THE ENCHANTED MOCCASINS.
ODJIBWA.
There once lived a little boy, all alone with his sister, in a very wild uninhabitable country. They saw nothing but beasts, and birds, the sky above them, and the earth beneath them. But there were no human beings besides themselves. The boy often retired to think, in lone places, and the opinion was formed that he had supernatural powers. It was supposed that he would perform some extraordinary exploits, and he was called Onwe Bahmondoong, or he that carries a ball on his back. As he grew up he was impatient to know whether there were other beings near them: she replied, that there was, but they lived in a remote distance. There was a large village of hunters and warriors. Being now well grown, he determined to seek his fortune, and asked her to make him several pairs of moccasins to last him on the journey. With this request she complied. Then taking his bow and arrows, and his war-club, and a little sack containing hisnawappo, or travelling victuals, he immediately set out on his journey. He travelled on, not knowing exactly where he went. Hills, plains, trees, rocks, forests, meadows, spread before him. Sometimes he killed an animal, sometimes a bird. The deer often started in his path. He saw the fox, the bear, and the ground-hog. The eagles screamed above him. The ducks chattered in the ponds and lakes. He lay down and slept when he was tired, he rose up when he was refreshed. At last he came to a small wigwam, and, on looking into it, discovered a very old woman sitting alone by the fire. As soon as she saw the stranger, she invited him in, and thus addressed him: "My poor grandchild, I suppose you are one of those who seek for the distant village, from which no person has ever yet returned. Unless your guardian is more powerful than the guardian of your predecessors, you too will share a similar fate of theirs. Be careful to provide yourself with the Ozhebahguhnun—the bones they use in the medicine dance[104]—without which you cannot succeed." After she had thus spoken, she gave him the following directions for his journey. "When you come near to the village which you seek, you will see in the centre a large lodge, in which the chief of the village, who has two daughters, resides. Before the door you will see a great tree, which is smooth and destitute of bark. On this tree, about the height of a man from the ground, a small lodge is suspended, in which these two daughters dwell. It is here so many have been destroyed. Be wise, my grandchild, and abide strictly by my directions." The old woman then gave him the Ozhebahguhnun, which would cause his success. Placing them in his bosom, he continued his journey, till at length he arrived at the sought-for village; and, as he was gazing around him, he saw both the tree and the lodge which the old woman had mentioned. Immediately he bent his steps for the tree, and approaching, he endeavored to reach the suspended lodge. But all his efforts were vain; for as often as he attempted to reach it, the tree began to tremble, and soon shot up so that the lodge could hardly be perceived. Foiled as he was in all his attempts, he thought of his guardian and changed himself into a small squirrel, that he might more easily accomplish his design. He then mounted the tree in quest of the lodge. After climbing for some time, he became fatigued, and panted for breath; but, remembering the instructions which the old woman had given him, he took from his bosom one of the bones, and thrust it into the trunk of the tree, on which he sat. In this way he quickly found relief; and, as often as he became fatigued, he repeated this; but whenever he came near the lodge and attempted to touch it, the tree would shoot up as before, and place the lodge beyond his reach. At length, the bones being exhausted, he began to despair, for the earth had long since vanished from his sight. Summoning all resolution, he determined to make another effort to reach the object of his wishes. On he went; yet, as soon as he came near the lodge and attempted to touch it, the tree again shook, but it had reached the arch of heaven, and could go no higher; so now he entered the lodge, and beheld the two sisters sitting opposite each other. He asked their names. The one on his left hand called herself Azhabee,[105]and the one on the right Negahnahbee.[106]Whenever he addressed the one on his left hand, the tree would tremble as before, and settle down to its former position. But when he addressed the one on his right hand, it would again shoot upward as before. When he thus discovered that, by addressing the one on his left hand, the tree would descend, he continued to do so until it had resumed its former position; then seizing his war-club, he thus addressed the sisters: "You, who have caused the death of so many of my brothers, I will now put an end to, and thus have revenge for the numbers you have destroyed." As he said this he raised the club and laid them dead at his feet. He then descended, and learning that these sisters had a brother living with their father, who would pursue him for the deed he had done, he set off at random, not knowing whither he went. Soon after, the father and mother of the young women visited their residence and found their remains. They immediately told their son Mudjikewis that his sisters had been slain. He replied, "The person who has done this must be the Boy that carries the Ball on his Back. I will pursue him, and have revenge for the blood of my sisters." "It is well, my son," replied the father. "The spirit of your life grant you success. I counsel you to be wary in the pursuit. It is a strong spirit who has done this injury to us, and he will try to deceive you in every way. Above all, avoid tasting food till you succeed; for if you break your fast before you see his blood, your power will be destroyed." So saying, they parted.
His son instantly set out in search of the murderer, who, finding he was closely pursued by the brother of the slain, climbed up into one of the tallest trees and shot forth his magic arrows. Finding that his pursuer was not turned back by his arrows, he renewed his flight; and when he found himself hard pressed, and his enemy close behind him, he transformed himself into the skeleton of a moose that had been killed, whose flesh had come off from his bones. He then remembered the moccasins which his sister had given him, which were enchanted. Taking a pair of them, he placed them near the skeleton. "Go," said he to them, "to the end of the earth."
