth on his way from the Falls to the Games at Keóza.

FOOTNOTES

[F]

Tee-teepee, the Dakota name for tent or wigwam

[G]

See Hennepin's Description of Louisiana, by Shea, pp. 243 and 256. Parkman's Discovery, p. 246-and Carver's Travels, p. 67.

[H]

The Dakotas, like the ancient Romans and Greeks, think the home of the winds is in the caverns of the mountains, and their great Thunder-bird resembles in many respects the Jupiter of the Romans and the Zeus of the Greeks. The resemblance of the Dakota mythology to that of the older Greeks and Romans is striking.

[I]

Tate-wind,-psin-wild-rice-wild-rice wind.

[J]

mountain antelope.

[K]

Little Rice River. It bears the name of Rice Creek to-day and empties into the Mississippi from the east, a few miles above Minneapolis.

[L]

See the account of Father Menard, his mission and disappearance in the wilderness. Neill's Hist. Minnesota, pp 104-107, inc.

[M]

It is wonderful!

[N]

The morning.

[O]

A lodge set apart for guests of the village.

[P]

Moccasins.

[Q]

The Ottawa name for the region of the St. Lawrence River.

[R]

"Mysterious metal"-or metal having a spirit in it. This is the common name applied by the Dakotas to all firearms.

[S]

Lightning.

[T]

Tah-mdo-kah, literally, the buck-deer.

[U]

The Dakotas say that for many years in olden times war-eagles made their nests in oak trees on Spirit-island-Wanagi-wita, just below the Falls till frightened away by the advent of white men.

[V]

The Dakotas called Nicollet Island Wi-ta Waste-the Beautiful Island.

[W]

A part of one of the favorite songs of the French voyageurs.

[X]

Head-chief

[Y]

Pronounced Ray-mne-chah-The village of the Mountains, situate where Red Wing now stands.

[Z]

Sacred Dance-The Medicine-dance-See description infra.

[AA]

The wings.

[AB]

A favorite boast of the Dakota braves.

[AC]

The wind.

[AD]

About equivalent to Oho!-Aha!-fudge!

[AE]

Hurra there!

[AF]

"Sacred Spirit! Father! have pity on me always."

[AG]

Riggs' Takoo Wakan, p. 90.

[AH]

Slander.

[AI]

The Dakotas say the humming-bird comes from the "Land of the rain-bow."

[AJ]

See Legend of the Falls, or Note 28-Appendix.

[AK]

My Sister.

[AL]

Mendota-properly Mdo-te-meaning the out-let of a lake or river into another, commonly applied to the region about Fort Snelling.

[AM]

Tanka-Mede-Great Lake, i.e. Lake Superior. The Dakotas seem to have had no other name for it. They generally referred to it as Mini-ya-ta-There at the water.

[AN]

The rabbit. The Dakotas called the Crees "Mastincapi"-Rabbits.

[AO]

i.e. fire-arms which the Dakotas compare to the roar of the wings of the Thunder-bird and the fierey arrows he shoots.

[AP]

DuLuth was a devout Catholic.

[AQ]

Nee-wah-shtay-Thou art good.

[AR]

Spirit-River, now called Rum River.

[AS]

Fire-arm-spirit-metal.

[AT]

Lake Superior-at that time the home of the Ojibways (Chippewas).

[AU]

"Burnt woods"-half-breeds.

[AV]

Wita Waste-"Beautiful Island"; the Dakota name for Nicollet Island.

[AW]

Ojibways.

[AX]

Mille Lacs

[AY]

See Hennepin's account of "Aqui-pa-que-tin," and his village. Shea's Hennepin, 225.

[AZ]

Now called "Mud River"-it empties into the Mississippi at Aitkin.

[BA]

Gitchee See-bee-Big River-is the Ojibway name for the Mississippi, which is a corruption of Gitchee Seebee-as Michigan is a corruption of Gitchee Gumee-Great Lake, the Ojibway name of Lake Superior.

[BB]

The Ojibways called the St. Louis River Gitchee-Gumee See-bee-Great-lake River, i.e. the river of the Great Lake (Lake Superior).

[BC]

The route of DuLuth above described-from the mouth of the Wild-Rice (Mud) River, to Lake Superior-was for centuries, and still is, the Indians' canoe-route. I have walked over the old portage from the foot of the Dalles to the St. Louis above-trod by the feet of half-breeds and voyageurs for more than two centuries, and by the Indians for perhaps a thousand years.

[BD]

The Apostle Islands.

[BE]

At the Sault Ste. Marie.

[BF]

Cranberries.

[BG]

Wee-chah kah-literally "Faithful".

[BH]

The Robin-the name of Winona's Mother.

[BI]

My Daughter; My Daughter.

[BJ]

Alas, O My Daughter,-My Daughter!

[BK]

Wild-goose

[BL]

Medicine-men.

[BM]

January.

[BN]

February.

[BO]

The pheasant feeds on birch-buds in winter. Indians eat them when very hungry.

[BP]

Wazíya's Star is the North-star.

[BQ]

A strap used in carrying burdens.

[BR]

Wolves sometimes attack people at night, but rarely, if ever, in the day time. If they have followed a hunter all night, and "treed" him, they will skulk away as soon as the sun rises.

[BS]

Lake Superior,-The Gitchee Gumee of the Chippewas.

[BT]

The Dakota name for the Mississippi, see note 76 in Appendix.

[BU]

Wild Geese.

[BV]

Lake Pepin, by Hennepin called Lake of Tears-Called by the Dakotas Remnee-chah-Mday-Lake of the Mountains.

[BW]

Pah-hin-the porcupine-the quills of which are greatly prized for ornamental work.

[BX]

The Dakotas say that the spirit of Winona forever haunts the lake. They say that it was many, many winters ago when Winona leaped from the rock,-that the rock was then perpendicular to the water's edge and she leaped into the lake, but now the rock has partly crumbled down and the waters have also receded, so that they do not now reach, the foot of the perpendicular rock as of old.

* * *

SPRING

Et nunc omnis ager, mine omms parturit arbos;

Nunc frondent sylv?, nunc formostssimus annus.

-Virgil.

Delightful harbinger of joys to come,

Of summer's verdure and a fruitful year,

Who bids thee o'er our northern snow-fields roam,

And make all gladness in thy bright career?

Lo from the Indian Isle thou dost appear,

And dost a thousand pleasures with thee bring:

But why to us art thou so ever dear?

Bearest thou the hope-upon thy radiant wing-

Of Immortality, O soft, celestial Spring?

Yea, buds and flowers that fade not, they are thine,

And youth-renewing balms; the sear and old

Are young and gladsome at thy touch divine.

Thou breath'st upon the frozen earth-behold,

Meadows and vales of grass and floral gold,

Green-covered hills and leafy mountains grand:

Young life leaps up where all was dumb and cold,

As smoldering embers into flame are fanned,

Or the dead came back to life at the touch of the Savior's hand.

The snow-clouds fly the canopy of heaven;

The rivulets ripple with the merry tone

Of wanton waters, and the breezes given

To fan the budding hills are all thine own.

Returning songsters from the tropic zone

Their vernal love-songs in the tree tops sing,

And talk and twitter in a tongue unknown

Of joys that journey on thy golden wing,

And God who sends thee forth to wake the world, O Spring!

[ILLUSTRATION: SPRING ADA MARY HUNTLY WILLIE]

Emblem of youth-enchanting goddess, Spring;

Lo now the happy rustic wends his way

O'er meadows decked with violets from thy wing,

And laboring to the rhythm of song all day,

Performs the task the harvest shall repay

An hundredfold into the reaper's hand.

What recks the tiller of his toil in May?

What cares he if his cheeks are tinged and tanned

By thy warm sunshine-kiss and by thy breezes bland?

Hark to the tinkling bells of grazing kine!

The lambkins bleating on the mountain-side!

The red squirrel chippering in the proud old pine!

The pigeon-cock cooing to his vernal bride!

O'er all the land and o'er the peaceful tide,

Singing and praising every living thing,

Till one sweet anthem, echoed far and wide,

Makes all the broad blue bent of ether ring

With welcomings to thee, God-given, supernal Spring.

* * *

TO MOLLIE

O Mollie, I would I possessed such a heart;

It enchants me-so gentle and true;

I would I possessed all its magical art,

Then, Mollie, I would enchant you.

Those dear, rosy lips-tho' I never caressed them(?)-

Are as sweet as the wild honey-dew;

Your cheeks-all the angels in Heaven have blessed them,

But not one is as lovely as you.

Then give me that heart,-O that innocent heart!

For mine own is cold and perdu;

It enchants me, but give me its magical art,

Then, Mollie, I will enchant you.

1855.

* * *

TO SYLVA

I know thou art true, and I know thou art fair

As the rose-bud that blooms in thy beautiful hair;

Thou art far, but I feel the warm throb of thy heart;

Thou art far, but I love thee wherever thou art.

Wherever at noontide my spirit may be,

At evening it silently wanders to thee;

It seeks thee, my dear one, for comfort and rest,

As the weary-winged dove seeks at night-fall her nest.

Through the battle of life-through its sorrow and care-

Till the mortal sink down with its load of despair,-

Till we meet at the feet of the Father and Son,

I'll love thee and cherish thee, beautiful one.

1859.

* * *

THANKSGIVING.

[Nov. 26, 1857, during the great financial depression.]

Father, our thanks are due to thee

For many a blessing given,

By thy paternal love and care,

From the bounty-horn of heaven.

We know that still that horn is filled

With blessings for our race,

And we calmly look thro' winter's storm

To thy benignant face.

Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,-

Who seldom thanked before;

And seldom bent the stubborn knee

Thy goodness to adore:

But Father, thou hast blessings poured

On all our wayward days

And now thy mercies manifold

Have filled our hearts with praise

The winter-storm may rack and roar;

We do not fear its blast;

And we'll bear with faith and fortitude

The lot that thou hast cast.

But Father,-Father,-O look down

On the poor and homeless head

And feed the hungry thousands

That cry to thee for bread.

Thou givest us our daily bread;

We would not ask for more;

But, Father, give their daily bread

To the multitudes of poor.

In all the cities of the land

The naked and hungry are;

O feed them with thy manna, Lord,

And clothe them with thy care.

Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord,

We will not give a stone;

For the bread and meat thou givest us

Are not for us alone.

And while a loaf is given to us

From thy all-bounteous horn

We'll cheerfully divide that loaf

With the hungry and forlorn.

* * *

CHARITY

Frail are the best of us, brothers-

God's charity cover us all-

Yet we ask for perfection in others,

And scoff when they stumble and fall.

Shall we give him a fish-or a serpent-

Who stretches his hand in his need?

Let the proud give a stone, but the manly

Will give him a hand full of bread.

Let us search our own hearts and behavior

Ere we cast at a brother a stone,

And remember the words of the Savior

To the frail and unfortunate one;

Remember when others displease us

The Nazarene's holy command,

For the only word written by Jesus

Was charity-writ in the sand.

* * *

CHARITY

[Written in a friend's book of autographs, 1876.]

Bear and forbear, I counsel thee,

Forgive and be forgiven,

For Charity is the golden key

That opens the gate of heaven.

* * *

SAILOR-BOY'S SONG

Away, away, o'er the bounding sea

My spirit flies like a gull;

For I know my Mary is watching for me,

And the moon is bright and full.

She sits on the rock by the sounding shore,

And gazes over the sea;

And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?

Will he never come back to me?"

The moonbeams play in her raven hair;

And the soft breeze kisses her brow;

But if your sailor-boy, love, were there,

He would kiss your sweet lips I trow.

And mother-she sits in the cottage-door;

But her heart is out on the sea;

And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?

Will he never come back to me?"

Ye winds that over the billows roam

With a low and sullen moan,

O swiftly come to waft me home;

O bear me back to my own.

For long have I been on the billowy deep,

On the boundless waste of sea;

And while I sleep there are two who weep,

And watch and pray for me.

When the mad storm roars till the stoutest fear

And the thunders roll over the sea,

I think of you, Mary and mother dear,

For I know you are thinking of me.

Then blow, ye winds, for my swift return;

Let the tempest roar o'er the main;

Let the billows yearn and the lightning burn;

They will hasten me home again.

* * *

MY DEAD

Last night in my feverish dreams I heard

A voice like the moan of an autumn sea,

Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird,

And it said-"My darling, come home to me."

Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head-

As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain:

I wakened and knew from among the dead

My darling stood by my coach again.

* * *

DUST TO DUST

Dust to dust:

Fall and perish love and lust:

Life is one brief autumn day;

Sin and sorrow haunt the way

To the narrow house of clay,

Clutching at the good and just:

Dust to dust.

Dust to dust:

Still we strive and toil and trust,

From the cradle to the grave:

Vainly crying, "Jesus, save!"

Fall the coward and the brave,

Fall the felon and the just:

Dust to dust.

Dust to dust:

Hark, I hear the wintry gust;

Yet the roses bloom to-day,

Blushing to the kiss of May,

While the north winds sigh and say:

"Lo we bring the cruel frost-

Dust to dust."

Dust to dust:

Yet we live and love and trust,

Lifting burning brow and eye

To the mountain peaks on high:

From the peaks the ages cry,

Strewing ashes, rime and rust:

"Dust to dust!"

Dust to dust:

What is gained when all is lost?

Gaily for a day we tread-

Proudly with averted head

O'er the ashes of the dead-

Blind with pride and mad with lust:

Dust to dust.

Hope and trust:

All life springs from out the dust:

Ah, we measure God by man,

Looking forward but a span

On His wondrous, boundless plan;

All His ways are wise and just;

Hope and trust.

Hope and trust:

Hope will blossom from the dust;

Love is queen: God's throne is hers;

His great heart with loving force

Throbs throughout the universe;

We are His and He is just;

Hope and trust.

* * *

O LET ME DREAM THE DREAMS OF LONG AGO

Call me not back, O cold and crafty world:

I scorn your thankless thanks and hollow praise.

Wiser than seer or scientist-content

To tread no paths beyond these bleating hills,

Here let me lie beneath this dear old elm,

Among the blossoms of the clover-fields,

And listen to the humming of the bees.

