THE MAID OF TUCANO
Some years ago a small agate carved with the head of a woman was found in a pre-historic mound near Phoenix, Arizona. More recently the explorations made by Dr. J. Walter Fewkes at Casa Grande have proven these mounds to have been the communal homes of a considerable people, of whom the Pima Indians of the region retain some traditions. Based somewhat upon the carved agate and with a slight thread of tradition in it the poem is still mostly fanciful.
Some years ago a small agate carved with the head of a woman was found in a pre-historic mound near Phoenix, Arizona. More recently the explorations made by Dr. J. Walter Fewkes at Casa Grande have proven these mounds to have been the communal homes of a considerable people, of whom the Pima Indians of the region retain some traditions. Based somewhat upon the carved agate and with a slight thread of tradition in it the poem is still mostly fanciful.
Fair lies the vale of Tucano,Rich Heart of the Land of the Sun;Broad spread its emerald mesas,Sparkling its bright waters run;Far spread the golden-plumed maize fields,With orchard and garden between,To where like sentinels watchingThe pines of the uplands lean.Here in the days long forgottenRuled Che-he-ah-pik the Chief,And here lived a maid of his people,Fair in her love and her grief.Sister in grace to the yuccas,Swaying white-chaliced and tall;But her heart was the heart of the snow-flowerThat blooms on the high mountain wall;Far from the reach of the many,Who mar with the dust of their feetAnd the plucking of idle fingersBlossoms that else were sweet.Yet the fleet-footed, venturesome climberMay win to the snowy peaks;And to him who is true in his lovingAt last turns the love that he seeks.When the signal-smoke rose on the mountainLike a gray banner tossed in the wind,Or the watch fires at night glimmered star-likeAgainst the grim darkness behind;The Chief said: “My forts are still holden,No enemy strives at the pass;”But the maid with eyes misty and tenderLooked upward and whispered “Alas!“For the distance that lieth between us!O Heart of my Heart! Do you dreamOf me here in the vale as you wanderBy rock-riven cañon and stream,Where in childhood we gathered the pine nuts,Or plundered the blue pigeon’s nest,Or standing knee deep in the brackenWatched the sun burn to gold in the west?“The red roses bloom for my taking,But fairer the roses we knew,Swaying over the cliffs in the spring time,Their pale blossoms dappled with dew;And sweet is the mocking bird’s music,And the laughter in garden and hall;But sweeter the wind in the pine treesAnd the slow-pacing sentinel’s call.”So the maiden dreamed, twining the garlandsTo lay on the Harvest God’s shrine,And mingling the fruits of the lowlandWith balsamic cedar and pine;Till the chief on his roof-terrace lyingA-weary of rule and of sport,Let his gaze idly rest on the worker,Alone in the old temple court.The gray walls seemed bright with her presence,As when a stray moonbeam illumesWith its silvery radiance the shadowThat darkens in desolate rooms:Soft-crooning a melody tender,And low with her home-longing grief,She turned at a footstep and, startled,Looked up from the flowers to the chief.Smiling into her dark eyes that questionedHe raised the fresh garlands, “Now seeHow each blossom you touch, making sweeter,Is robbed of its sweets by a bee.Can you wonder that I, being stronger,And you than the blossoms more sweet,Was drawn like the bees to the honeyAnd found myself here at your feet?“Leave the garlands to fingers less slender,These rough walls to faces less fair,And come where love laughs in the sunshine,And joy waits to welcome you there;Here is silence and service and shadow,There is music and gladness and light,And I, who am chief to all others,Will serve you and love you to-night.”“Nay, your bees seek the garden buds only;Scant honey the cactus flowers hold;Nor careless hands linger to pluck them,For all of their crimson and gold;Desert born with the birthright of freedom,They wither and fade in the close,As I pine in the garden-set valleyFor the breath of the hills and the snows.“Think you love can be bought with a jewel?Or caught in the net of a name?Or a black mountain eaglet held captiveSing sweet as your mocking bird tame?Like to like—go you back to your roses;For me, warrior’s daughter and bride,Fitter home is the cloud-beaten fortressThan here by the green river side.“When the feast of the Harvest is overComes one whom you fighting-men know,Whose station was won at the spear point,Whose fortune is bent with the bow;Stern guard of your battle-swept passes,As free as the winds are and bold;Yet with honor and truth above jewels,And faithfulness dearer than gold.“So farewell! Nor remember the madnessThat tempted your fancy and hour;Know no bud ever swells in the desertBut thorns hedge the heart of the flower.”Che-he-ah-pik passed out of the courtyardAnd seeking with wonder-lit faceA keen-fingered carver of gem stones,He bade him to cunningly traceOn red agate the head of the worker,And set it his necklace within;“So shall those who forget me rememberThe love that a chief could not win.”
Dust is the Harvest God’s altar;Naught of his people is known—Only the face of the maidenCarved on the red agate stone.