The moccasins then left him and their tracks remained. Mudjikewis at length came to the skeleton of the moose, when he perceived that the track he had long been pursuing did not end there, so he continued to follow it up, till he came to the end of the earth, where he found only a pair of moccasins. Mortified that he had been outwitted by following a pair of moccasins instead of the object of his revenge, he bitterly complained, resolving not to give up the pursuit, and to be more wary and wise in scrutinizing signs. He then called to mind the skeleton he met on his way, and concluded thatitmust be the object of his search. He retraced his steps towards the skeleton, but found, to his surprise, that it had disappeared, and that the tracks ofOnwe Bahmondoong, or he who carries the Ball, were in another direction. He now became faint with hunger, and resolved to give up the pursuit; but when he remembered the blood of his sisters, he determined again to pursue.
The other, finding he was closely pursued, now changed himself into a very old man, with two daughters, who lived in a large lodge in the centre of a beautiful garden, which was filled with everything that could delight the eye or was pleasant to the taste. He made himself appear so very old as to be unable to leave his lodge, and had his daughters to bring him food and wait on him. The garden also had the appearance of ancient occupancy, and was highly cultivated.
His pursuer continued on till he was nearly starved and ready to sink. He exclaimed, "Oh! I will forget the blood of my sisters, for I am starving;" but again he thought of the blood of his sisters, and again he resolved to pursue, and be satisfied with nothing but the attainment of his right to revenge.
He went on till he came to the beautiful garden. He approached the lodge. As soon as the daughters of the owner perceived him, they ran and told their father that a stranger approached the lodge. Their father replied, "Invite him in, my children, invite him in." They quickly did so; and by the command of their father, they boiled some corn and prepared other savory food. Mudjikewis had no suspicion of the deception. He was faint and weary with travel, and felt that he could endure fasting no longer. Without hesitancy, he partook heartily of the meal, and in so doing was overcome. All at once he seemed to forget the blood of his sisters, and even the village of his nativity. He ate so heartily as to produce drowsiness, and soon fell into a profound sleep. Onwe Bahmondoong watched his opportunity, and, as soon as he found his slumbers sound, resumed his youthful form. He then drew the magic ball from his back, which turned out to be a heavy war-club, with one blow of which he put an end to his pursuer, and thus vindicated his title as the Wearer of the Ball.
LEELINAU.
A CHIPPEWA TALE.
The Pukwudjininees, or fairies of Lake Superior, had one of their most noted places of residence at the great sand dunes ofNaigow Wudjoo, called by the FrenchLa Grandes Sables. Here they were frequently seen in bright moonlight evenings, and the fishermen while sitting in their canoes on the lake often saw them playing their pranks, and skipping over the hills. There was a grove of pines in that vicinity called the manito wac, or Spirit wood, into which they might be seen to flee, on the approach of evening, and there is a romantic little lake on those elevated sand-hills, not far back from the Great Lake, on the shores of which their tracks could be plainly seen in the sand. These tracks were not bigger than little children's footprints, and the spirits were often seen in the act of vanishing behind the little pine-trees. They love to dance in the most lonesome places, and were always full of glee and merriment, for their little voices could be plainly heard. These little men, the pukwudjininees, are not deeply malicious, but rather delighted in mischief and freaks, and would sometimes steal away a fisherman's paddle, or come at night and pluck the hunter's feathers out of his cap in the lodge, or pilfer away some of his game, or fish. On one occasion they went so far as to entice away into their sacred grove, and carry off a chief's daughter—a small but beautiful girl, who had been always inclined to be pensive, and took her seat often in these lonesome haunts. From her baby name ofNeenizu, my dear life, she was called Leelinau, but she never attained to much size, remaining very slender, but of the most pleasing and sylph-like features, with very bright black eyes, and little feet. Her mother often cautioned her of the danger of visiting these lonely fairy haunts, and predicted, playfully, that she would one day be carried off by the Pukwudjees, for they were very frolicsome, mischievous and full of tricks.
To divert her mind from these recluse moods and tastes, she endeavored to bring about an alliance with a neighboring forester, who, though older than herself, had the reputation of being an excellent hunter, and active man, and he had even creditably been on the war path, though he had never brought home a scalp. To these suggestions Leelinau had turned rather a deaf ear. She had imbibed ideas of a spiritual life and existence, which she fancied could only be enjoyed in the Indian elysium, and instructed as she was by the old story-tellers, she could not do otherwise than deem the light and sprightly little men who made the fairy footprints as emissaries from theHappy Land. For this happy land she sighed and pined. Blood, and the taking of life, she said, the Great Spirit did not approve, and it could never be agreeable to minds of pure and spiritual moulds. And she longed to go to a region where there was no weeping, no cares, and no deaths. If her parents laughed at these notions as childish, her only resource was silence, or she merely revealed here motions in her eyes. She was capable of the deepest concealment, and locked up in her heart what she feared to utter, or uttered to deceive. This proved her ruin.