Here in those far-off, happy, boyhood years,

When all my world was bounded by these hills,

I dreamed my first dreams underneath this elm.

Dreamed? Aye, and builded castles in the clouds;

Dreamed, and made glad a fond, proud mother's heart,

Now moldering into clay on yonder hill;

Dreamed till my day-dreams paved the world with gold;

Dreamed till my mad dreams made one desolate;

Dreamed-O my soul, and was it all a dream?

As I lay dreaming under this old elm,

Building my castles in the sunny clouds,

Her soft eyes peeping from the copse of pine,

Looked tenderly on me and my glad heart leaped

Following her footsteps. O the dream-the dream!

O fawn-eyed, lotus-lipped, white-bosomed Flore!

I hide my bronzed face in your golden hair:

Thou wilt not heed the dew-drops on my beard;

Thou wilt not heed the wrinkles on my brow;

Thou wilt not chide me for my long delay.

Here we stood heart to heart and eye to eye,

And I looked down into her inmost soul,

The while she drank my promise like sweet wine

O let me dream the dreams of long ago!

Soft are the tender eyes of maiden love;

Sweet are the dew-drops of a dear girl's lips

When love's red roses blush in sudden bloom:

O let me dream the dreams of long ago!

Hum soft and low, O bee-bent clover-fields;

Blink, blue-eyed violets, from the dewy grass;

Break into bloom, my golden dandelions;

Break into bloom, my dear old apple-trees.

I hear the robins cherup on the hedge,

I hear the warbling of the meadow-larks;

I hear the silver-fluted whippowil;

I hear the harps that moan among the pines

Touched by the ghostly fingers of the dead.

Hush!-let me dream the dreams of long ago.

And wherefore left I these fair, flowery fields,

Where her fond eyes and ever gladsome voice

Made all the year one joyous, warbling June,

To chase my castles in the passing clouds-

False as the mirage of some Indian isle

To shipwrecked sailors famished on the brine?

Wherefore?-Look out upon the babbling world-

Fools clamoring at the heels of clamorous fools!

I hungered for the sapless husks of fame.

Dreaming I saw, beyond my native hills,

The sunshine shimmer on the laurel trees.

Ah tenderly plead her fond eyes brimmed with tears;

But lightly laughing at her fears I turned,

Eager to clutch my crown of laurel leaves,

Strong-souled and bold to front all winds of heaven-

A lamb and lion molded into one-

And burst away to tread the hollow world.

Ah nut-brown boys that tend the lowing kine,

Ah blithesome plowmen whistling on the glebe,

Ah merry mowers singing in the swaths,

Sweet, simple souls, contented not to know,

Wiser are ye and ye may teach the wise.

Years trode upon the heels of flying years,

And still my Ignis Fatuus flew before;

On thorny paths my eager feet pursued,

Till she whose fond heart doted on my dreams

Passed painless to the pure eternal peace.

Years trode upon the heels of flying years

And touched my brown beard with their silver wands,

And still my Ignis Fatuus flew before;

Through thorns and mire my torn feet followed still,

Till she, my darling, unforgotten Flore,

Nursing her one hope all those weary years

Waiting my tardy coming, drooped and died.

I hear her low, sweet voice among the pines:

O let me dream the dreams of long ago:

I see her fond eyes peeping from the pines:

O let me dream the dreams of long ago

And hide my bronzed face in her golden hair.

Is this the Indian summer of my days-

Wealth without care and love without desire?

O misty, cheerless moon of falling leaves!

Is this the fruitage promised by the spring?

O blighted clusters withering on the vine!

O promised lips of love to one who dreams

And wakens holding but the hollow air!

Let me dream on lest, dead unto my dead,

False to the true and true unto the false,

Maddened by thoughts of that which might have been,

And weary of the chains of that which is,

I slake my heart-thirst at forbidden springs.

I hear the voices of the moaning pines;

I hear the low, hushed whispers of the dead,

And one wan face looks in upon my dreams

And wounds me with her sad, imploring eyes.

The dead sun sinks beyond the misty hills;

The chill winds whistle in the leafless elms;

The cold rain patters on the fallen leaves.

Where pipes the silver-fluted whippowil?

I hear no hum of bees among the bloom;

I hear no robin cherup on the hedge:

One dumb, lone lark sits shivering in the rain.

I hear the voices of the Autumn wind;

I hear the cold rain dripping on the leaves;

I hear the moaning of the mournful pines;

I hear the hollow voices of the dead.

O let me dream the dreams of long ago

And dreaming pass into the dreamless sleep-

Beyond the voices of the autumn winds,

Beyond the patter of the dreary rain,

Beyond compassion and all vain regret

Beyond all waking and all weariness:

O let me dream the dreams of long ago.

* * *

THE PIONEER

[MINNESOTA-1860-1875]

When Mollie and I were married from the dear old cottage-home,

In the vale between the hills of fir and pine,

I parted with a sigh in a stranger-land to roam,

And to seek a western home for me and mine.

By a grove-encircled lake in the wild and prairied West,

As the sun was sinking down one summer day,

I laid my knapsack down and my weary limbs to rest,

And resolved to build a cottage-home and stay.

I staked and marked my "corners," and I "filed" upon my claim,

And I built a cottage-home of "logs and shakes;"

And then I wrote a letter, and Mollie and baby came

Out to bless me and to bake my johnny-cakes.

When Mollie saw my "cottage" and the way that I had "bached",

She smiled, but I could see that she was "blue;"

Then she found my "Sunday-clothes" all soiled and torn and patched,

And she hid her face and shed a tear or two.

But she went to work in earnest and the cabin fairly shone,

And her dinners were so savory and so nice

That I felt it was "not good that the man should be alone"-

Even in this lovely land of Paradise.

Well, the neighbors they were few and were many miles apart,

And you couldn't hear the locomotive scream;

But I was young and hardy, and my Mollie gave me heart,

And my "steers" they made a fast and fancy team.

And the way I broke the sod was a marvel, you can bet,

For I fed my "steers" before the dawn of day;

And when the sun went under I was plowing prairie yet,

Till my Mollie blew the old tin horn for tea.

And the lazy, lousy "Injuns" came a-loafing round the lake,

And a-begging for a bone or bit of bread;

And the sneaking thieves would steal whatever they could take-

From the very house where they were kindly fed.

O the eastern preachers preach, and the long-haired poets sing

Of the "noble braves" and "dusky maidens fair;"

But if they had pioneered 'twould have been another thing

When the "Injuns" got a-hankering for their "hair."

Often when we lay in bed in the middle of the night,

How the prairie-wolves would howl their jubilee!

Then Mollie she would waken in a shiver and a fright,

Clasp our baby-pet and snuggle up to me.

There were hardships you may guess, and enough of weary toil

For the first few years, but then it was so grand

To see the corn and wheat waving o'er the virgin soil,

And two stout and loving hearts went hand in hand.

But Mollie took the fever when our second babe was born,

And she lay upon the bed as white as snow;

And my idle cultivator lay a rusting in the corn;

And the doctor said poor Mollie she must go.

Now I never prayed before, but I fell upon my knees,

And I prayed as never any preacher prayed;

And Mollie always said that it broke the fell disease;

And I truly think the Lord He sent us aid:

For the fever it was broken, and she took a bit of food,

And O then I went upon my knees again;

And I never cried before,-and I never thought I could,-

But my tears they fell upon her hand like rain.

And I think the Lord has blessed us ever since I prayed the prayer,

For my crops have never wanted rain or dew:

And Mollie often said in the days of debt and care,

"Don't you worry, John, the Lord will help us through."

For the "pesky," painted Sioux, in the fall of 'sixty-two,

Came a-whooping on their ponies o'er the plain,

And they killed my pigs and cattle, and I tell you it looked "blue,"

When they danced around my blazing stacks of grain.

And the settlers mostly fled, but I didn't have a chance,

So I caught my hunting-rifle long and true,

And Mollie poured the powder while I made the devils dance,

To a tune that made 'em jump and tumble, too.

And they fired upon the cabin; 'twas as good as any fort,

But the "beauties" wouldn't give us any rest;

For they skulked and blazed away, and I didn't call it sport,

For I had to do my very "level best."

Now they don't call me a coward, but my Mollie she's a "brick;"

For she chucked the children down the cellar-way,

And she never flinched a hair tho' the bullets pattered thick,

And we held the "painted beauties" well at bay.

But once when I was aiming, a bullet grazed my head,

And it cut the scalp and made the air look blue;

Then Mollie straightened up like a soldier and she said:

"Never mind it, John, the Lord will help us through."

And you bet it raised my "grit," and I never flinched a bit,

And my nerves they got as strong as steel or brass;

And when I fired again I was sure that I had hit,

For I saw the skulking devil "claw the grass."

Well, the fight was long and hot, and I got a charge of shot

In the shoulder, but it never broke a bone;

And I never stopped to think whether I was hit or not

Till we found our ammunition almost gone.

But the "Rangers" came at last-just as we were out of lead,-

And I thanked the Lord, and Mollie thanked Him, too;

Then she put her arms around my neck and sobbed and cried and said:

"Bless the Lord!-I knew that He would help us through."

And yonder on the hooks hangs that same old trusty gun,

And above it-I am sorry they're so few-

Hang the black and braided trophies[BY] yet that I and Mollie won

In that same old bloody battle with the Sioux.

Fifteen years have rolled away since I laid my knapsack down,

And my prairie claim is now one field of grain;

And yonder down the lake loom the steeples of a town,

And my flocks are feeding out upon the plain.

The old log-house is standing filled with bins of corn and wheat,

And the cars they whistle past our cottage-home;

But my span of spanking trotters they are "just about" as fleet,

And I wouldn't give my farm to rule in Rome.

For Mollie and I are young yet, and monarchs, too, are we-

Of a "section" just as good as lies out-doors;

And the children are so happy (and Mollie and I have three)

And we think that we can "lie upon our oars."

[Illustration: THE PIONEER]

So this summer we went back to the old home by the hill:

O the hills they were so rugged and so tall!

And the lofty pines were gone but the rocks were all there still,

And the valleys looked so crowded and so small;

And the dear familiar faces that I longed so much to see,

Looked so strangely unfamiliar and so old,

That the land of hills and valleys was no more a home to me,

And the river seemed a rivulet as it rolled.

So I gladly hastened back to the prairies of the West-

To the boundless fields of waving grass and corn;

And I love the lake-gemmed land where the wild-goose builds her nest,

Far better than the land where I was born.

And I mean to lay my bones over yonder by the lake-

By and by when I have nothing else to do-

And I'll give the "chicks" the farm, and I know for Mollie's sake,

That the good and gracious Lord will help 'em through.

FOOTNOTES

[BY]

Scalp-locks.

* * *

NIGHT THOUGHTS

"Le notte e madre dipensien."

I tumble and toss on my pillow,

As a ship without rudder or spars

Is tumbled and tossed on the billow,

'Neath the glint and the glory of stars.

'Tis midnight and moonlight, and slumber

Has hushed every heart but my own;

O why are these thoughts without number

Sent to me by the man in the moon?

Thoughts of the Here and Hereafter,-

Thoughts all unbidden to come,-

Thoughts that are echoes of laughter-

Thoughts that are ghosts from the tomb,-

Thoughts that are sweet as wild honey,-

Thoughts that are bitter as gall,-

Thoughts to be coined into money,-

Thoughts of no value at all.

Dreams that are tangled like wild-wood,

A hint creeping in like a hare;

Visions of innocent childhood,-

Glimpses of pleasure and care;

Brave thoughts that flash like a saber,-

Cowards that crouch as they come,-

Thoughts of sweet love and sweet labor

In the fields at the old cottage-home.

Visions of maize and of meadow,

Songs of the birds and the brooks,

Glimpses of sunshine and shadow,

Of hills and the vine-covered nooks;

Dreams that were dreams of a lover,-

A face like the blushing of morn,-

Hum of bees and the sweet scent of clover

And a bare-headed girl in the corn.

Hopes that went down in the battle,

Apples that crumbled to dust,-

Manna for rogues, and the rattle

Of hail-storms that fall on the just.

The "shoddy" that lolls in her chariot,-

Maud Muller at work in the grass:

Here a silver-bribed Judas Iscariot,-

There-Leonidas dead in the pass.

Commingled the good and the evil;

Sown together the wheat and the tares;

In the heart of the wheat is the weevil;

There is joy in the midst of our cares.

The past,-shall we stop to regret it?

What is,-shall we falter and fall?

If the envious wrong thee, forget it;

Let thy charity cover them all.

The cock hails the morn, and the rumble

Of wheels is abroad in the streets,

Still I tumble and mumble and grumble

At the fleas in my ears and-the sheets;

Mumble and grumble and tumble

Till the buzz of the bees is no more;

In a jumble I mumble and drumble

And tumble off-into a snore.

* * *

DANIEL

[Written at the grave of an old friend.]

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,-down into the darkness at last;

Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,-sleeping the dreamless sleep,-

Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn-the pure and the perfect rest:

Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?

Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?

Joy was there in the spring-time and hope like a blossoming rose,

When the wine-blood of youth ran tingling and throbbing in every vein;

Chirrup of robin and blue-bird in the white-blossomed apple and pear;

Carpets of green on the meadows spangled with dandelions;

Lowing of kine in the valleys, bleating of lambs on the hills;

Babble of brooks and the prattle of fountains that flashed in the sun;

Glad, merry voices, ripples of laughter, snatches of music and song,

And blue-eyed girls in the gardens that blushed like the roses they wore.

And life was a pleasure unvexed, unmingled with sorrow and pain?

A round of delight from the blink of morn till the moon rose laughing at night?

Nay, there were cares and cankers-envy and hunger and hate;

Death and disease in the pith of the limbs, in the root and the bud and the branch;

Dry-rot, alas, at the heart, and a canker-worm gnawing therein.

The summer of life came on with its heat and its struggle and toil,

Sweat of the brow and the soul, throbbing of muscle and brain,

Toil and moil and grapple with Fortune clutched as she flew-

Only a shred of her robe, and a brave heart baffled and bowed!

