The Myth of Hiawatha, and Other Oral Legends, Mythologic and Allegoric, of the North American Indians Part 22

EVENING CHANT OF INDIAN CHILDREN TO THE WATASEE, THE FIRE-FLY.

Fire-fly, fire-fly! bright little thing, Light me to bed, and my song I will sing.

Give me your light, as you fly o'er my head, That I may merrily go to my bed.

Give me your light o'er the gra.s.s as you creep, That I may joyfully go to my sleep.

Come, little fire-fly--come, little beast-- Come! and I'll make you to-morrow a feast.

Come, little candle that flies as I sing, Bright little fairy-bug--night's little king; Come, and I'll dance as you guide me along, Come, and I'll pay you, my bug, with a song.

SONG OF A FAIRY CHIEF.

Addressed to the winds on transferring his sister to a position as one of the planets in the morning sky.

Blow, winds, blow, my sister lingers From her dwelling in the sky, Where the moon with rosy fingers Shall her cheeks with vermil dye.

There my earliest views directed, Shall from her their brilliance take And her smiles through clouds reflected, Guide me on, by wood and lake.

While I range the highest mountains, Sport in valleys, green and low, Or beside our Indian fountains, Raise my tiny hip hallo.

SONG OF A CAPTIVE CREEK GIRL,

Who was an exile in a distant northern tribe, confined on an island in Lake Superior.

To sunny vales, to balmy skies, My thoughts, a flowery arrow, flies; I see the wood, the bank, the glade, Where first, a wild wood girl, I played.

I think on scenes and faces dear; They are not here--they are not here.

In this cold sky, in this lone isle, I meet no friends, no mother's smile.

I list the wind, I list the wave; They seem like requiems, round the grave, And all my heart's young joys are gone; It is alone--it is alone.

FEMALE SONG.

My love is a hunter--he hunts the fleet deer, With fusil or arrow, one-half of the year; He hunts the fleet deer over mountain and lea, But his heart is still hunting for love and for me.

My love is a warrior; when warriors go, With fusil or arrow, to strike the bold foe, He treads the bright war-path with step bold and free, But still his thoughts wander to love and to me.

But hunter or warrior, where'er he may go, To track the swift deer, or to follow the foe, His heart's warm desire, field and forest still flee, To go hunting his love, and make captive of me.

MALE SONG.

My love, she gave to me a belt, a belt of texture fine, Of snowy hue, emboss'd with blue and scarlet porcupine; This tender braid sustain'd the blade I drew against the foe, And ever prest upon my breast, to mark its ardent glow.

And if with art I act my part, and bravely fighting stand, I, in the din, a trophy win, that gains Nimosha's hand.

My love, she is a handsome girl, she has a sparkling eye, And a head of flowing raven hair, and a forehead arched and high; Her teeth are white as cowry sh.e.l.ls, brought from the distant sea, And she is tall, and graceful all, and fair as fair can be.

And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand, And with address my suit I press, I gain Nimosha's hand.

Oh, I will search the silver brooks for skin of blackest dye, And scale the highest mountain-tops, a warrior's gift to spy!

I'll place them where my love shall see, and know my present true; Perhaps when she admires the gift, she'll love the giver, too.

And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand, I'll gain my love's unsullied heart, and then I'll gain her hand.

THE LOVE OF THE FOREST.

To rove with the wild bird, and go where we will, Oh, this is the charm of the forest-life still!

With our houses of bark, and our food on the plain, We are off like an eagle, and back there again.

No farms can detain us, no chattels prevent; We live not by ploughing--we thrive not by rent; Our herds rove the forest, our flocks swim the floods, And we skim the broad waters, and trip through the woods.

With s.h.i.+ps not of oak wood, nor pitchy, nor strong, We sail along rivers, and sail with a song; We care not for taxes--our laws are but few; The dart is our sickle, our s.h.i.+p the canoe.

If enemies press us, and evil fear stray, We seize on our war-clubs, and drive them away, And when there is nothing to fear or withstand, We lift the proud rattle, and dance on the land.

In feasting and dancing, our moments are gay; We trust in the G.o.d who made heaven and day; We read no big volumes, no science implore, But ask of our wise men to teach us their lore.

The woods are our pastures; we eat what we find, And rush through the lands like a rattling wind.

Heaven gave us the country; we cling to the west, And, dying, we fly to the Lands of the Blest!

LIGHT OF CHRISTIANITY IN THE WIGWAM.

Oh why, ye subtle spirits, why Lift I my eyes to yonder floating sky, Where clouds paint pictures with so clear a hue?

A heaven so beautiful it must be true.

For if I but to earth withdraw my eyes, And fix them on the creature man To scan his acts, the dear, fond picture dies, And worse he seems in thought, and air, and plan Than the hyena, beast that only digs For food, and not rejoices in the dart, That stopped the warm blood current of the heart.

Had men but had just what the earth can give, It would be misery, and lies, and blood, Pinching and hunger, so that he who lives But lives, as some poor outcast drowning in a flood.

And then--ah, tell me!--whither goes the soul?

Oh why, ye spirits blest, oh why Is truth so darkened to the human eye?

As if a sombre cloud all heaven made black, And the sun shone but through a c.h.i.n.k or crack, Within a wall, where light is but the accident of things, And not the purport. Truth may be then as the white men write, And all our tribes in a darkness set, instead of light.

NOCTURNAL GRAVE LIGHTS.