At length, after a series of conversational interviews on the subject, she announced her willingness to accede to the matrimonial proposals, and the day was fixed for this purpose. She dressed herself in the finest manner possible, putting flowers in her hair, and carrying a bunch of wild flowers, mixed with tassels of the pine-tree in her hand. One only request she made, which was to make a farewell visit to the sacred grove of the fairies, before she visited the nuptial bower. This was granted, on the evening of the proposed ceremony, while the bridegroom and his friends gathered in her father's lodge, and impatiently waited her return. But they waited in vain. Night came but Leelina was never more seen, except by a fisherman on the lake shore, who conceived that he had seen her go off with one of the tall fairies known as the fairy of Green Pines, with green plumes nodding o'er his brows; and it is supposed that she is still roving with him over the elysian fields.
WILD NOTES OF THE PIBBIGWUN.
CONTENTS.
NOTES.
THE PIBBIGWUN.[107]
I ope my voice, not with the organ's tone,Deep, solemn and majestic; not with soundsOf trump or drum, that cheer armed squadrons on,In coats of steel, o'er lines of bloody grounds,Nor is my tone, the tone of rushing storms,That sweep in mad career through forests tall,Up-tearing gnarled oaks, with sounds of hellish forms,That bode destruction black, and death to all.Nor is it yet the screaming warrior, loud,With hand upraised to mouth, hyena-strong,That tells of midnight onrush, hell-endowed,And bleeding scalp of aged, mild and young.Ah no! it is a note that's only blown,Where kindness fills the heart, and every thrillIs peace and love, while music's softer toneSteals on the evening air, its simple aims to fill,Waking the female ear to carols of the Pibbigwun.
I ope my voice, not with the organ's tone,Deep, solemn and majestic; not with soundsOf trump or drum, that cheer armed squadrons on,In coats of steel, o'er lines of bloody grounds,Nor is my tone, the tone of rushing storms,That sweep in mad career through forests tall,Up-tearing gnarled oaks, with sounds of hellish forms,That bode destruction black, and death to all.Nor is it yet the screaming warrior, loud,With hand upraised to mouth, hyena-strong,That tells of midnight onrush, hell-endowed,And bleeding scalp of aged, mild and young.Ah no! it is a note that's only blown,Where kindness fills the heart, and every thrillIs peace and love, while music's softer toneSteals on the evening air, its simple aims to fill,Waking the female ear to carols of the Pibbigwun.
I ope my voice, not with the organ's tone,
Deep, solemn and majestic; not with sounds
Of trump or drum, that cheer armed squadrons on,
In coats of steel, o'er lines of bloody grounds,
Nor is my tone, the tone of rushing storms,
That sweep in mad career through forests tall,
Up-tearing gnarled oaks, with sounds of hellish forms,
That bode destruction black, and death to all.
Nor is it yet the screaming warrior, loud,
With hand upraised to mouth, hyena-strong,
That tells of midnight onrush, hell-endowed,
And bleeding scalp of aged, mild and young.
Ah no! it is a note that's only blown,
Where kindness fills the heart, and every thrill
Is peace and love, while music's softer tone
Steals on the evening air, its simple aims to fill,
Waking the female ear to carols of the Pibbigwun.
THE CHIPPEWA GIRL.
They tell me, the men with a white-white faceBelong to a purer, nobler race;But why, if they do, and it may be so,Do their tongues cry, "Yes"—and their actions, "No?"They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue,And it may be so, but the sky is blue;And the first of men—as our old men say,Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.But throughout my life, I've heard it said,There's nothing surpasses a tint of red;Oh, the white man's cheeks look pale and sad,Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.Then let them talk of their race divine,Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine;Give me a lodge, like my fathers had,And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.
They tell me, the men with a white-white faceBelong to a purer, nobler race;But why, if they do, and it may be so,Do their tongues cry, "Yes"—and their actions, "No?"
They tell me, the men with a white-white face
Belong to a purer, nobler race;
But why, if they do, and it may be so,
Do their tongues cry, "Yes"—and their actions, "No?"
They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue,And it may be so, but the sky is blue;And the first of men—as our old men say,Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.
They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue,
And it may be so, but the sky is blue;
And the first of men—as our old men say,
Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.
But throughout my life, I've heard it said,There's nothing surpasses a tint of red;Oh, the white man's cheeks look pale and sad,Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.
But throughout my life, I've heard it said,
There's nothing surpasses a tint of red;
Oh, the white man's cheeks look pale and sad,
Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.
Then let them talk of their race divine,Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine;Give me a lodge, like my fathers had,And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.
Then let them talk of their race divine,
Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine;
Give me a lodge, like my fathers had,
And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.
DOUBT.
Ninimosha,[108]think'st thou of me,When beneath the forest tree?Do'st thou in the passing wind,Catch the sighs I've cast behind?Ah! I fear—I fear—I fear,Evil bird hath filled thine ear.Ninimosha, in the clear blue sky,Canst thou read my constancy,Or in whispering branches near,Aught from thy true lover hear?Ah! I fear—I fear—I fear,Evil bird hath filled thine ear.
Ninimosha,[108]think'st thou of me,When beneath the forest tree?Do'st thou in the passing wind,Catch the sighs I've cast behind?Ah! I fear—I fear—I fear,Evil bird hath filled thine ear.
Ninimosha,[108]think'st thou of me,
When beneath the forest tree?
Do'st thou in the passing wind,
Catch the sighs I've cast behind?