Stern-visaged Fate with a hand of iron uplifted to fell;

The secret stab of a friend that stung like the sting of an asp,

Wringing red drops from the soul and a stifled moan of despair;

The loose lips of gossip and then-a storm of slander and lies,

Till Justice was blind as a bat and deaf to the cries of the just,

And Mercy, wrapped up in her robe, stood by like a statue in stone.

Sear autumn followed the summer with frost and the falling of leaves

And red-ripe apples that blushed on the hills in the orchard of peace:

Red-ripe apples, alas, with worms writhing down to the core,

Apples of ashes and fungus that fell into rot at a touch;

Clusters of grapes in the garden blighted and sour on the vines;

Wheat-fields that waved in the valley and promised a harvest of gold,

Thrashing but chaff and weevil or cockle and shriveled cheat.

Fair was the promise of spring-time; the harvest a harvest of lies:

Fair was the promise of summer with Fortune clutched by the robe;

Fair was the promise of autumn-a hollow harlot in red,

A withered rose at her girdle and the thorns of the rose in her hand.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,-down into the darkness at last;

Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel, sleeping the dreamless sleep-

Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn-the pure and the perfect rest:

Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?

Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?

Dead Ashes, what do you care if it storm, if it shine, if it shower?

Hail-storm, tornado or tempest, or the blinding blizzard of snow,

Or the mid-May showers on the blossoms with the glad sun blinking between,

Dead Ashes, what do you care?-they break not the sleep of the dead.

Proud stands the ship to the sea, fair breezes belly her sails;

Strong masted, stanch in her shrouds, stanch in her beams and her bones;

Bound for Hesperian isles-for the isles of the plantain and palm,

Hope walks her deck with a smile and Confidence stands at the helm;

Proudly she turns to the sea and walks like a queen on the waves.

Caught in the grasp of the tempest, lashed by the fiends of the storm,

Torn into shreds are her sails, tumbled her masts to the main;

Rudderless, rolling she drives and groans in the grasp of the sea;

Harbor or hope there is none; she goes to her grave in the brine:

Dead in the fathomless slime lie the bones of the ship and her crew.

Such was the promise of life; so is the promise fulfilled.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,-down into the darkness at last;

Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,-sleeping the dreamless sleep,-

Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn-the pure and the perfect rest:

Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?

Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?

Over your grave the tempest may roar or the zephyr sigh;

Over your grave the blue-bells may blink or the snow-drifts whirl,-

Dead Ashes, what do you care?-they break not the sleep of the dead.

They that were friends may mourn, they that were friends may praise;

They that knew you and yet-knew you never-may cavil and blame;

They that were foes in disguise may strike at you down in the grave;

Slander, the scavenger-buzzard-may vomit her lies on you there;

Dead Ashes, what do you care?-they break not the sleep of the dead.

The hoarse, low voice of the years croaks on forever-and-aye:

Change! Change! Change! and the winters wax and wane.

The old oak dies in the forest; the acorn sprouts at its feet;

The sea gnaws on at the land; the continent crowds on the sea.

Bound to the Ixion wheel with brazen fetters of fate

Man rises up from the dust and falls to the dust again.

God washes our eyes with tears, and still they are blinded with dust:

We grope in the dark and marvel, and pray to the Power unknown-

Crying for help to the desert: not even an echo replies.

Doomed unto death like the moon, like the midget that men call man,

Wrinkled with age and agony the old Earth rolls her rounds;

Shrinking and shuddering she rolls-an atom in God's great sea-

Only an atom of dust in the infinite ocean of space.

What to him are the years who sleeps in her bosom there?

What to him is the cry wrung out of the souls of men?

Change, Change, Change, and the sea gnaws on at the land:

Dead Ashes, what do you care?-it breaks not the sleep of the dead.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,-down into the darkness at last;

Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,-sleeping the dreamless sleep,-

Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn-the pure and the perfect rest:

Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?

Aye, and is it not better if only the dead soul knew?

Up-out of the darkness at last, Daniel,-out of the darkness at last;

Into the light of the life eternal-into the sunlight of God,

Singing the song of the soul immortal freed from the fetters of flesh:

Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?

Aye, and is it not better than sleeping the dreamless sleep?

Hark! from the reel of the spheres eternal the freed soul answereth "Aye."

Aye-Aye-Aye-it is better, brothers, if it be but the dream of the famished soul.

* * *

MINNETONKA[BZ]

I sit once more on breezy shore, at sunset in this glorious June,

I hear the dip of gleaming oar, I list the singers' merry tune.

Beneath my feet the waters beat, and ripple on the polished stones,

The squirrel chatters from his seat; the bag-pipe beetle hums and drones.

The pink and gold in blooming wold,-the green hills mirrored in the lake!

The deep, blue waters, zephyr-rolled, along the murmuring pebbles break.

The maples screen the ferns, and lean the leafy lindens o'er the deep;

The sapphire, set in emerald green, lies like an Orient gem asleep.

The crimson west glows like the breast of Rhuddin[CB] when he pipes in May,

As downward droops the sun to rest, and shadows gather on the bay.

In amber sky the swallows fly and sail and circle o'er the deep;

The light-winged night-hawks whir and cry; the silver pike and salmon leap.

The rising moon, o'er isle and dune, looks laughing down on lake and lea;

Weird o'er the waters shrills the loon; the high stars twinkle in the sea.

From bank and hill the whippowil sends piping forth his flute-like notes,

And clear and shrill the answers trill from leafy isles and silver throats.

The twinkling light on cape and height; the hum of voices on the shores;

The merry laughter on the night; the dip and plash of frolic oars,-

These tell the tale. On hill and dale the cities pour their gay and fair;

Along the sapphire lake they sail, and quaff like wine the balmy air.

'Tis well. Of yore from isle and shore the smoke of Indian teepees[CC] rose;

The hunter plied the silent oar; the forest lay in still repose.

The moon-faced maid, in leafy glade, her warrior waited from the chase;

The nut-brown, naked children played, and chased the gopher on the grass.

The dappled fawn on wooded lawn, peeped out upon the birch canoe,

Swift-gliding in the gray of dawn along the silent waters blue.

In yonder tree the great Wanm-dee[CD] securely built her spacious nest;

The blast that swept the landlocked sea[CE] but rocked her clamorous babes to rest.

By grassy mere the elk and deer gazed on the hunter as he came;

Nor fled with fear from bow or spear;-"so wild were they that they were tame."

Ah, birch canoe, and hunter, too, have long forsaken lake and shore;

He bade his fathers' bones adieu and turned away forevermore.

But still, methinks, on dusky brinks the spirit of the warrior moves;

At crystal springs the hunter drinks, and nightly haunts the spot he loves.

For oft at night I see the light of lodge-fires on the shadowy shores,

And hear the wail some maiden's sprite above her slaughtered warrior pours.

I hear the sob, on Spirit Knob,[CA] of Indian mother o'er her child;

And on the midnight waters throb her low yun-he-he's[CF] weird and wild:

And sometimes, too, the light canoe glides like a shadow o'er the deep

At midnight when the moon is low, and all the shores are hushed in sleep.

Alas,-Alas!-for all things pass; and we shall vanish too, as they;

We build our monuments of brass, and granite, but they waste away.

[Illustration: CRYSTAL BAY LAKE MINNETONKA]

FOOTNOTES

[BZ]

The Dakota name for this beautiful lake is We-ne-a-tan-ka-Broad Water. By dropping the "a" before "tanka" we have changed the name to Big Water.

[CA]

Spirit-Knob was a small hill upon a point in the lake in full view from Wayzata. It is now washed away by the waves. The spirit of a Dakota mother, whose only child was drowned in the lake during a storm many years ago, often wailed at midnight (so the Dakotas said), on this hill. So they called it Wa-na-gee Pa-zo-dan-Spirit-Knob. (Literally-little hill of the spirit.)

[CB]

The Welsh name for the robin.

[CC]

Lodges.

[CD]

Wanm-dee-the war-eagle of the Dakotas.

[CE]

Lake Superior.

[CF]

Pronounced Yoon-hay-hay-the exclamation used by Dakota women in their lament for the dead, and equivalent to "woe-is-me."

* * *

BEYOND

White-haired and hoary-bearded, who art thou

That speedest on, albeit bent with age,

Even as a youth that followeth after dreams?

Whence are thy feet, and whither trends thy way?

Stayed not his hurried steps, but as he passed

His low, hoarse answer fell upon the wind:

"Go thou and question yonder mountain-peaks;

Go thou and ask the hoary-heaving main;-

Nay, if thou wilt, the great, globed, silent stars

That sail innumerable the shoreless sea,

And let the eldest answer if he may.

Lo the unnumbered myriad, myriad worlds

Rolling around innumerable suns,

Through all the boundless, bottomless abyss,

Are but as grains of sand upwhirled and flung

By roaring winds and scattered on the sea.

I have beheld them and my hand hath sown.

"Far-twinkling faint through dim, immeasured depths,

Behold Alcyone-a grander sun.

Round him thy solar orb with all his brood

Glimmering revolves. Lo from yon mightier sphere

Light, flying faster than the thoughts of men,

Swift as the lightnings cleave the glowering storm,

Shot on and on through dim, ethereal space,

Ere yet it touched thy little orb of Earth,

Five hundred cycles of thy world and more.

Round him thy Sun, obedient to his power,

Thrice tenfold swifter than the swiftest wing,

His ?on-orbit, million-yeared and vast,

Wheels through the void. Him flaming I beheld

When first he flashed from out his central fire-

A mightier orb beyond thine utmost ken.

Round upon round innumerable hath swung

Thy sun upon his circuit; grander still

His vaster orbit far Alcyone

Wheels and obeys the mightier orb unseen.

"Seest thou yon star-paved pathway like an arch

Athwart thy welkin?-wondrous zone of stars,

Dim in the distance circling one huge sun,

To whom thy sun is but a spark of fire-

To whom thine Earth is but a grain of dust:

Glimmering around him myriad suns revolve

And worlds innumerable as sea-beach sands.

Ere on yon Via Lactea rolled one star

Lo I was there and trode the mighty round;

Yea, ere the central orb was fired and hung

A lamp to light the chaos. Star on star,

System on system, myriad worlds on worlds,

Beyond the utmost reach of mortal ken,

Beyond the utmost flight of mortal dream,

Yet have mine eyes beheld the birth of all.

But whence I am I know not. We are three-

Known, yet unknown-unfathomable to man,

Time, Space, and Matter pregnant with all life,

Immortals older than the oldest orb.

We were and are forever: out of us

Are all things-suns and satellites, midge and man.

Worlds wax and wane, suns flame and glow and die;

Through shoreless space their scattered ashes float,

Unite, cohere, and wax to worlds again,

Changing, yet changless-new, but ever old-

No atom lost and not one atom gained,

Though fire to vapor melt the adamant,

Or feldspar fall in drops of summer rain.

And in the atoms sleep the germs of life,

Myriad and multiform and marvelous,

Throughout all vast, immeasurable space,

In every grain of dust, in every drop

Of water, waiting but the thermal touch.

Yea, in the womb of nature slumber still

Wonders undreamed and forms beyond compare,

Minds that will cleave the chaos and unwind

The web of fate, and from the atom trace

The worlds, the suns, the universal law:

And from the law, the Master; yea, and read

On yon grand starry scroll the Master's will."

Yea, but what Master? Lift the veil, O Time!

Where lie the bounds of Space and whither dwells

The Power unseen-the infinite Unknown?

Faint from afar the solemn answer fell:

"?on on ?on, cycles myriad-yeared,

Swifter than light out-flashing from the suns,

My flying feet have sought the bounds of space

And found not, nor the infinite Unknown.

I see the Master only in his work:

I see the Ruler only in his law:

Time hath not touched the great All-father's throne,

Whose voice unheard the Universe obeys,

Who breathes upon the deep and worlds are born.

Worlds wax and wane, suns crumble into dust,

But matter pregnant with immortal life,

Since erst the white-haired centuries wheeled the vast,

Hath lost nor gained. Who made it, and who made

The Maker? Out of nothing, nothing. Lo

The worm that crawls from out the sun-touched sand,

What knows he of the huge, round, rolling Earth?

Yet more than thou of all the vast Beyond,

Or ever wilt. Content thee; let it be:

Know only this-there is a Power unknown-

Master of life and Maker of the worlds."

* * *

LINES

On the death of Captain Hiram A. Coats, my old schoolmate and friend.

Dead? or is it a dream-

Only the voice of a dream?

Dead in the prime of his years,

And laid in the lap of the dust;

Only a handful of ashes

Moldering down into dust.

Strong and manly was he,

Strong and tender and true;

Proud in the prime of his years;

Strong in the strength of the just:

A heart that was half a lion's,

And half the heart of a girl;

Tender to all that was tender,

And true to all that was true;

Bold in the battle of life,

And bold on the bloody field;

First at the call of his country,

First in the front of the foe.

Hope of the years was his-

The golden and garnered sheaves;

Fair on the hills of autumn

Reddened the apples of peace.

Dead? or is it a dream?

Dead in the prime of his years,

And laid in the lap of the dust.

Aye, it is but a dream;

For the life of man is a dream:

Dead in the prime of his years

And laid in the lap of the dust;

Only a handful of ashes

Moldering down into dust.

Only a handful of ashes

Moldering down into dust?

Aye, but what of the breath

Blown out of the bosom of God?

What of the spirit that breathed

And burned in the temple of clay?

Dust unto dust returns;

The dew-drop returns to the sea;

The flash from the flint and the steel

Returns to its source in the sun.

Change cometh forever-and-aye,

But forever nothing is lost-

The dew-drop that sinks in the sand,

Nor the sunbeam that falls in the sea.

Ah, life is only a link

In the endless chain of change.

Death giveth the dust to the dust

And the soul to the infinite soul:

For aye since the morning of man-

Since the human rose up from the brute-

Hath Hope, like a beacon of light,

Like a star in the rift of the storm,

Been writ by the finger of God

On the longing hearts of men.

