The Myth of Hiawatha, and Other Oral Legends, Mythologic and Allegoric, of the North American Indians Part 25

I stood upon an eminence, that wide O'erlooked a length of land, where spread The sounding sh.o.r.es of Lake Superior; And at my side there lay a vale Replete with little glens, where oft The Indian wigwam rose, and little fields Of waving corn displayed their ta.s.selled heads.

A stream ran through the vale, and on its marge There grew wild rice, and bending alders dipped Into the tide, and on the rising heights The ever-verdant pine laughed in the breeze.

I turned around, to gaze upon the scenes More perfectly, and there beheld a man Tall and erect, with feathers on his head, And air and step majestic; in his hands Held he a bow and arrows, and he would have pa.s.sed, Intent on other scene, but that I spake to him: "Pray, whither comest thou? and whither goest?"

"My coming," he replied, "is from the Master of Life, The Lord of all things, and I go at his commands."

"Then why," I further parleyed, "since thou art So much the friend of Him, whom white men seek By prayer and rite so fervently to obey--why, tell, Art thou so oft in want of e'en a meal To satisfy the cravings of a man? Why cast abroad To live in wilds, where oft the scantiest shapes Of foot and wing must fill thy board, while pallid hunger strays With hideous shouts, by mountain, vale, and stream?"

"The Great Spirit," he replied, "hath not alike Made all men; or, if once alike, the force of climes, And wants and wanderings have estranged them quite.

To me, and to my kind, forest, and lake, and wood, The rising mountain, and the drawn-out stream That sweeps, meandering, through wild ranges vast, Possess a charm no marble halls can give.

We rove, as winds escaped the Master's fists-- Now, sweeping over beds of prairie flowers-- Now, dallying on the tops of leafy trees, Or murmuring in the corn-fields, and, when tired With roving, we lie down on beds where springs The simple wild flower, and some shreds of bark, Plucked from the white, white birch, defends our heads, And hides us from the blue ethereal skies, Where, in his sovereign majesty, this Spirit rules; Now, casting lightning from his glowing eyes-- Now, uttering thunder with his mighty voice.

"To you, engendered in another clime Of which our fathers knew not, he hath given Arts, arms, and skill we know not, or if ever knew, Have quite forgot. Your hands are thickened up With toils of field and shop, where whirring wheels resound, And hammers clink. The anvil and the plough Belong to you; the very ox construes your speech, And turns him to obey you. All this toil We deem a slavery too heavy to be borne, And which our tribes revolt at. Oft we stand To view the reeking smith, who pounds his iron With blow on blow, to fit it for the beast That drags your ploughshares through the rooty soil.

The very streams--bright ribbons of the woods!--are yoked, And made to turn your mills, and grind your corn; And yet this progress stays not in its toils To alter nature and pervert her plans.

Steam drags your vessels now, that once Leapt in their beauty by the winds of heaven.

Some subtle principle ye find in fire, And with a cunning art fit rattling cars To run on strips of iron, with scream and clang That seem symbolic of an angry power Which dwells below, and is infernal called.

The war-crowned lightning skips from pole to pole On strings of iron, to haste with quick intelligence.

"Once, nature could be hid, and fondly think She had some jewels in the earth, but now ye dig Into her very bowels, to recover morsels sweet She erst with deglut.i.tion had drawn in. The rocks Your toils dissolve, to find perchance some treasure Lying there. Is yonder land of gold alone Your care? Observe along these sh.o.r.es The wheezing engine clank--the stamper ring.

Once, hawks and eagles here pursued their prey, But now the white man ravens more than they.

No! give me but my water and G.o.d's meats, And take your cares, your riches, and your thrones.

What the Great Spirit gives, I take with joy, And scorn those gains which nothing can content.

"Drudge ye, and grind ye, white man! make your pence, And store your purses with the s.h.i.+ning poison.

It was not Manito who made this trash To curse the human race, but Vatipa the black, Who rules below--he changed the blood of innocence And tears of pity into gold, and strewed it wide O'er lands where still the murderer digs And the deceptious delve, to find the c.o.c.kle out And pick it up, but laughs the while to see What fools they are, and how himself has foiled The Spirit of Good, that made mankind Erst friends and brothers. Scanty is my food, But that sweet bird, chileelee, blue of wing, Sings songs of peace within the wild-wood dell And round the enchanted sh.o.r.es of these blue seas-- Not long, perhaps, our own--which tell me of a rest In far-off lands--the islands of the blest!"

THE SKELETON WRAPPED IN GOLD.