Ah! I fear—I fear—I fear,
Evil bird hath filled thine ear.
Ninimosha, in the clear blue sky,Canst thou read my constancy,Or in whispering branches near,Aught from thy true lover hear?Ah! I fear—I fear—I fear,Evil bird hath filled thine ear.
Ninimosha, in the clear blue sky,
Canst thou read my constancy,
Or in whispering branches near,
Aught from thy true lover hear?
Ah! I fear—I fear—I fear,
Evil bird hath filled thine ear.
FAIRY WHISPERINGS.
Supposed to be addressed to, and responded by a young pine-tree, in a state of transformation.
INVOCATION.
Spirit of the dancing leaves,Hear a throbbing heart that grieves,Not for joys this world can give,But the life that spirits live:Spirit of the foaming billow,Visit thou my nightly pillow,Shedding o'er it silver dreams,Of the mountain brooks and streams,Sunny glades, and golden hours,Such as suit thy buoyant powers:Spirit of the starry night,Pencil out thy fleecy light,That my footprints still my leadTo the blush-let Miscodeed,[109]Or the flower to passion trueYielding free its carmine hue:Spirit of the morning dawn,Waft thy fleecy columns on,Snowy white, or tender blue,Such as brave men love to view.Spirit of the greenwood plume,Shed around thy leaf perfume,Such as springs from buds of goldWhich thy tiny hands unfold.Spirits, hither quick repair,Hear a maiden's evening prayer.
Spirit of the dancing leaves,Hear a throbbing heart that grieves,Not for joys this world can give,But the life that spirits live:Spirit of the foaming billow,Visit thou my nightly pillow,Shedding o'er it silver dreams,Of the mountain brooks and streams,Sunny glades, and golden hours,Such as suit thy buoyant powers:Spirit of the starry night,Pencil out thy fleecy light,That my footprints still my leadTo the blush-let Miscodeed,[109]Or the flower to passion trueYielding free its carmine hue:Spirit of the morning dawn,Waft thy fleecy columns on,Snowy white, or tender blue,Such as brave men love to view.Spirit of the greenwood plume,Shed around thy leaf perfume,Such as springs from buds of goldWhich thy tiny hands unfold.Spirits, hither quick repair,Hear a maiden's evening prayer.
Spirit of the dancing leaves,
Hear a throbbing heart that grieves,
Not for joys this world can give,
But the life that spirits live:
Spirit of the foaming billow,
Visit thou my nightly pillow,
Shedding o'er it silver dreams,
Of the mountain brooks and streams,
Sunny glades, and golden hours,
Such as suit thy buoyant powers:
Spirit of the starry night,
Pencil out thy fleecy light,
That my footprints still my lead
To the blush-let Miscodeed,[109]
Or the flower to passion true
Yielding free its carmine hue:
Spirit of the morning dawn,
Waft thy fleecy columns on,
Snowy white, or tender blue,
Such as brave men love to view.
Spirit of the greenwood plume,
Shed around thy leaf perfume,
Such as springs from buds of gold
Which thy tiny hands unfold.
Spirits, hither quick repair,
Hear a maiden's evening prayer.
RESPONSE.
Maiden, think me not a tree,But thine own dear lover free,Tall and youthful in my bloomWith the bright green nodding plume.Thou art leaning on my breast,Lean forever there, and rest!Fly from man, that bloody race,Pards, assassins, bold and base;Quit their dim, and false paradeFor the quiet lonely shade.Leave the windy birchen cotFor my own light happy lot;O'er thee I my veil will fling,Light as beetle's silken wing;I will breathe perfume of flowers,O'er thy happy evening hours;I will in my shell canoeWaft thee o'er the waters blue;I will deck thy mantle fold,With the sun's last rays of gold.Come, and on the mountain freeRove a fairy bright with me.
Maiden, think me not a tree,But thine own dear lover free,Tall and youthful in my bloomWith the bright green nodding plume.Thou art leaning on my breast,Lean forever there, and rest!Fly from man, that bloody race,Pards, assassins, bold and base;Quit their dim, and false paradeFor the quiet lonely shade.Leave the windy birchen cotFor my own light happy lot;O'er thee I my veil will fling,Light as beetle's silken wing;I will breathe perfume of flowers,O'er thy happy evening hours;I will in my shell canoeWaft thee o'er the waters blue;I will deck thy mantle fold,With the sun's last rays of gold.Come, and on the mountain freeRove a fairy bright with me.
Maiden, think me not a tree,
But thine own dear lover free,
Tall and youthful in my bloom
With the bright green nodding plume.
Thou art leaning on my breast,
Lean forever there, and rest!
Fly from man, that bloody race,
Pards, assassins, bold and base;
Quit their dim, and false parade
For the quiet lonely shade.
Leave the windy birchen cot
For my own light happy lot;
O'er thee I my veil will fling,
Light as beetle's silken wing;
I will breathe perfume of flowers,
O'er thy happy evening hours;
I will in my shell canoe
Waft thee o'er the waters blue;
I will deck thy mantle fold,
With the sun's last rays of gold.
Come, and on the mountain free
Rove a fairy bright with me.
SONG OF THE OPECHEE, THE ROBIN.
The Chippewas relate that the robin originated from a youth who was subjected to too severe a task of fasting.