O follow no goblin fear;

O cringe to no cruel creed;

Nor chase the shadow of doubt

Till the brain runs mad with despair.

Stretch forth thy hand, O man,

To the winds and the quaking earth-

To the heaving and falling sea-

To the ultimate stars and feel

The throb of the spirit of God-

The pulse of the Universe.

* * *

MAULEY

THE BRAVE FERRY-MAN

[NOTE.-The great Sioux massacre in Minnesota commenced at the Agency village, on the Minnesota River, early in the morning of the 16th day of August, 1862, precipitated, doubtless, by the murders at Acton on the day previous. The massacre and the Indian war that followed developed many brave men, but no truer hero than Mauley, an obscure Frenchman, the ferry-man at the Agency. Continually under fire, he resolutely ran his ferry-boat back and forth across the river, affording the terror-stricken people the only chance for escape. He was shot down on his boat just as he had landed on the opposite shore the last of those who fled from the burning village to the ferry-landing. The Indians disemboweled his dead body, cut off the head, hands and feet and thrust them into the cavity. See Heard's Hist. Sioux War, p 67.]

Crouching in the early morning,

Came the swarth and naked "Sioux;"[CG]

On the village, without warning,

Fell the sudden, savage blow.

Horrid yell and crack of rifle

Mingle as the flames arise;-

With the tomahawk they stifle

Mothers' wails and children's cries.

Men and women to the ferry

Fly from many a blazing cot;-

Brave and ready-grim and steady,

Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Can they cross the ambushed river?

'Tis for life the only chance;

Only this may some deliver

From the scalping-knife and lance.

Through the throng of wailing women

Frantic men in terror burst;-

"Back, ye cowards!" thundered Mauley,-

"I will take the women first!"

Then with brawny arms and lever

Back the craven men he smote.

Brave and ready-grim and steady,

Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

To and fro across the river

Plies the little mercy-craft,

While from ambushed gun and quiver

On it falls the fatal shaft.

Trembling from the burning village,

Still the terror-stricken fly,

For the Indians' love of pillage

Stays the bloody tragedy.

At the windlass-bar bare-headed-

Bare his brawny arms and throat-

Brave and ready-grim and steady,

Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Hark!-a sudden burst of war-whoops!

They are bent on murder now;

Down the ferry-road they rally,

Led by furious Little Crow.

Frantic mothers clasp their children,

And the help of God implore;

Frantic men leap in the river

Ere the boat can reach the shore.

Mauley helps the weak and wounded

Till the last soul is afloat;-

Brave and ready-grim and steady,

Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Speed the craft!-The fierce Dakotas

Whoop and hasten to the shore,

And a shower of shot and arrows

On the crowded boat they pour.

Fast it floats across the river,

Managed by the master hand,

Laden with a freight so precious,-

God be thanked!-it reaches land.

Where is Mauley-grim and steady,

Shall his brave deed be forgot?

Grasping still the windlass-lever,

Dead he lies upon the boat.

[Illustration: MAULEY THE BRAVE FERRY-MAN]

FOOTNOTES

[CG]

Pronounced Soo; a name given to the Dakotas in early days by the French traders.

* * *

MEN

Man is a creature of a thousand whims;

The slave of hope and fear and circumstance.

Through toil and martyrdom a million years

Struggling and groping upward from the brute,

And ever dragging still the brutish chains,

And ever slipping backward to the brute.

Shall he not break the galling, brazen bonds

That bind him writhing on the wheel of fate?

Long ages groveling with his brother brutes,

He plucked the tree of knowledge and uprose

And walked erect-a god; but died the death:

For knowledge brings but sadness and unrest

Forever, insatiate longing and regret.

Behold the brute's unerring instinct guides

True as the pole-star, while man's reason leads

How oft to quicksands and the hidden reefs!

Contented brute, his daily wants how few!

And these by Nature's mother-hand supplied.

Man's wants unnumbered and unsatisfied,

And multiplied at every onward step-

Insatiate as the cavernous maw of time.

His real wants how simple and how few!

Behold the kine in yonder pasture-field

Cropping the clover, or in rest reclined,

Chewing meek-eyed the cud of sweet content.

Ambition plagues them not, nor hope, nor fear;

No demons fright them and no cruel creeds;

No pangs of disappointment or remorse.

See man the picture of perpetual want,

The prototype of all disquietude;

Full of trouble, yet ever seeking more;

Between the upper and the nether stone

Ground and forever in the mill of fate.

Nature and art combine to clothe his form,

To feed his fancy and to fill his maw;

And yet the more they give the more he craves.

Give him the gold of Ophir, still he delves;

Give him the land, and he demands the sea;

Give him the earth-he reaches for the stars.

Doomed by his fate to scorn the good he has

And grasp at fancied good beyond his reach,

He seeks for silver in the distant hills

While in the sand gold glitters at his feet.

O man, thy wisdom is but folly still;

Wiser the brute and full of sweet content.

The wit and wisdom of five thousand years-What

are they but the husks we feed upon,

While beast and bird devour the golden grain?

Lo for the brutes dame Nature sows and tills;

For them the Tuba-tree of Paradise

Bends with its bounties free and manifold;

For them the fabled fountain Salsabil,

Gushes pure wine that sparkles as it runs,

And fair Al Cawthar flows with creamy milk.

But man, forever doomed to toil and sweat,

Digs the hard earth and casts his seeds therein,

And hopes the harvest;-how oft he hopes in vain!

Weeds choke, winds blast, and myriad pests devour,

The hot sun withers and the floods destroy.

Unceasing labor, vigilance and care

Reward him here and there with bounteous store.

Had man the blessed wisdom of content,

Happy were he-as wise Horatius sung-

To whom God gives enough with sparing hand.

Of all the crops by sighing mortals sown,

And watered with man's sweat and woman's tears,

There is but only one that never fails

In drouth or flood, on fat or flinty soil,

On Nilus' banks or Scandia's stony hills-

The plenteous, never-stinted crop of fools.

So hath it been since erst aspiring man

Broke from the brute and plucked the fatal tree,

And will be till eternity grows gray.

Princes and parasites comprise mankind:

To one wise prince a million parasites;

The most uncommon thing is common-sense;

A truly wise man is a freak of nature.

The herd are parasites of parasites

That blindly follow priest or demagogue,

Himself blind leader of the blind. The wise

Weigh words, but by the yard fools measure them.

The wise beginneth at the end; the fool

Ends at the beginning, or begins anew:

Aye, every ditch is full of after-wit.

Folly sows broad cast; Wisdom gathers in,

And so the wise man fattens on the fool,

And from the follies of the foolish learns

Wisdom to guide himself and bridle them.

"To-morrow I made my fortune," cries the fool,

"To-day I'll spend it." Thus will Folly eat

His chicken ere the hen hath laid the egg.

So Folly blossoms with promises all the year-

Promises that bud and blossom but to blast.

"All men are fools," said Socrates, the wise,

And in the broader sense I grant it true,

For even Socrates had his Xanthipp'.

Whose head is wise oft hath a foolish heart;

The wisest has more follies than he needs;

Wisdom and madness, too, are near akin.

The marrow-maddening canker-worm of love

Feeds on the brains of wise men as on fools'.

The wise man gathers wisdom from all men

As bees their honey hive from plant and weed.

Yea, from the varied history of the world,

From the experience of all times, all men,

The wise man learneth wisdom. Folly learns

From his own bruises if he learns at all.

The fool-born wise-what need hath he to learn?

He needs but gabble wisdom to the world:

Grill him on a gridiron and he gabbles still.

Wise men there are-wise in the eyes of men-

Who cram their hollow heads with ancient wit

Cackled in Carthage, babbled in Babylon,

Gabbled in Greece and riddled in old Rome,

And never coin a farthing of their own.

Wise men there are-for owls are counted wise-

Who love to leave the lamp-lit paths behind,

And chase the shapeless shadow of a doubt.

Too wise to learn, too wise to see the truth,

E'en though it glow and sparkle like a gem

On God's outstretched forefinger for all time.

These have one argument, and only one,

For good or evil, earth or jeweled heaven-

The olden, owlish argument of doubt.

Ah, he alone is wise who ever stands

Armed cap-a-pié with God's eternal truth.

Where Grex is Rex God help the hapless land.

The yelping curs that bay the rising moon

Are not more clamorous, and the fitful winds

Not more inconstant. List the croaking frogs

That raise their heads in fen or stagnant pool,

Shouting at eve their wisdom from the mud.

Beside the braying, bleating, bellowing mob,

Their jarring discords are sweet harmony.

The headless herd are but a noise of wind;

Sometimes, alas, the wild tornado's roar.

As full of freaks as curs are full of fleas,

Like gnats they swarm, like flies they buzz and breed.

Thought works in silence: Wisdom stops to think.

No ass so obstinate as ignorance.

Oft as they seize the ship of state, behold-

Overboard goes all ballast and they crowd

To blast or breeze or hurricane full sail,

Each dunce a pilot and a captain too.

How often cross-eyed Justice hits amiss!

Doomed by Athenian mobs to banishment,

See Aristides leave the land he saved:

Wisdom his fault and justice his offense.

See Caesar crowned a god and Tully slain;

See Paris red with riot and noble blood,

A king beheaded and a monster throned,-

King Drone, flat fool that weather-cocked all winds,

Gulped gall and vinegar and smacked it wine,

Wig-wagged his way from gilded Oeil de Boeuf

Through mob and maelstrom to the guillotine.

Chateaus up-blazing torch the doom of France,

While human wolves howl ruin round their walls.

Contention hisses from a million mouths,

And from ten thousand muttering craters smokes

The smell of sulphur. Gaul becomes a ghoul;

While Parlez-Tous in hot palaver holds

Hubbub ad Bedlam-Pandemonium thriced.

There, voices drowning voice with frantic cries,

Discord demented flaps her ruffled wings

And shrieks delirium to her screeching brood.

Sneer-lipped, hawk-eyed, wolf-tongued oraculars-

Wise-wigs, Girondins, frothing Jacobins-

Reason to madness run, tongues venom-tanged-

Howl chaos all with one united throat.

Maelstrom of madness, lazar-howled, hag-shrilled!

Quack quackles quack; all doctors disagree,

While Doctor Guillotine's huge scalpel heads

Hell-dogs beheading helpless innocents.

The very babes bark rabies. Journalism,

Moon-mad, green-eyed, hound-scented, lupus-tongued

On howls the pack and smells her bread in blood.

O Tempus ferax insanorum, Heu!

Physicked with metaphysics, pamphleteered

Into paroxysms, bruited into brutes.

And metamorphosed into murder, lo

Men lapse to savagery and turn to beasts.

Hell-broth hag-boiled: a mad Theroigne is queen-

Mounts to the brazen throne of Harlotdom,

Queen of the cursed, and flares her cannon-torch.

Watch-wolves, lean-jawed, fore-smelling feast of blood,

In packs on Paris howl from farthest France.

Discord demented bursts the bounds of Dis;

Mad Murder raves and Horror holds her hell.

Hades up-heaves her whelps. In human forms

Up-flare the Furies, serpent-haired and grin

Horrid with bloody jaws. Scaled reptiles crawl

From slum and sewer, slimy, coil on coil-

Danton, dark beast, that builded for himself

A monument of quicksand limed with blood;

Horse-leech Marat, blear-eyed, vile vulture born;

Fair Charlotte's dagger robbed the guillotine!

Black-biled, green-visaged, traitorous Robespierre,

That buzzard-beaked, hawk-taloned octopus

Who played with pale poltroonery of men,

And drank the cup of flattery till he reeled;

Hell's pope uncrowned, immortal for a day.

Tinville, relentless dog of murder-plot-

Doom-judge whose trembling victims were foredoomed;

Maillard who sucked his milk from Murder's dugs,

Twin-whelp to Theroigne, captain of the hags;

Jourdan, red-grizzled mule-son blotched with blood,

Headsman forever "famous-infamous;"

Keen, hag-whelped journalist Camille Desmoulins,

Who with a hundred other of his ilk

Hissed on the hounds and smeared his bread with blood;

Lebon, man-fiend, that vampire-ghoul who drank

Hot blood of headless victims, and compelled

Mothers to view the murder of their babes;

At whose red guillotine, in Arras raised,

The pipe and fiddle played at every fall

Of ghastly head the ribald "Ca Ira;"

And fiends unnamed and nameless brutes untaled.

Petticoat-patriots sans bas, and Sans-culottes,

Rampant in rags and hunger-toothed uproar

Paris the proud. With Jacobin clubs they club

The head of France till all her brains are out.

Hired murder hunts in packs. Men murder-mad

Slay for the love of murder. Gloomy night,

Hiding her stars lest they in pity fall,

Beholds a thousand guiltless, trembling souls-

Men, women, children-forth from prisons flung

In flare of torch and glare of demon eyes,

Among the howling wolves and lazar-hags,

Crying for mercy where no mercy is,

Hewed down in heaps by bloody ax and pike.

From their grim battlements the imps of hell

Indignant hissed and damped their fires with tears;

And Manhood from the watch-towers of the world

Cried in the name of Human Nature-"Hold!"

As well the drifting snail might strive to still

The volcan-heaved, storm-struck, moon-maddened sea.

Blood-frenzied beasts demand their feast of blood.

"Liberty-Equality-Fraternity!"-the cry

Of blood-hounds baying on the track of babes.

Queen innocent beheaded-mother-queen!

And queenly Roland-Nature's queenly queen!

Aye, at the foot of bloody guillotine

She stood a heroine: before her loomed

The Goddess of Liberty-in statue-stone.

Queen Roland saw, and spake the words that ring

Along the centuries-"O Liberty!

What crimes are committed in thy name!"-and died.

And when the headsman raised her severed head

To hell-dogs shouting "Vive la Liberté,"

Godlike disdain still sparkled in her eyes.

Grim Hell herself in pity stood aghast,

Clanged shut her doors and stopped her ears with pitch.

See the wise ruler-father of Brazil,

Who struck the shackles from a million slaves,

Whose reign was peace and love and gentleness,

Despoiled and driven from the land he loves.