In digging, in 1854, a railroad in Chili, seventy feet below the surface, in a sandy plain, which had been an ancient graveyard, an Indian skeleton, wrapped in a sheet of solid gold, rolled into the excavation. Its appearance denoted an ancient Inca, of the Atacama period.

The Indian laid in his shroud of gold, Where his friends had kindly bound him; For, in their raid so strong and bold, The Spaniards had never found him.

Kind guardian spirits had watched him there, From ages long--long faded, Embalmed with gems and spices rare, And in folds of sweet gra.s.s braided.

And priestly rites were duly done, And hymns upraised to bless him, And that gold mantle of the sun, Put on, as a monarch to dress him.

"Sleep on," they said, in whispers low, "Nor fear the white man's coming, For we have put no _glyph_ to show, The spot of thy entombing.

"Inca, thy warfare here is done, Each bitter scene or tender, Go to thy sire, the s.h.i.+ning Sun, In kingly garb and splendor.

"Earth hath no honors thou hast not, Brave, wise, in every station, Or battle, temple, council, cot, Beloved of all thy nation.

"Take thou this wand of magic might, With signet-jewels glowing, As heralds to the G.o.d of Light, Where, father, thou art going.

"A thousand years the charm shall last, The charm of thy ensealment, Till there shall come a spirit vast, To trouble thy concealment."

And safe he slept in Tlalcol's[119] train, With all his genii by him, Through Atacama's pleasing reign, Ere Manco came a-nigh him.

[119] Tlalcol, the keeper of the dead, corresponds to the Chebiabo of the Algonquins.

_That_ golden reign spread arts anew, O'er all his Andes mountains, And temples that his sires ne'er knew, Arose beside their fountains.

Pizarro's b.l.o.o.d.y day flew past, Nor shook his place of sleeping, Though, as with earthquakes, deep and vast, The land with ruins heaping.

Nor had the cherished ruler more, Broke the deep trance from under, But that a stronger, sterner power, Arose the charm to sunder.

No gentle genii more could wield, The wand of his dominion; No power of Indian guardian yield, Or wave her golden pinion.

It was the spirit of _progress_ fell, And trade, and gain united, Who swore an oath, and kept it well, That Tlalcol's blessing blighted.

Deep dug they down in Chili's hills, Deep--deeper laid their levels, To drive those cars, whose screaming fills The ear, with sounds like devils.

And as they dug, they sang and dug, As digging for a treasure, That should, like dire Arabic drug, Rise, with unmeasured measure.

Old Indian arts, and Indian spells, And all their subtle seeming, Pa.s.sed quick away--as truth expels, The palsied power in dreaming.

Down rolled the cherished Indian corse, The sands no more could hold him, Nor rite--nor genii--art or force, Nor golden shroud enfold him.

WAUB OJEEG'S DEATH WHISPERINGS.

I go to the land where our heroes are gone, are gone, That land where our sages are gone; And I go with bright tone, to join hearts who are one, That drew the bold dart at my side, at my side, That drew the bold dart at my side.

Those lands in the bright beamy west, the west, Those lands in the bright beamy west, As our fathers foretold, are the plenty crowned fold, Where the world-weary warrior may rest, may rest, Where the war-honored hero may rest.

My life has been given to war, to war, My strength has been offered to war, And the foes of my land, ne'er before me could stand, But fled as base cowards in fear, in fear, They fled like base cowards in fear.

My warfare in life it is done, it is done, My warfare, my friends, it is done; I go to that Spirit, whose form in the sky, So oft we have seen in the cloud-garnished sun, So oft in dread lightning espy.

My friends, when my spirit is fled, is fled, My friends, when my spirit is fled, Ah, put me not bound, in the dark and cold ground, Where light shall no longer be shed, be shed, Where daylight no more shall be shed.

But lay me up scaffolded high, all high, Chiefs, lay me up scaffolded high, Where my tribe shall still say, as they point to my clay, He ne'er from the foe sought to fly, to fly, He ne'er from the foe sought to fly.

And children, who play on the sh.o.r.e, the sh.o.r.e, And children who play on the sh.o.r.e, As the war-dance they beat, my name shall repeat, And the fate of their chieftain deplore, deplore, And the fate of their chieftain deplore.

TO THE MISCODEED.[120]

Thy petals, tipped with red, declare The sanguinary rites of war; But when I view thy base of white, Thoughts of heaven's purity invite.

Symbols at once that hearts like thee Contain _two_ powers, in which we see A pa.s.sion strong to war inclined, And a soft, pure, and tender mind.

Earliest of buds when snows decay From these wild northern fields away, Thou comest as a herald dear, To tell us that the spring is near; And shall with sweets and flowers relume Our hearts, for all the winter's gloom.