In the boundless woods there are berries of red,And fruits of a beautiful blue,Where, by nature's own hand, the sweet singers are fed,And to nature they ever are true.We go not with arrow and bow to the field,Like men of the fierce ruddy race,To take away lives which they never can give,And revel the lords of the chase.If danger approaches, with instant alarmWe fly to our own leafy woods,And there, with an innocent carol and charm,We sing to our dear little broods.At morning we sally in quest of the grainKind nature in plenty supplies,We skip o'er the beautiful wide-stretching plain,And sport in the vault of the skies.At evening we perch in some neighboring treeTo carol our evening adieu,And feel, although man assert he is free,We only have liberty true.We sing out our praises to God and to man,We live as heaven taught us to live,And I would not change back to mortality's planFor all that the mortal can give.Here ceased the sweet singer; then pluming his breast,He winged the blue firmament free,Repeating, as homeward he flew to his rest,Tshee-ree-lee—Tshee-ree-lee—Tshee-ree-lee!
In the boundless woods there are berries of red,And fruits of a beautiful blue,Where, by nature's own hand, the sweet singers are fed,And to nature they ever are true.
In the boundless woods there are berries of red,
And fruits of a beautiful blue,
Where, by nature's own hand, the sweet singers are fed,
And to nature they ever are true.
We go not with arrow and bow to the field,Like men of the fierce ruddy race,To take away lives which they never can give,And revel the lords of the chase.
We go not with arrow and bow to the field,
Like men of the fierce ruddy race,
To take away lives which they never can give,
And revel the lords of the chase.
If danger approaches, with instant alarmWe fly to our own leafy woods,And there, with an innocent carol and charm,We sing to our dear little broods.
If danger approaches, with instant alarm
We fly to our own leafy woods,
And there, with an innocent carol and charm,
We sing to our dear little broods.
At morning we sally in quest of the grainKind nature in plenty supplies,We skip o'er the beautiful wide-stretching plain,And sport in the vault of the skies.
At morning we sally in quest of the grain
Kind nature in plenty supplies,
We skip o'er the beautiful wide-stretching plain,
And sport in the vault of the skies.
At evening we perch in some neighboring treeTo carol our evening adieu,And feel, although man assert he is free,We only have liberty true.
At evening we perch in some neighboring tree
To carol our evening adieu,
And feel, although man assert he is free,
We only have liberty true.
We sing out our praises to God and to man,We live as heaven taught us to live,And I would not change back to mortality's planFor all that the mortal can give.
We sing out our praises to God and to man,
We live as heaven taught us to live,
And I would not change back to mortality's plan
For all that the mortal can give.
Here ceased the sweet singer; then pluming his breast,He winged the blue firmament free,Repeating, as homeward he flew to his rest,Tshee-ree-lee—Tshee-ree-lee—Tshee-ree-lee!
Here ceased the sweet singer; then pluming his breast,
He winged the blue firmament free,
Repeating, as homeward he flew to his rest,
Tshee-ree-lee—Tshee-ree-lee—Tshee-ree-lee!
EVENING CHANT OF INDIAN CHILDRENTO 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 grass 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.
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 grass 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.
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 grass 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 lingersFrom her dwelling in the sky,Where the moon with rosy fingersShall her cheeks with vermil dye.There my earliest views directed,Shall from her their brilliance takeAnd 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.
Blow, winds, blow, my sister lingersFrom her dwelling in the sky,Where the moon with rosy fingersShall her cheeks with vermil dye.
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 takeAnd her smiles through clouds reflected,Guide me on, by wood and lake.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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 shells, 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.
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 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 shells, 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.
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 shells, 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.
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 ships 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 ship 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 God 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!
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.
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.
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 ships 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 ship the canoe.
With ships 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 ship 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.
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 God who made heaven and day;We read no big volumes, no science implore,But ask of our wise men to teach us their lore.
In feasting and dancing, our moments are gay;
We trust in the God 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!
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, whyLift 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 manTo scan his acts, the dear, fond picture dies,And worse he seems in thought, and air, and planThan the hyena, beast that only digsFor 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 livesBut lives, as some poor outcast drowning in a flood.And then—ah, tell me!—whither goes the soul?Oh why, ye spirits blest, oh whyIs truth so darkened to the human eye?As if a sombre cloud all heaven made black,And the sun shone but through a chink 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.
Oh why, ye subtle spirits, whyLift I my eyes to yonder floating sky,Where clouds paint pictures with so clear a hue?A heaven so beautiful it must be true.
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 manTo scan his acts, the dear, fond picture dies,And worse he seems in thought, and air, and planThan the hyena, beast that only digsFor food, and not rejoices in the dart,That stopped the warm blood current of the heart.
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 livesBut lives, as some poor outcast drowning in a flood.And then—ah, tell me!—whither goes the soul?
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 whyIs truth so darkened to the human eye?As if a sombre cloud all heaven made black,And the sun shone but through a chink 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.
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 chink 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.
It is supposed to be four days' journey to the land of the dead; wherefore, during four nights, the Chippewas kindle a fire on the grave.