See jealous Labor strike the hand that feeds,

And burn the mills that grind his daily bread;

Yea, in blind rage denounce the very laws

That shield his home from Europe's pauperdom.

See the grieved farmer raise his horny hand

And splutter garlic. Hear the demagogues

Fist-maul the wind and weather-cock the crowd,

With brazen foreheads full of empty noise

Out-bellowing the bulls of Bashan; and behold

Shrill, wrinkled Amazons in high harangue

Stamp their flat feet and gnash their toothless gums,

And flaunt their petticoat-flag of "Liberty."

Hear the old bandogs of the Daily Press,

Chained to their party posts, or fetter-free

And running amuck against old party creeds,

On-howl their packs and glory in the fight.

See mangy curs, whose editorial ears

Prick to all winds to catch the popular breeze,

Slang-whanging yelp, and froth and snap and snarl,

And sniff the gutters for their daily food.

And these-are they our prophets and our priests?

Hurra!-Hurra!-Hurra!-for "Liberty!"

Flaunt the red flag and flutter the petticoat;

Ran-tan the drums and let the bugles bray,

The eagle scream and sixty million throats

Sing Yankee-doodle-Yankee-doodle-doo.

The state is sick and every fool a quack

Running with pills and plasters and sure-cures,

And every pill and package labelled Ism.

See Liberty run mad, and Anarchy,

Bearing the torch, the dagger and the bomb

Red-mouthed run riot in her sacred name

Hear mobs of idlers cry-"Equality!

Let all men share alike: divide, divide!"

Butting their heads against the granite rocks

Of Nature and the eternal laws of God.

Pull down the toiler, lift the idler up!

Despoil the frugal, crown the negligent!

Offer rewards to idleness and crime!

And pay a premium for improvidence!

Fools, can your wolfish cries repeal the laws

Of God engraven on the granite hills,

Written in every Wrinkle of the earth,

On every plain, on every mountain-top,-

Nay, blazened o'er all the boundless Universe

On every jewel that sparkles on God's throne?

And can ye rectify God's mighty plan?

O pygmies, can ye measure God himself?

Aye, would ye measure God's almighty power,

Go-crack Earth's bones and heave the granite hills;

Measure the ocean in a drinking-cup;

Measure Eternity by the town-clock;

Nay, with a yard-stick measure the Universe:

Measure for measure. Measure God by man!

"Fools to the midmost marrow of your bones!"

O buzzing flies and gnats! Ye cannot strike

One little atom from God's Universe,

Or warp the laws of Nature by a hair!

His loving eye sees through all evil good.

Man's life is but a breath; but lo with Him

To-day, to-morrow, yesterday, are one

One in the cycle of eternal time

That hath beginning none, nor any end.

The Earth revolving round her sire, the Sun,

Measures the flying year of mortal man,

But who shall measure God's eternal year?

The unbegotten, everlasting God;

Unmade, eternal, all-pervading power;

Center and source of all things, high and low,

Maker and master of the Universe-

Ah, nay, the mighty Universe itself!

All things in nature bear God's signature

So plainly writ that he who runs may read.

We know not what life is; how may we know

Death-what it is, or what may lie beyond?

Whoso forgets his God forgets himself.

Let me not blindly judge my brother man:

There is but one just judge; there is but one

Who knows the hearts of men. Him let us praise-

Not with blind prayer, or idle, sounding psalms-

But let us daily in our daily works,

Praise God by righteous deeds and brother-love.

Go forth into the forest and observe-

For men believe their eyes and doubt their ears-

The creeping vine, the shrub, the lowly bush,

The dwarfed and stunted trees, the bent and bowed,

And here and there a lordly oak or elm,

And o'er them all a tall and princely pine.

All struggle upward, but the many fail;

The low dwarfed by the shadows of the great,

The stronger basking in the genial sun.

Observe the myriad fishes of the seas-

The mammoths and the minnows of the deep.

Behold the eagle and the little wren,

The condor on his cliff, the pigeon-hawk,

The teal, the coot, the broad-winged albatross.

Turn to the beasts in forest and in field-

The lion, the lynx, the mammoth and the mouse,

The sheep, the goat, the bullock and the horse,

The fierce gorillas and the chattering apes-

Progenitors and prototypes of man.

Not only differences in genera find,

But grades in every kind and every class.

I would not doom to serfdom or to toil

One race, one caste, one class, or any man:

Give every honest man an honest chance;

Protect alike the rich man and the poor;

Let not the toiler live upon a crust

While Croesus' bread is buttered on both sides.

O people's king and shepherd, thronèd Law,

Strike down the monsters of Monopoly.

Lift up thy club, O mighty Hercules!

Behold thy "Labors" yet unfinished are:

Tear off thy Nessus shirt and bare thine arms.

The Numean lion fattens on our flocks;

The Lernean Hydra coils around our farms,

Our towns, our mills, our mines, our factories;

The triple monster Geryon lives again,

Grown quadruple, and over all our plains

And thousand hills his fattening oxen feed.

Stymphalean buzzards ravage round our fields;

The Augean stables reeking stench the land;

The hundred-headed monster Cerberus,

That throttled Greece and ravaged hapless France,

Hath broke from hell and howls for human blood.

Lift up thy knotted club, O Hercules!

Strike swift and sure: crush down the Hydra's heads;

Throttle the Numean lion: strike! nor spare

The monster Geryon or the buzzard-beaks.

Clean the Augean stables if thou can'st;

But hurl the hundred-headed monster down

Headlong to Hades: chain him; make thee sure

He shall not burst the bonds of hell again.

To you, O chosen makers of the laws,

The nation looks-and shall it look in vain?

Will ye sit idle, or in idle wind

Blow out your zeal, and crack your party whips,

Or drivel dotage, while the crisis cries-

While all around the dark horizon loom

Clouds thunder-capped that bode a hurricane?

Sleep ye as slept the "Notables" of France,

While under them an hundred ?tnas hissed

And spluttered sulphur, gathering for the shock?

Be ye our Hercules-and Lynceus-eyed:

Still ye the storm or ere the storm begin-

Ere "Liberty" take Justice by the throat,

And run moon-mad a Malay murder-muck,

Throttle the "Trusts", and crush the coils combined

That crack our bones and fatten on our fields.

Strike down the hissing heads of Anarchy:

Strike swift and hard, nor parley with the fiend

Mothered of hell and father of all fiends-

Fell monster with an hundred bloody mouths,

And every mouth an hundred hissing tongues,

And every tongue drips venom from his fangs.

Protect the toiling millions by just laws;

Let honest labor find its sure reward;

Let willing hands find work and honest bread.

So frame the laws that every honest man

May find his home protected and his craft.

Let Liberty and Order walk hand in hand

With Justice: happy Trio! let them rule.

Put up the bars: bar out the pauper swarms

Alike from Asia's huts and Europe's hives.

Let charity begin at home. In vain

Will we bar out the swarms from Europe's hives

And Asia's countless lepers, if our ports

Are free to all the products of their hands.

Put up the bars: bar out the pauper hordes;

Bar out their products that compete with ours:

Give honest toil at home an honest chance:

Build up our own and keep our coin at home.

In vain our mines pour forth their wealth of gold

And silver, if by every ship it sail

For London, Paris, Birmingham or Berlin.

We have been prodigal. The days are past

When virgin acres wanted willing hands,

When fertile empires lay in wilderness

Waiting the teeming millions of the world.

Lo where the Indian and the bison roamed-Lords

of the prairies boundless as the sea-But

twenty years ago, behold the change!

Homesteads and hamlets, flocks and lowing herds,

Railways and cities, miles of rustling corn,

And leagues on leagues of waving fields of gold.

Let wise men teach and honest men proclaim

The mutual dependence of the rich and poor;

For if the wealthy profit by the poor,

The poor man profits ever by the rich.

Wealth builds our churches and our colleges;

Wealth builds the mills that grind the million's bread;

Wealth builds the factories that clothe the poor;

Wealth builds the railways and the million ride.

God hath so willed the toiling millions reap

The golden harvest that the rich have sown.

Six feet of earth make all men even; lo

The toilers are the rich man's heirs at last.

But there be men would grumble at their lot,

Even if it were a corner-lot on Broadway.

We stand upon the shoulders of the past.

Who knoweth not the past how may he know

The folly or the wisdom of to-day?

For by comparison we weigh the good,

And by comparison all evil weigh.

"What can we reason, but from what we know?"

Let honest men look back an hundred years-

Nay, fifty, and behold the wondrous change.

Where wooden tubs like sluggards sailed the sea,

Steam-ships of steel like greyhounds course the main;

Where lumbering coach and wain and wagon toiled

Through mud and mire and rut and rugged way,

The cushioned train a mile a minute flies.

Then by slow coach the message went and came,

But now by lightning bridled to man's use

We flash our silent thoughts from sea to sea;

Nay, under ocean's depths from shore to shore;

And talk by telephone to distant ears.

The dreams of yesterday are deeds to-day.

Our frugal mothers spun with tedious toil,

And wove the homespun cloth for all their fold;

Their needles plied by weary fingers sewed.

Behold, the humming factory spins and weaves,

The singing "Singer" sews with lightning speed.

Our fathers sowed their little fields by hand,

And reaped with bended sickles and bent backs;

By hand they bound the sheaves of wheat and rye;

With flails they threshed and winnowed in the wind.

Now by machines we sow and reap and bind;

By steam we thresh and sack the bounteous grain.

These are but few of all the million ways

Whereby man's toil is lightened and he hath gained

Tenfold in comfort, luxury and ease.

For these and more the millions that enjoy

May thank the wise and wealthy few who gave.

If the rich are richer the poor are richer too.

A narrow demagogue I count the man

Who cries to-day-"Progress and Poverty";

As if a thousand added comforts made

The poor man poorer and his lot the worse.

'Tis but a new toot on the same old horn

That brayed in ancient Greece and Babylon,

And now amid the ruined walls of Rome

Lies buried fathoms deep in dead men's dust.

"Progress and Poverty!" Man, hast thou traced

The blood that throbs commingled in thy veins?

Over thy shoulder hast thou cast a glance

On thine old Celtic-Saxon-Norman sires-

Huddled in squalid huts on beds of straw?

Barefooted churls swine-herding in the fens,

Bare-legged cowherds in their cow-skin coats,

Wearing the collars of their Thane or Eorl,

His serfs, his slaves, even as thy dog is thine;

Harried by hunger, pillaged, ravaged, slain,

By Viking robbers and the warring Jarls;

Oft glad like hunted swine to fill their maws

With herbs and acorns. "Progress and Poverty!"

The humblest laborer in our mills or mines

Is royal Thane beside those slavish churls;

The frugal farmer in our land to-day

Lives better than their kings-himself a king.

Lo every age refutes old errors still,

And still begets new errors for the next;

But all the creeds of politics or priests

Can't make one error truth, one truth a lie.

There is no religion higher than the truth;

Men make the creeds, but God ordains the law.

Above all cant, all arguments of men,

Above all superstitions, old or new,

Above all creeds of every age and clime,

Stands the eternal truth-the creed of creeds.

Sweet is the lute to him who hath not heard

The prattle of his children at his knees:

Ah, he is rich indeed whose humble home

Contains a frugal wife and sweet content.

* * *

HELOISE

I saw a light on yester-night-

A low light on the misty lea;

The stars were dim and silence grim

Sat brooding on the sullen sea.

From out the silence came a voice-

A voice that thrilled me through and through,

And said, "Alas, is this your choice?

For he is false and I was true."

And in my ears the passing years

Will sadly whisper words of rue:

Forget-and yet-can I forget

That one was false and one was true?

* * *

CHANGE

Change is the order of the universe.

Worlds wax and wane; suns die and stars are born.

Two atoms of cosmic dust unite, cohere-

And lo the building of a world begun.

On all things-high or low, or great or small-

Earth, ocean, mountain, mammoth, midge and man,

On mind and matter-lo perpetual change-

God's fiat-stamped! The very bones of man

Change as he grows from infancy to age.

His loves, his hates, his tastes, his fancies, change.

His blood and brawn demand a change of food;

His mind as well: the sweetest harp of heaven

Were hateful if it played the selfsame tune

Forever, and the fairest flower that gems

The garden, if it bloomed throughout the year,

Would blush unsought. The most delicious fruits

Pall on our palate if we taste too oft,

And Hyblan honey turns to bitter gall.

Perpetual winter is a reign of gloom;

Perpetual summer hardly pleases more.

Behold the Esquimau-the Hottentot:

This doomed to regions of perpetual ice,

And that to constant summer's heat and glow:

Inferior both, both gloomy and unblessed.

The home of happiness and plenty lies

Where autumn follows summer and the breath

Of spring melts into rills the winter's snows.

How gladly, after summer's blazing suns,

We hail the autumn frosts and autumn fruits:

How blithesome seems the fall of feathery snow

When winter comes with merry clang of bells:

And after winter's reign of ice and storm

How glad we hail the robins of the spring.

For God hath planted in the hearts of men

The love of change, and sown the seeds of change

In earth and air and sea and shoreless space.

Day follows night and night the dying day,

And every day-and every hour-is change;

From when on dewy hills the rising dawn

Sprinkles her mists of silver in the east,

Till in the west the golden dust up-wheels

Behind the chariot of the setting sun;

From when above the hills the evening star

Sparkles a diamond 'mong the grains of gold,

Until her last faint flicker on the sea.

The voices of the hoar and hurrying years

Cry from the silence-"Change!-perpetual Change!"

Man's heart responding throbs-"Perpetual Change,"

And grinds like a mill-stone: wanting grists of change

It grinds and grinds upon its troubled self.

Behold the flowers that spring and bloom and fade.

Behold the blooming maid: the song of larks

Is in her warbling throat; the blue of heaven

Is in her eyes; her loosened tresses fall

A shower of gold on shoulders tinged with rose;

Her form a seraph's and her gladsome face

A benediction. Lo beneath her feet

The loving crocus bursts in sudden bloom.

Fawn-eyed and full of gentleness she moves-

A sunbeam on the lawn. The hearts of men

Follow her footsteps. He whose sinewy arms

Might burst through bars of steel like bands of straw,

Caught in the net of her unloosened hair,

A helpless prisoner lies and loves his chains.

Blow, ye soft winds, from sandal-shaded isle,

And bring the mogra's breath and orange-bloom.

Fly, fleet-winged doves, to Ponce de Leon's spring,

And in your bills bring her the pearls of youth;

For lo the fingers of relentless Time

Weave threads of silver in among the gold,

And seam her face with pain and carking care,

Till, bent and bowed, the shriveled hands of Death

Reach from the welcome grave and draw her in.

* * *

FIDO

Hark, the storm is raging high;

Beat the breakers on the coast,

And the wintry waters cry

Like the wailing of a ghost.

On the rugged coast of Maine

Stands the frugal farmer's cot:

What if drive the sleet and rain?

John and Hannah heed it not.

On the hills the mad winds roar,

And the tall pines toss and groan;

Round the headland-down the shore-

Stormy spirits shriek and moan.

Inky darkness wraps the sky;

Not a glimpse of moon or star;

And the stormy-petrels cry

Out along the harbor-bar.

Seated by their blazing hearth-

John and Hannah-snug and warm-

What if darkness wrap the earth?

Drive the sleet and howl the storm!

Let the stormy-petrels fly!

Let the moaning breakers beat!

Hark! I hear an infant cry

And the patter of baby-feet:

And Hannah listened as she spoke,

But only heard the driving rain,

As on the cottage-roof it broke

And pattered on the window-pane.

And she sat knitting by the fire

While pussy frolicked at her feet;

And ever roared the tempest higher,

And ever harder the hailstones beat.

"Hark! the cry-it comes again!"

"Nay, it is the winds that wail,

And the patter on the pane

Of the driving sleet and hail"

Replied the farmer as he piled

The crackling hemlock on the coals,

And lit his corn-cob pipe and smiled

The smile of sweet contented souls.

Aye, let the storm rave o'er the earth;

Their kine are snug in barn and byre;

The apples sputter on the hearth,

The cider simmers on the fire.

But once again at midnight high,

She heard in dreams, through wind and sleet,

An infant moan, an infant cry,

And the patter of baby-feet.

Half-waking from her dreams she turned

And heard the driving wind and rain;

Still on the hearth the fagots burned,

And hail beat on the window-pane.

John rose as wont, at dawn of day;

The earth was white with frozen sleet;

And lo his faithful Fido lay

Dead on the door-stone at his feet.

* * *

THE REIGN OF REASON

The day of truth is dawning. I behold

O'er darksome hills the trailing robes of gold

And silent footsteps of the gladsome dawn.

The morning breaks by sages long foretold;

Truth comes to set upon the world her throne.

Men lift their foreheads to the rising sun,

And lo the reign of Reason is begun.

Fantastic phantasms fly before the light-

Pale, gibbering ghosts and ghouls and goblin fears:

Man who hath walked in sleep-what thousands years?

Groping among the shadows of the night,

Moon-struck and in a weird somnambulism,

Mumbling some cunning cant or catechism,

Thrilled by the electric magic of the skies-

Sun-touched by Truth-awakes and rubs his eyes.

Old Superstition, mother of cruel creeds,

O'er all the earth hath sown her dragon-teeth.

Lo centuries on centuries the seeds

Grew rank, and from them all the haggard breeds

Of Hate and Fear and Hell and cruel Death.

And still her sunken eyes glare on mankind;

Her livid lips grin horrible; her hands,

Shriveled to bone and sinew, clutch all lands

And with blind fear lead on or drive the blind.

Ah ignorance and fear go hand in hand,

Twin-born, and broadcast scatter hate and thorns,

They people earth with ghosts and hell with horns,

And sear the eyes of truth with burning brand.

Behold, the serried ranks of Truth advance,

And stubborn Science shakes her shining lance

Full in the face of stolid Ignorance.

But Superstition is a monster still-

An Hydra we may scotch but hardly kill;

For if with sword of Truth we lop a head,

How soon another groweth in its stead!

All men are slaves. Yea, some are slave to wine

And some to women, some to shining gold,

But all to habit and to customs old.

Around our stunted souls old tenets twine

And it is hard to straighten in the oak

The crook that in the sapling had its start:

The callous neck is glad to wear the yoke;

Nor reason rules the head, but aye the heart:

The head is weak, the throbbing heart is strong;

But where the heart is right the head is not far wrong.

Men have been learning error age on age,

And superstition is their heritage

Bequeathed from age to age and sire to son

Since the dim history of the world begun.

Trust paves the way for treachery to tread;

Under the cloak of virtue vices creep;

Fools chew the chaff while cunning eats the bread,

And wolves become the shepherds of the sheep.

The mindless herd are but the cunning's tools;

For ages have the learned of the schools

Furnished pack-saddles for the backs of fools.

Pale Superstition loves the gloom of night;

Truth, like a diamond, ever loves the light.

But still 'twere wrong to speak but in abuse,

For priests and popes have had, and have, their use.

Yea, Superstition since the world began

Hath been an instrument to govern man:

For men were brutes, and brutal fear was given

To chain the brute till Reason came from heaven.

Aye, men were beasts for lo how many ages!

And only fear held them in chains and cages.

Wise men were priests, and gladly I accord

They were the priests and prophets of the Lord;

For love was lust and o'er all earth's arena

Hell-fire alone could tame the wild hyena.

All history is the register, we find,

Of the crimes and lusts and sufferings of mankind;

And there are still dark lands where it is well

That Superstition wear the horns of hell,

And hold her torches o'er the brutal head,

And fright the beast with fire and goblin dread

Till Reason come the darkness to dispel.

How hard it is for mortals to unlearn

Beliefs bred in the marrow of their bones!

How hard it is for mortals to discern

The truth that preaches from the silent stones,

The silent hills, the silent universe,

While Error cries in sanctimonious tones

That all the light of life and God is hers!

Lo in the midst we stand: we cannot see

Either the dark beginning or the end,

Or where our tottering footsteps turn or trend

In the vast orbit of Eternity.

Let Reason be our light-the only light

That God hath given unto benighted man,

Wherewith to see a glimpse of his vast plan

And stars of hope that glimmer on our night.

Lo all-pervading Unity is His;

Lo all-pervading Unity is He:

One mighty heart throbs in the earth and sea,

In every star through heaven's immensity,

And God in all things breathes, in all things is.

God's perfect order rules the vast expanse,

And Love is queen and all the realms are hers;

But strike one planet from the Universe

And all is chaos and unbridled chance.

And is there life beyond this life below?

Aye, is death death?-or but a happy change

From night to light-on angel wings to range,

And sing the songs of seraphs as we go?

Alas, the more we know the less we know we know.

God hath laid down the limits we cannot pass;

And it is well he giveth us no glass

Wherewith to see beyond the present glance,

Else we might die a thousand deaths perchance

Before we lay our bones beneath the grass.

What is the soul, and whither will it fly?

We only know that matter cannot die,

But lives and lived through all eternity,

And ever turns from hoary age to youth.

And is the soul not worthier than the dust?

So in His providence we put our trust;

And so we humbly hope, for God is just-

Father all-wise, unmoved by wrath or ruth:

What then is certain-what eternal? Truth,

Almighty God, Time, Space and Cosmic Dust.

* * *

LOVE WILL FIND

Seek ye the fairest lily of the field,

The fairest lotus that in lakelet lies,

The fairest rose that ever morn revealed,

And Love will find-from other eyes concealed-

A fairer flower in some fair woman's eyes.

List ye the lark that warbles to the morn,

The sweetest note that linnet ever sung,

Or trembling lute in tune with silver horn,

And Love will list-and laugh your lute to scorn-

A sweeter lute in some fair woman's tongue.

Seek ye the dewy perfume seaward blown

From flowering orange-groves to passing ships;

Nay, sip the nectared dew of Helicon,

And Love will find-and claim it all his own-

A sweeter dew on some fair woman's lips.

Seek ye a couch of softest eider-down,

The silken floss that baby birdling warms,

Or shaded moss with blushing roses strown,

And Love will find-when they are all alone-

A softer couch in some fair woman's arms.

* * *

AN OLD ENGLISH OAK

Silence is the voice of mighty things.

In silence dropped the acorn in the rain;

In silence slept till sun-touched. Wondrous life

Peeped from the mold and oped its eyes on morn.

Up-grew in silence through a thousand years

The Titan-armed, gnarl-jointed, rugged oak,

Rock-rooted. Through his beard and shaggy locks

Soft breezes sung and tempests roared: the rain

A thousand summers trickled down his beard;

A thousand winters whitened on his head;

Yet spake he not. He, from his coigne of hills,

Beheld the rise and fall of empire, saw

The pageantry and perjury of kings,

The feudal barons and the slavish churls,

The peace of peasants; heard the merry song

Of mowers singing to the swing of scythes,

The solemn-voiced, low-wailing funeral dirge

Winding slow-paced with death to humble graves;

And heard the requiem sung for coffined kings.

Saw castles rise and castles crumble down,

Abbeys up-loom and clang their solemn bells,

And heard the owl hoot ruin on their walls:

Beheld a score of battle fields corpse-strewn-

Blood-fertiled with ten thousand flattered fools

Who, but to please the vanity of one,

Marched on hurrahing to the doom of death-

And spake not, neither sighed nor made a moan.

Saw from the blood of heroes roses spring,

And where the clangor of steel-sinewed War

Roared o'er embattled rage, heard gentle Peace

To bleating hills and vales of rustling gold

Flute her glad notes from morn till even-tide.

Grim with the grime of a thousand years he stood-

Grand in his silence, mighty in his years.

Under his shade the maid and lover wooed;

Under his arms their children's children played

And lambkins gamboled; at his feet by night

The heart-sick wanderer laid him down and died,

And he looked on in silence.

Silent hours

In ghostly pantomime on tip-toe tripped

The stately minuet of the passing years,

Until the horologe of Time struck One.

Black Thunder growled and from his throne of gloom

Fire-flashed the night with hissing bolt, and lo,

Heart-split, the giant of a thousand years

Uttered one voice and like a Titan fell,

Crashing one hammer-clang, and passed away.

* * *

THE LEGEND OF THE FALLS[CH]

[Read at the Celebration of the Old Settlers of Hennepin County, at the Academy of Music, Minneapolis, July 4, 1879.]

[The Numerals refer to Notes in Appendix.]

On the Spirit-Island [CI] sitting under midnight's misty moon,

Lo I see the spirits flitting o'er the waters one by one!

Slumber wraps the silent city, and the droning mills are dumb;

One lone whippowil's shrill ditty calls her mate that ne'er will come.

Sadly moans the mighty river, foaming down the fettered falls,

Where of old he thundered ever o'er abrupt and lofty walls.

Great Unktéhee-god of waters-lifts no more his mighty head;

Fled he with the timid otters?-lies he in the cavern dead?

Hark!-the waters hush their sighing and the whippowil her call,

Through the moon-lit mists are flying dusky shadows silent all.

Lo from out the waters foaming-from the cavern deep and dread-

Through the glamour and the gloaming comes a spirit of the dead.

Sad she seems; her tresses raven on her tawny shoulders rest;

Sorrow on her brow is graven, in her arms a babe is pressed.

Hark!-she chants the solemn story-sings the legend sad and old,

And the river wrapt in glory listens while the tale is told.

Would you hear the legend olden hearken while I tell the tale-

Shorn, alas, of many a golden, weird Dakota chant and wail.

* * *

THE LEGEND

Tall was young Wanata, stronger than Heyóka's [16] giant form,-

Laughed at flood and fire and hunger, faced the fiercest winter storm.

When Wakinyan [32] flashed and thundered, when Unktéhee raved and roared,

All but brave Wanata wondered, and the gods with fear implored.

When the war-whoop shrill resounded, calling friends to meet the foe,

From the teepee swift he bounded, armed with polished lance and bow.

In the battle's din and clangor fast his fatal arrows flew,

Flashed his fiery eyes with anger,-many a stealthy foe he slew.

Hunter swift was he and cunning, caught the beaver, slew the bear,

Overtook the roebuck running, dragged the panther from his lair.

Loved was he by many a maiden; many a dark eye glanced in vain;

Many a heart with sighs was laden for the love it could not gain.

So they called the brave "Ska Capa;"[CJ] but the fairest of the band-

Moon-faced, meek Anpétu-Sapa-won the hunter's heart and hand.

From the wars with triumph burning, from the chase of bison fleet,

To his lodge the brave returning, spread his trophies at her feet.

Love and joy sat in the teepee; him a black-eyed boy she bore;

But alas, she lived to weep a love she lost forevermore.

For the warriors chose Wanata first Itáncan[CK] of the band.

At the council-fire he sat a leader brave, a chieftain grand.

Proud was fair Anpétu-Sapa, and her eyes were glad with joy;

Proud was she and very happy with her warrior and her boy.

But alas, the fatal honor that her brave Wanata won,

Brought a bitter woe upon her,-hid with clouds the summer sun.

For among the brave Dakotas wives bring honor to the chief.

On the vine-clad Minnesota's banks he met the Scarlet Leaf.

Young and fair was Apè-dúta[CL]-full of craft and very fair;

Proud she walked a queen of beauty with her dark, abundant hair.

In her net of hair she caught him-caught Wanata with her wiles;

All in vain his wife besought him-begged in vain his wonted smiles.

Apè-dúta ruled the teepee-all Wanata's smiles were hers;

When the lodge was wrapped in sleep a star[CM] beheld the mother's tears.

Long she strove to do her duty for the black-eyed babe she bore;

But the proud, imperious beauty made her sad forevermore.

Still she dressed the skins of beaver, bore the burdens, spread the fare;

Patient ever, murmuring never, though her cheeks were creased with care.

In the moon Maga-o kada, [71] twice an hundred years ago-

Ere the "Black Robe's[CN]" sacred shadow stalked the prairies' pathless snow-

Down the swollen, rushing river, in the sunset's golden hues,

From the hunt of bear and beaver came the band in swift canoes.