Light up a fire upon my graveWhen I am dead.'Twill softly shed its beaming rays,To guide the soul its darkling ways;And ever, as the day's full lightGoes down and leaves the world in night,These kindly gleams, with warmth possest,Shall show my spirit where to restWhen I am dead.Four days the funeral rite renew,When I am dead.While onward bent, with typic woes,I seek the red man's last repose;Let no rude hand the flame destroy,Nor mar the scene with festive joy;While night by night, a ghostly guest,I journey to my final rest,When I am dead.No moral light directs my wayWhen I am dead.A hunter's fate, a warrior's fame,A shade, a phantom, or a name,All life-long through my hands have sought,Unblest, unlettered, and untaught:Deny me not the boon I crave—A symbol-light upon my grave,When I am dead.
Light up a fire upon my graveWhen I am dead.'Twill softly shed its beaming rays,To guide the soul its darkling ways;And ever, as the day's full lightGoes down and leaves the world in night,These kindly gleams, with warmth possest,Shall show my spirit where to restWhen I am dead.
Light up a fire upon my grave
When I am dead.
'Twill softly shed its beaming rays,
To guide the soul its darkling ways;
And ever, as the day's full light
Goes down and leaves the world in night,
These kindly gleams, with warmth possest,
Shall show my spirit where to rest
When I am dead.
Four days the funeral rite renew,When I am dead.While onward bent, with typic woes,I seek the red man's last repose;Let no rude hand the flame destroy,Nor mar the scene with festive joy;While night by night, a ghostly guest,I journey to my final rest,When I am dead.
Four days the funeral rite renew,
When I am dead.
While onward bent, with typic woes,
I seek the red man's last repose;
Let no rude hand the flame destroy,
Nor mar the scene with festive joy;
While night by night, a ghostly guest,
I journey to my final rest,
When I am dead.
No moral light directs my wayWhen I am dead.A hunter's fate, a warrior's fame,A shade, a phantom, or a name,All life-long through my hands have sought,Unblest, unlettered, and untaught:Deny me not the boon I crave—A symbol-light upon my grave,When I am dead.
No moral light directs my way
When I am dead.
A hunter's fate, a warrior's fame,
A shade, a phantom, or a name,
All life-long through my hands have sought,
Unblest, unlettered, and untaught:
Deny me not the boon I crave—
A symbol-light upon my grave,
When I am dead.
MANITO.
"Every exhibition of elementary power, in earth or sky, is deemed, by the Indians, as a symbolic type of a deity."—Hist. Inds.
In the frowning cliff, that highGlooms above the passing eye,Casting spectral shadows tallOver lower rock and wall;In its morn and sunset glow,I behold a Manito.By the lake or river lone,In the humble fretted stone,Water-sculptured, and, by chance,Cast along the wave's expanse;In its morn and sunset glow,I behold a Manito.In whatever's dark or new,And my senses cannot view,Complex work, appearance strange,Arts' advance, or nature's change—Fearful e'er of hurt or woe,I behold a Manito.In the motions of the sky,Where the angry lightnings fly,And the thunder, dread and dire,Lifts his mighty voice in fire—Awed with fear of sudden woe,I behold a Manito.Here my humble voice I lift,Here I lay my sacred gift,And, with heart of fear and awe,Raise my loudWau-la-le-au.Spirit of the fields above,Thee I fear, and Thee I love,Whether joy betide or woe,Thou, thou art my Manito.
In the frowning cliff, that highGlooms above the passing eye,Casting spectral shadows tallOver lower rock and wall;In its morn and sunset glow,I behold a Manito.
In the frowning cliff, that high
Glooms above the passing eye,
Casting spectral shadows tall
Over lower rock and wall;
In its morn and sunset glow,
I behold a Manito.
By the lake or river lone,In the humble fretted stone,Water-sculptured, and, by chance,Cast along the wave's expanse;In its morn and sunset glow,I behold a Manito.
By the lake or river lone,
In the humble fretted stone,
Water-sculptured, and, by chance,
Cast along the wave's expanse;
In its morn and sunset glow,
I behold a Manito.
In whatever's dark or new,And my senses cannot view,Complex work, appearance strange,Arts' advance, or nature's change—Fearful e'er of hurt or woe,I behold a Manito.
In whatever's dark or new,
And my senses cannot view,
Complex work, appearance strange,
Arts' advance, or nature's change—
Fearful e'er of hurt or woe,
I behold a Manito.
In the motions of the sky,Where the angry lightnings fly,And the thunder, dread and dire,Lifts his mighty voice in fire—Awed with fear of sudden woe,I behold a Manito.
In the motions of the sky,
Where the angry lightnings fly,
And the thunder, dread and dire,
Lifts his mighty voice in fire—
Awed with fear of sudden woe,
I behold a Manito.
Here my humble voice I lift,Here I lay my sacred gift,And, with heart of fear and awe,Raise my loudWau-la-le-au.
Here my humble voice I lift,
Here I lay my sacred gift,
And, with heart of fear and awe,
Raise my loudWau-la-le-au.
Spirit of the fields above,Thee I fear, and Thee I love,Whether joy betide or woe,Thou, thou art my Manito.
Spirit of the fields above,
Thee I fear, and Thee I love,
Whether joy betide or woe,
Thou, thou art my Manito.