On the queen of fairy islands, on the Wita Wastè's [CO] shore

Camped Wanata, on the highlands just above the cataract's roar.

Many braves were with Wanata; Apè-dúta, too, was there,

And the sad Anpétu-sapa spread the lodge with wonted care.

Then above the leafless prairie leaped the fat-faced, laughing moon,

And the stars-the spirits fairy-walked the welkin one by one.

Swift and silent in the gloaming on the waste of waters blue,

Speeding downward to the foaming, shot Wanata's birch canoe.

In it stood Anpétu-sapa-in her arms her sleeping child;

Like a wailing Norse-land drapa [CP] rose her death-song weird and wild:

[Illustration: Anpétu-sapa]

Mihihna,[CQ] Mihihna, my heart is stone;

The light is gone from my longing eyes;

The wounded loon in the lake alone

Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.

Mihihna, Mihihna, the path is long,

The burden is heavy and hard to bear;

I sink-I die, and my dying song

Is a song of joy to the false one's ear.

Mihihna, Mihihna, my young heart flew

Far away with my brave to the bison-chase;

To the battle it went with my warrior true,

And never returned till I saw his face.

Mihihna, Mihihna, my brave was glad

When he came from the chase of the roebuck fleet;

Sweet were the words that my hunter said

As his trophies he laid at Anpétu's feet.

Mihihna, Mihihna, the boy I bore-

When the robin sang and my brave was true,

I can bear to look on his face no more,

For he looks, Mihihna, so much like you.

Mihihna, Mihihna, the Scarlet Leaf

Has robbed my boy of his father's love;

He sleeps in my arms-he will find no grief

In the star-lit lodge in the land above.

Mihihna, Mihihna, my heart is stone;

The light is gone from my longing eyes;

The wounded loon in the lake alone

Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.

Swiftly down the turbid torrent, as she sung her song she flew;

Like a swan upon the current, dancing rode the light canoe.

Hunters hurry in the gloaming; all in vain Wanata calls;

Singing through the surges foaming, lo she plunges o'er the Falls.

Long they searched the sullen river-searched for leagues along the shore,

Bark or babe or mother never saw the sad Dakotas more;

But at night or misty morning oft the hunters heard her song,

Oft the maidens heard her warning in their mellow mother-tongue.

On the bluffs they sat enchanted till the blush of beamy dawn;

Spirit Isle, they say, is haunted, and they call the spot Wakan[CR]

Many summers on the highland in the full moon's golden glow-

In the woods on Fairy Island,[CS] walked a snow-white fawn and doe-

Spirits of the babe and mother sadly seeking evermore

For a father's love another turned away with evil power.

Sometimes still when moonbeams shimmer through the maples on the lawn,

In the gloaming and the glimmer walk the silent doe and fawn;

And on Spirit Isle or near it, under midnight's misty moon,

Oft is seen the mother's spirit, oft is heard her mournful tune.

FOOTNOTES

[CH]

An-pe-tu Sa-pa-Clouded Day-was the name of the Dakota mother who committed suicide, as related in this legend, by plunging over the Falls of St. Anthony. Schoolcraft calls her "Ampata Sapa." Ampata is not Dakota. There are several versions of this legend, all agreeing in the main points.

[CI]

The small island of rock a few rods below the Falls, was called by the Dakotas Wanagee We-ta-Spirit-Island. They say the spirit of Anpetu Sapa sits upon that island at night and pours forth her sorrow in song. They also say that from time out of mind, war-eagles nested on that island, until the advent of white men frightened them away. This seems to be true. See Carver's Travels (London, 1778), p. 71.

[CJ]

Or Capa Ska-White beaver. White beavers are very rare, very cunning and hard to catch.

[CK]

E-tan-can-Chief.

[CL]

A-pe-leaf,-duta-Scarlet,-Scarlet leaf

[CM]

Stars, the Dakotas say, are the faces of the departed watching over their friends and relatives on earth.

[CN]

The Dakotas called the Jesuit priests "Black Robes," from the color of their vestments.

[CO]

Wee-tah Wah-stay-Beautiful Island,-the Dakota name for Nicollet Island, just above the Falls.

[CP]

Drapa, a Norse funeral wail in which the virtues of the deceased are recounted.

[CQ]

Mee-heen-yah-My husband.

[CR]

Pronounced Walk-on,-Sacred, inhabited by a spirit.

[CS]

Fairy Island,-Wita-Waste-Nicollet Island.

* * *

CHICKADEE

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee!

That was the song that he sang to me-

Sang from his perch in the willow tree-

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

My little brown bird,

The song that I heard

Was a happier song than the minstrels sing-

A paean of joy and a carol of spring;

And my heart leaped throbbing and sang with thee

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

My birdie looked wise

With his little black eyes,

As he peeked and peered from his perch at me

With a throbbing throat and a flutter of glee,

As if he would say-

Sing trouble away,

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

Only one note

From his silver throat;

Only one word

From my wise little bird;

But a sweeter note or a wiser word

From the tongue of mortal I never have heard,

Than my little philosopher sang to me

From his bending perch in the willow tree-

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

Come foul or fair,

Come trouble and care-

No-never a sigh

Or a thought of despair!

For my little bird sings in my heart to me,

As he sang from his perch in the willow tree-

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee dee:

Chickadee-dee, chickadee-dee;

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

* * *

ANTHEM

[APRIL, 1861.]

Spirit of Liberty,

Wake in the Land!

Sons of our Forefathers,

Raise the strong hand!

Burn in each heart anew

Liberty's fires;

Wave the old Flag again,

Flag of our sires;

Glow all thy stars again,

Banner of Light!

Wave o'er us forever,

Emblem of might;

God for our Banner!

God for the Right!

Minions of Tyranny,

Tremble and kneel!

The sons of the Pilgrims

Are sharpening their steel.

Pledge for our Land again

Honor and life;

Wave the old Flag again;

On to the strife!

Shades of our Forefathers,

Witness our fright!

Wave o'er us forever,

Emblem of might;

God for our Banner!

God for our Right!

* * *

HURRAH FOR THE VOLUNTEERS

[May, 1861.]

Come then, brave men, from the Land of Lakes

With steady steps and cheers;

Our country calls, as the battle breaks,

On the Northwest Pioneers.

Let the eagle scream, and the bayonet gleam!

Hurrah for the Volunteers!

* * *

CHARGE OF "THE BLACK-HORSE"

[First battle of Bull Run.]

Our columns are broken, defeated, and fled;

We are gathered, a few from the flying and dead,

Where the green flag is up and our wounded remain

Imploring for water and groaning in pain.

Lo the blood-spattered bosom, the shot-shattered limb,

The hand-clutch of fear as the vision grows dim,

The half-uttered prayer and the blood-fettered breath,

The cold marble brow and the calm face of death.

O proud were these forms at the dawning of morn,

When they sprang to the call of the shrill bugle-horn:

There are mothers and wives that await them afar;

God help them!-Is this then the glory of war?

But hark!-hear the cries from the field of despair;

"The Black-Horse" are charging the fugitives there;

They gallop the field o'er the dying and dead,

And their blades with the blood of their victims are red.

The cries of the fallen and flying are vain;

They saber the wounded and trample the slain;

And the plumes of the riders wave red in the sun,

As they stoop for the stroke and the murder goes on.

They halt for a moment-they form and they stand;

Then with sabers aloft they ride down on our band

Like the samiel that sweeps o'er Arabia's sand.

"Halt!-down with your sabers!-the dying are here!

Let the foeman respect while the friend sheds a tear."

Nay; the merciless butchers were thirsting for blood,

And mad for the murder still onward they rode.

"Stand firm and be ready!"-Our brave, gallant few

Have faced to the foe, and our rifles are true;

Fire!-a score of grim riders go down in a breath

At the flash of our guns-in the tempest of death!

They wheel, and they clutch in despair at the mane!

They reel in their saddles and fall to the plain!

The riderless steeds, wild with wounds and with fear,

Dash away o'er the field in unbridled career;

Their stirrups swing loose and their manes are all gore

From the mad cavaliers that shall ride them no more.

Of the hundred so bold that rode down on us there

But few rode away with the tale of despair;

Their proud, plumèd comrades so reckless, alas,

Slept their long, dreamless sleep on the blood-spattered grass.

* * *

ONLY A PRIVATE KILLED

[The soldier was Louis Mitchell, of Co. 1, 1st Minn. Vols., killed in a skirmish, near Ball's Bluff, October 22, 1861.]

"We've had a brush," the Captain said,

"And Rebel blood we've spilled;

We came off victors with the loss

Of only a private killed."

"Ah," said the orderly-"it was hot,"-

Then he breathed a heavy breath-

"Poor fellow!-he was badly shot,

Then bayoneted to death."

And now was hushed the martial din;

The saucy foe had fled;

They brought the private's body in;

I went to see the dead;

For I could not think our Rebel foes-

So valiant in the van-

So boastful of their chivalry-

Could kill a wounded man.

A musket ball had pierced his thigh-

A frightful, crushing wound-

And then with savage bayonets

They pinned him to the ground.

One deadly thrust drove through the heart,

Another through the head;

Three times they stabbed his pulseless breast

When he lay cold and dead.

His hair was matted with his gore,

His hands were clinched with might,

As if he still his musket bore

So firmly in the fight.

He had grasped the foemen's bayonets

Their murderous thrusts to fend:

They raised the coat-cape from his face,

And lo-it was my friend!

Think what a shudder chilled my heart!

'Twas but the day before

We laughed together merrily,

As we talked of days of yore.

"How happy we shall be," he said,

"When the war is o'er, and when

With victory's song and victory's tread

We all march home again."

Ah little he dreamed-that soldier brave

So near his journey's goal-

How soon a heavenly messenger

Would claim his Christian soul.

But he fell like a hero-fighting,

And hearts with grief are filled;

And honor is his,-tho' the Captain says

"Only a private killed."

I knew him well,-he was my friend;

He loved our land and laws,

And he fell a blessed martyr

To our Country's holy cause;

And I know a cottage in the West

Where eyes with tears are filled

As they read the careless telegram-

"Only a private killed."

Comrades, bury him under the oak,

Wrapped in his army-blue;

He is done with the battle's din and smoke,

With drill and the proud review.

And the time will come ere long, perchance,

When our blood will thus be spilled,

And what care we if the Captain say-

"Only a private killed."

For the glorious Old Flag beckons.

We have pledged her heart and hand,

And we'll brave even death to rescue

Our dear old Fatherland.

We ask not praise-nor honors,

Then-as each grave is filled-

What care we if the Captain say-

"Only a private killed."

* * *

DO THEY THINK OF US?

[October, 1861, after the Battle of Ball's Bluff.]

Do they think of us, say-in the far distant West-

On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest?

On the long dusty march when the suntide is hot,

O say, are their sons and their brothers forgot?

Are our names on their lips, is our comfort their care

When they kneel to the God of our fathers in prayer?

When at night on their warm, downy pillows they lie,

Wrapped in comfort and ease, do they think of us, say?

When the rain patters down on the roof overhead,

Do they think of the camps without shelter or bed?

Ah many a night on the cold ground we've lain-

Chilled, chilled to the heart by the merciless rain,

And yet there stole o'er us the peace of the blest,

For our spirits went back to our homes in the West.

O we think of them, and it sharpens our steel,

When the battle-smoke rolls and the grim cannon peal,

When forward we rush at the shrill bugle's call

To the hail-storm of conflict where many must fall.

When night settles down on the slaughter-piled plain,

And the dead are at rest and the wounded in pain,

Do they think of us, say, in the far distant West-

On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest?

Aye, comrades, we know that our darlings are there

With their hearts full of hope and their souls full of prayer,

And it steadies our rifles-it steels every breast-

The thought of our loved ones at home in the West-

On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest.

* * *

CHARGE OF FREMONT'S BODY-GUARD

On they ride-on they ride-

Only three hundred,-

Ride the brave Body-Guard,

From the "Prairie Scouts" sundered:

Two thousand riflemen,

Ambushed on either side,

The signal of slaughter bide:

Ho! has the farmer-guide

Led them astray and lied?

How can they pass the wood?

On they ride-on they ride-

Fearlessly, readily,

Silently, steadily

Ride the brave Body-Guard

Led by Zagonyi.

Up leap the Southrons there;

Loud breaks the battle-blare;

Now swings his hat in air;

Flashes his saber bare:

"Draw sabers;-follow me!"

Shouts the brave Captain:

"Union and Liberty!"

Thunders the Captain.

Three hundred sabers flash;

Three hundred Guardsmen dash

On to the fierce attack;

Into the cul-de-sac

Plunge the Three Hundred.

Yell the mad ambushed pack-

Two thousand rifles crack

At the Three Hundred.

Dire is the death they deal,

Gleams the steel-volleys peal-

Horses plunge-riders reel;

Sabers and bayonets clash;

Guns in their faces flash;

Blue coats are spattered red-

Fifty brave Guards are dead-

Zagonyi is still ahead,

Swinging his hat in air,

Flashing his saber:

"Steady men;-steady there;

Forward-Battalion!"

On they plunge-on they dash

Thro' the dread gantlet;

Death gurgles in the gash

Of furious-dealt saber-slash;

Over them the volleys crash

Thro' the trees like a whirlwind.

They pass through the fire of death;

Pant riders and steeds for breath;

"Halt!" cried the Captain

Then he looked up the hill;

There on the summit still

The "Third Company" paltered.

Right through the fire of hell,

Where fifty brave Guardsmen fell,

Zagonyi had ridden well;

Foley had faltered.

Flashed like a flame of fire-

Flashed with a menace dire-

Flashed with a yell of ire

The sword of the Captain.

Kennedy saw the flash,

And ordered the "Third" to dash

Gallantly forward:

"Come on, Boys, for Liberty!

Forward, and follow me!

Remember Kentucky!"

Into the hell they broke-

Into the fire and smoke-

Dealing swift saber-stroke-

The gallant Kentuckians.

Horses plunge,

Riders lunge

Heavily forward;

Over the fallen they ride

Down to Zagonyi's side,

Mowing a swath of death

Either side,-right and left

Piling the slaughtered!