NIAGARA, AN ALLEGORY.
An old gray man on a mountain lived,He had daughters four and one,And a tall bright lodge of the betula barkThat glittered in the sun.He lived on the very highest top.For he was a hunter free,Where he could spy, on the clearest day,Gleams of the distant sea."Come out! come out!" cried the youngest one;"Let us off to look at the sea!"And out they ran, in their gayest robes,And skipped and ran with glee."Come, Su;[110]come, Mi;[111]come, Hu;[112]come, Cla;"[113]Cried laughing little Er;[114]"Let us go to yonder deep blue sea,Where the breakers foam and roar."And on they scampered by valley and wood,By earth and air and sky,Till they came to a steep where the bare rocks stood,In a precipice mountain high."Inya!"[115]cried Er, "here's a dreadful leap!But we are gone so far,That, if we flinch and return in fear,Nos[116]he will cry, 'Ha! ha!'"Now, each was clad in a vesture light,That floated far behind,With sandals of frozen water drops,And wings of painted wind.And down they plunged with a merry skip,Like birds that skim the plain;And "Hey!" they cried, "let us up and try,And down the steep again!"And up and down the daughters skipped,Like girls on a holiday,And laughed outright at the sport and foamThey called Niagara.If ye would see a sight so rare,Where Nature's in her glee,Go, view the spot in the wide wild West,The land of the brave and free!But mark—their shapes are only seenIn Fancy's deepest play;But she plainly shows their wings and feetIn the dancing sunny spray.
An old gray man on a mountain lived,He had daughters four and one,And a tall bright lodge of the betula barkThat glittered in the sun.
An old gray man on a mountain lived,
He had daughters four and one,
And a tall bright lodge of the betula bark
That glittered in the sun.
He lived on the very highest top.For he was a hunter free,Where he could spy, on the clearest day,Gleams of the distant sea.
He lived on the very highest top.
For he was a hunter free,
Where he could spy, on the clearest day,
Gleams of the distant sea.
"Come out! come out!" cried the youngest one;"Let us off to look at the sea!"And out they ran, in their gayest robes,And skipped and ran with glee.
"Come out! come out!" cried the youngest one;
"Let us off to look at the sea!"
And out they ran, in their gayest robes,
And skipped and ran with glee.
"Come, Su;[110]come, Mi;[111]come, Hu;[112]come, Cla;"[113]Cried laughing little Er;[114]"Let us go to yonder deep blue sea,Where the breakers foam and roar."
"Come, Su;[110]come, Mi;[111]come, Hu;[112]come, Cla;"[113]
Cried laughing little Er;[114]
"Let us go to yonder deep blue sea,
Where the breakers foam and roar."
And on they scampered by valley and wood,By earth and air and sky,Till they came to a steep where the bare rocks stood,In a precipice mountain high.
And on they scampered by valley and wood,
By earth and air and sky,
Till they came to a steep where the bare rocks stood,
In a precipice mountain high.
"Inya!"[115]cried Er, "here's a dreadful leap!But we are gone so far,That, if we flinch and return in fear,Nos[116]he will cry, 'Ha! ha!'"
"Inya!"[115]cried Er, "here's a dreadful leap!
But we are gone so far,
That, if we flinch and return in fear,
Nos[116]he will cry, 'Ha! ha!'"
Now, each was clad in a vesture light,That floated far behind,With sandals of frozen water drops,And wings of painted wind.
Now, each was clad in a vesture light,
That floated far behind,
With sandals of frozen water drops,
And wings of painted wind.
And down they plunged with a merry skip,Like birds that skim the plain;And "Hey!" they cried, "let us up and try,And down the steep again!"
And down they plunged with a merry skip,
Like birds that skim the plain;
And "Hey!" they cried, "let us up and try,
And down the steep again!"
And up and down the daughters skipped,Like girls on a holiday,And laughed outright at the sport and foamThey called Niagara.
And up and down the daughters skipped,
Like girls on a holiday,
And laughed outright at the sport and foam
They called Niagara.
If ye would see a sight so rare,Where Nature's in her glee,Go, view the spot in the wide wild West,The land of the brave and free!
If ye would see a sight so rare,
Where Nature's in her glee,
Go, view the spot in the wide wild West,
The land of the brave and free!
But mark—their shapes are only seenIn Fancy's deepest play;But she plainly shows their wings and feetIn the dancing sunny spray.
But mark—their shapes are only seen
In Fancy's deepest play;
But she plainly shows their wings and feet
In the dancing sunny spray.
CHILEELI.
The Chippewas relate that the spirit of a young lover, who was killed in battle, determined to return to his affianced maid, in the shape of a bird, and console her by his songs. He found her in a chosen retreat, where she daily resorted to pass her pensive hours.