Under the storm of lead,

Still hissing overhead,

They re-formed the battle-line;

Then the brave Captain said:

"Guardsmen: avenge our dead!

Charge!"-Up the hill they go,-

Right into the swarming foe!

Woe to the foemen-woe!

See mad Zagonyi there;

Streams on the wind his hair,

Flashes his saber bare;

On they go-on they go;

Volleys flash,

Sabers clash,

On they plunge, on they dash,

Following Zagonyi

Into the hell again.

Hand to hand fight and die

Infantry, cavalry;

Grappled and mixed they lie-

Infantry, cavalry:

Hurra!-the Rebels fly!

Bravo!-Three Hundred!

"Forward and follow me!"

Shouted the Captain;

"Union and Liberty!"

All the Guards thundered.

With mad hearts and sabers stout

Into the Rebel-rout

Gallop the Guardsmen,

Thundering their cry again,

Cleaving their foes in twain,

Piling the heaps of slain

Sabered and sundered.

Three hundred foes they slayed,

Glorious the charge they made,

Victorious the charge they made-

The gallant Three Hundred!

Let the Crown-Poet paid

Sing of the "Light Brigade"

And "The wild charge they made"

When "Some one had blundered;"

Following the British Bard,

I sing of the Body-Guard-

The Heroes that fought so hard-

Where nobody blundered.

Hail, brave Zagonyi-hail!

All hail, the Body-Guard!-

The glorious-

The victorious-

The invincible Three Hundred.

* * *

A MILLION MORE

[AUGUST, 1862.]

The nation calls aloud again,

For Freedom wounded writhes in pain.

Gird on your armor, Northern men;

Drop scythe and sickle, square and pen;

A million bayonets gleam and flash;

A thousand cannon peal and crash;

Brothers and sons have gone before;

A million more!-a million more!

Fire and sword!-aye, sword and fire!

Let war be fierce and grim and dire;

Your path be marked by flame and smoke,

And tyrant's bones and fetters broke:

Stay not for foe's uplifted hand;

Sheathe not the sword; quench not the brand

Till Freedom reign from shore to shore,

Or might 'mid ashes smoke and gore.

If leader stay the vengeance-rod,

Let him beware the wrath of God;

The maddened millions long his trust

Will crush his puny bones to dust,

And all the law to guide their ire

Will be the law of blood and fire.

Come, then-the shattered ranks implore-

A million more-a million more!

Form and file and file and form;

This war is but God's thunder-storm

To purify our cankered land

And strike the fetter from the hand.

Forced by grim fate our Chief at last

Shall blow dear Freedom's bugle-blast;

And then shall rise from shore to shore

Four millions more-four millions more.[CT]

FOOTNOTES

[CT]

There were four millions of slaves in the South when the war began.

* * *

ON READING PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S LETTER

To Horace Greeley, of date Aug. 22, 1862-"If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it," etc.

Perish the power that, bowed to dust,

Still wields a tyrant's rod-

That dares not even then be just,

And leave the rest with God.

* * *

THE DYING VETERAN

All-day-long the crash of cannon

Shook the battle-covered plain;

All-day-long the frenzied foemen

Dashed against our lines in vain;

All the field was piled with slaughter;

Now the lurid setting sun

Saw our foes in wild disorder,

And the bloody day was won.

Foremost on our line of battle

All-day-long a veteran stood-

Stalwart, brawny, grim and steady,

Black with powder, smeared with blood;

Never flinched and never faltered

In the deadliest storm of lead,

And before his steady rifle

Lay a score of foemen dead.

Never flinched and never faltered

Till our shout of victory rose,

Till he saw defeat, disaster,

Overwhelmed our flying foes;

Then he trembled, then he tottered,

Gasped for breath and dropped his gun,

Staggered from the ranks and prostrate

Fell to the earth. His work was done.

Silent comrades gathered round him,

And his Captain sadly came,

Bathed his quivering lips with water,

Took his hand and spoke his name;

And his fellow soldiers softly

On his knapsack laid his head;

Then his eyes were lit with luster,

And he raised his hand and said:

"Good-bye, comrades; farewell, Captain!

I am glad the day is won;

I am mustered out, I reckon-

Never mind-my part is done.

We have marched and fought together

Till you seem like brothers all,

But I hope again to meet you

At the final bugle-call.

"Captain, write and tell my mother

That she must not mourn and cry,

For I never flinched in battle,

And I do not fear to die.

You may add a word for Mary;

Tell her I was ever true.

Mary took a miff one Sunday,

And so I put on the "blue."

"And I know she has repented,

But I never let her see

How it cut-her crusty answer-

When she turned away from me.

I was never good at coaxing,

So I didn't even try;

But you tell her I forgive her,

And she must not mourn and cry,"

Then he closed his eyes in slumber,

And his spirit passed away,

And his comrades spread a blanket

O'er his cold and silent clay.

At dawn of morn they buried him,

Wrapped in his army-blue.

On the bloody field of Fair Oaks

Sleeps the soldier tried and true.

* * *

GRIERSON'S RAID

Mount to horse-mount to horse;

Forward, Battalion!

Gallop the gallant force;

Down with Rebellion!

Over hill, creek and plain

Clatter the fearless-

Dash away-splash away-

Led by the Peerless.

Carbines crack-foemen fly

Hither and thither;

Under the death-fire

They falter and wither.

Burn the bridge-tear the track-

Down with Rebellion!

Cut the wires-cut the wires!

Forward, Battalion!

Day and night-night and day,

Gallop the fearless-

Swimming the rivers' floods-

Led by the Peerless;

Depots and powder-trains

Blazing and thundering

Masters and dusky slaves

Gazing and wondering.

Eight hundred miles they ride-

Dauntless Battalion-

Down through the Southern Land

Mad with Rebellion.

Into our lines they dash-

Brave Cavaliers-

Greeting our flag with

A thunder of cheers.

* * *

THE OLD FLAG

[Written July 4, 1863.]

Have ye heard of Fort Donelson's desperate fight,

Where the giant Northwest bared his arm for the right,

Where thousands so bravely went down in the slaughter,

And the blood of the West ran as freely as water;

Where the Rebel Flag fell and our banner arose

O'er an army of captured and suppliant foes?

Lo-torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,

The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye of Shiloh, where fierce Beauregard

O'erwhelmed us with numbers and pressed us so hard,

Till our veteran supporters came up to our aid

And the tide of defeat and disaster was staid-

Where like grain-sheaves the slaughtered were piled on the plain

And the brave rebel Johnston went down with the slain?

Lo-torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,

The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye the cannon-roar down by Stone River?

Saw ye the bleeding braves stagger and quiver?

Heard ye the shout and the roar and the rattle?

And saw ye the desperate surging of battle?

Volley on volley and steel upon steel-

Breast unto breast-how they lunge and they reel!

Lo-torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,

The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye of Vicksburg-the Southern Gibraltar,

Where the hands of our foemen built tyranny's altar,

Where their hosts are walled in by a cordon of braves,

And the pits they have dug for defense are their graves,

Where the red bombs are bursting and hissing the shot,

Where the nine thunders death and the charge follows hot?

Lo-torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,

The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye from Gettysburg?-Glory to God!

Bare your heads, O ye Freemen, and kneel on the sod!

Praise the Lord!-praise the Lord!-it is done!-it is done!

The battle is fought and the victory won!

They first took the sword, and they fall by the sword;

They are scattered and crushed by the hand of the Lord!

Lo-torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,

The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

* * *

GETTYSBURG: CHARGE OF THE FIRST MINNESOTA

[Written for and read at the Camp Fire of the G.A.R. Department of Minnesota, National Encampment of the Grand Army of the Republic, at Minneapolis, June 22, 1884.]

Ready and ripe for the harvest lay the acres of golden grain

Waving on hillock and hillside and bending along the plain.

Ready and ripe for the harvest two veteran armies lay

Waiting the signal of battle on the Gettysburg hills that day.

Sharp rang the blast of the bugles calling the foe to the fray,

And shrill from the enemy's cannon the demon shells shrieked as they flew;

Crashed and rumbled and roared our batteries ranged on the hill,

Rumbled and roared at the front the bellowing guns of the foe

Swelling the chorus of hell ever louder and deadlier still,

And shrill o'er the roar of the cannon rose the yell of the rebels below,

As they charged on our Third Corps advanced and crushed in the lines at a blow.

Leading his clamorous legions, flashing his saber in air,

Forward rode furious Longstreet charging on Round Top there-

Key to our left and center-key to the fate of the field-

Leading his wild-mad Southrons on to the lions' lair.

Red with the blood of our legions-red with the blood of our best,

Waiting the fate of the battle the lurid sun stood in the west.

Hid by the crest of the hills we lay at the right concealed,

Prone on the earth that shuddered under us there as we lay.

Thunder of cheers on the left!-dashing down on his stalwart bay,

Spurring his gallant charger till his foaming flanks ran blood,

Hancock, the star of our legions, rode down where our officers stood:

"By the left flank, double-quick, march!"-We sprang to our feet and away,

Like a fierce pack of hunger-mad wolves that pant for the blood of the prey.

"Halt!"-on our battery's flank we stood like a hedge-row of steel-

Bearing the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills that day.

Down at the marge of the valley our broken ranks stagger and reel,

Grimy with dust and with powder, wearied and panting for breath,

Flinging their arms in panic, flying the hail-storm of death.

Rumble of volley on volley of the enemy hard on the rear,

Yelling their wild, mad triumph, thundering cheer upon cheer,

Dotting the slope with slaughter and sweeping the field with fear.

Drowned is the blare of the bugle, lost is the bray of the drum,

Yelling, defiant, victorious, column on column they come.

Only a handful are we, thrown into the gap of our lines,

Holding the perilous breach where the fate of the battle inclines,

Only a handful are we-column on column they come.

Roared like the voice of a lion brave Hancock fierce for the fray:

"Hurry the reserve battalions; bring every banner and gun:

Charge on the enemy, Colvill, stay the advance of his lines:

Here-by the God of our Fathers!-here shall the battle be won,

Or we'll die for the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills today."

Shrill rang the voice of our Colonel, the bravest and best of the brave:

"Forward, the First Minnesota! Forward, and follow me, men!"

Gallantly forward he strode, the bravest and best of the brave.

Two hundred and fifty and two-all that were left of us then-

Two hundred and fifty and two fearless, unfaltering men

Dashed at a run for the enemy, sprang to the charge with a yell.

On us their batteries thundered solid shot, grape shot and shell;

Never a man of us faltered, but many a comrade fell.

"Forward, the First Minnesota!"-like tigers we sprang at our foes;

Grim gaps of death in our ranks, but ever the brave ranks close:

Down went our sergeant and colors-defiant our colors arose!

"Fire!" At the flash of our rifles-grim gaps in the ranks of our foes!

"Forward, the First Minnesota!" our brave Colonel cried as he fell

Gashed and shattered and mangled-"Forward!" he cried as he fell.

Over him mangled and bleeding frenzied we sprang to the fight,

Over him mangled and bleeding we sprang to the jaws of hell.

Flashed in our faces their rifles, roared on the left and the right,

Swarming around us by thousands we fought them with desperate might.

Five times our banner went down-five times our banner arose,

Tattered and torn but defiant, and flapped in the face of our foes.

Hold them? We held them at bay, as a bear holds the hounds on his track,

Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, we met them and staggered them back.

Desperate, frenzied, bewildered, blindly they fired on their own;

Like reeds in the whirl of the cyclone columns and colors went down.

Banner of stars on the right! Hurrah! gallant Gibbon is come!

Thunder of guns on the left! Hurrah! 'tis our cannon that boom!

Solid-shot, grape-shot and canister crash like the cracking of doom.

Baffled, bewildered and broken the ranks of the enemy yield;

Panic-struck, routed and shattered they fly from the fate of the field.

Hold them? We held them at bay, as a bear holds the hounds on his track;

Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, we met them and staggered them back;

Two hundred and fifty and two, we held their mad thousands at bay,

Met them and baffled and broke them, turning the tide of the day;

Two hundred and fifty and two when the sun hung low in heaven,

But ah! when the stars rode over we numbered but forty-seven:

Dead on the field or wounded the rest of our regiment lay;

Never a man of us faltered or flinched in the fire of the fray,

For we bore the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills that day.

Tears for our fallen comrades-cover their graves with flowers,

For they fought and fell like Spartans for this glorious land of ours.

They fell, but they fell victorious, for the Rebel ranks were riven,

And over our land united-one nation from sea to sea,

Over the grave of Treason, over millions of men made free,

Triumphant the flag of our fathers waves in the winds of heaven-

Striped with the blood of her heroes she waves in the winds of heaven.

Tears for our fallen comrades-cover their graves with flowers,

For they fought and fell like Spartans for this glorious land of ours;

And oft shall our children's children garland their graves and say:

"They bore the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills that day."

* * *

ADDRESS TO THE FLAG

[After the Battle of Gettysburg.]

Float in the winds of heaven, O tattered Flag!

Emblem of hope to all the misruled world:

Thy field of golden stars is rent and red-

Dyed in the blood of brothers madly spilled

By brother-hands upon the mother-soil.

O fatal Upas of the savage Nile,[CU]

Transplanted hither-rooted-multiplied-

Watered with bitter tears and sending forth

Thy venom-vapors till the land is mad,

Thy day is done. A million blades are swung

To lay thy jungles open to the sun;

A million torches fire thy blasted boles;

A million hands shall drag thy fibers out

And feed the fires till every root and branch

Lie in dead ashes. From the blackened soil,

Enriched and moistened with fraternal blood,

Beside the palm shall spring the olive-tree,

And every breeze shall waft the happy song

Of Freedom crowned with olive-twigs and flowers.

Yea, Patriot-Flag of our old patriot-sires,

Honored-victorious on an hundred fields

Where side by side for Freedom's mother-land

Her Southern sons and Northern fighting fell,

And side by side in glorious graves repose,

I see the dawn of glory grander still,