Stay not here—the men are base,I have found a happier place,Where no war, or want severe,Haunts the mind with thoughts of fear;Men are cruel—bloody—cold,Seeking like lynx the rabbit's wold,Not to guard from winds or drought,But to suck its life's blood out.Stay not here—oh, stay not here,'Tis a world of want and fear.I have found those happy plains,Where the blissful Spirit reigns,Such, as by our wise men old,All our fathers have foretold.Streams of sparkling waters flow,Pure and clear, with silver glow;Woods and shady groves abound,Long sweet lawns and painted ground;Lakes, in winding shores extend,Fruits, with flowers, inviting blend;While, throughout the green-wood groves,Gayest birds sing out their loves.Stay not here, my trustful maid,'Tis a world for robbers made.I will lead you, soul of love,To those flowery haunts above,Where no tears or pain are found—Where no war-cry shakes the ground;Where no mother hangs her head,Crying: "Oh, my child is dead!"Where no human blood is spilt,Where there is no pain, or guilt;But the new-freed spirit rovesRound and round, in paths of loves.Pauguk's[117]not admitted there,Blue the skies, and sweet the air;There are no diseases there;There no famished eyeball rolls,Sickness cannot harm the souls;Hunger is not there a guest,Souls are not with hunger press'd,All are happy, all are blest.Rife the joys our fathers sought,Sweet to eye and ear and thought,Stay not here, my weeping maid,'Tis a world in glooms arrayed.Wishes there, all wants supply,Wants of hand, and heart, and eye;Labor is not known—that thornPricks not there, at night or morn,As it goads frail mortals here,With its pain, and toil, and fear;Shadows typical and fair,Fill the woods, the fields, the air,Stately deer, the forests fill,Just to have them is to will;Birds walk kindly from the lakes,And whoever wants them, takes;There no drop of blood is drawn,Darts are for an earthy lawn.Hunters, warriors, chiefs, are there,Plumed and radiant, bright and fair;But they are the ghosts of men,And ne'er mix in wars again;They no longer rove with ire,Wood or wold, or sit by fire;Council called—how best to tear,From the gray-head crown its hair,Dripping with its vital blood,Horror—echoed in the wood.Stay not here—where horrors dwell,Earth is but a name for hell.Oh, the Indian paradise is sweet,Naught but smiles the gazers meet;All is fair—the sage's breast,Swells with joy to hail each guest—Comes he, from these sounding shores,Or the North God's icy stores,Where the shivering children cry,In their snow-cots and bleak sky;Or the far receding south,Burned with heat, and palsied drought,All are welcome—all receive,Gifts great Chibiabos gives.Stay not, maiden—weep no more,I have found the happy shore.Come with me, and we will rove,O'er the endless plains of love,Full of flowers, gems, and gold,Where there is no heart that's cold,Where there is no tear to dryIn a single human eye.Stay not here; cold world like this,Death but opes the door to bliss.
Stay not here—the men are base,I have found a happier place,Where no war, or want severe,Haunts the mind with thoughts of fear;Men are cruel—bloody—cold,Seeking like lynx the rabbit's wold,Not to guard from winds or drought,But to suck its life's blood out.Stay not here—oh, stay not here,'Tis a world of want and fear.
Stay not here—the men are base,
I have found a happier place,
Where no war, or want severe,
Haunts the mind with thoughts of fear;
Men are cruel—bloody—cold,
Seeking like lynx the rabbit's wold,
Not to guard from winds or drought,
But to suck its life's blood out.
Stay not here—oh, stay not here,
'Tis a world of want and fear.
I have found those happy plains,Where the blissful Spirit reigns,Such, as by our wise men old,All our fathers have foretold.Streams of sparkling waters flow,Pure and clear, with silver glow;Woods and shady groves abound,Long sweet lawns and painted ground;Lakes, in winding shores extend,Fruits, with flowers, inviting blend;While, throughout the green-wood groves,Gayest birds sing out their loves.Stay not here, my trustful maid,'Tis a world for robbers made.
I have found those happy plains,
Where the blissful Spirit reigns,
Such, as by our wise men old,
All our fathers have foretold.
Streams of sparkling waters flow,
Pure and clear, with silver glow;
Woods and shady groves abound,
Long sweet lawns and painted ground;
Lakes, in winding shores extend,
Fruits, with flowers, inviting blend;
While, throughout the green-wood groves,
Gayest birds sing out their loves.
Stay not here, my trustful maid,
'Tis a world for robbers made.
I will lead you, soul of love,To those flowery haunts above,Where no tears or pain are found—Where no war-cry shakes the ground;Where no mother hangs her head,Crying: "Oh, my child is dead!"Where no human blood is spilt,Where there is no pain, or guilt;But the new-freed spirit rovesRound and round, in paths of loves.Pauguk's[117]not admitted there,Blue the skies, and sweet the air;There are no diseases there;There no famished eyeball rolls,Sickness cannot harm the souls;Hunger is not there a guest,Souls are not with hunger press'd,All are happy, all are blest.Rife the joys our fathers sought,Sweet to eye and ear and thought,Stay not here, my weeping maid,'Tis a world in glooms arrayed.
I will lead you, soul of love,
To those flowery haunts above,
Where no tears or pain are found—
Where no war-cry shakes the ground;
Where no mother hangs her head,
Crying: "Oh, my child is dead!"
Where no human blood is spilt,
Where there is no pain, or guilt;
But the new-freed spirit roves
Round and round, in paths of loves.
Pauguk's[117]not admitted there,
Blue the skies, and sweet the air;
There are no diseases there;
There no famished eyeball rolls,
Sickness cannot harm the souls;
Hunger is not there a guest,
Souls are not with hunger press'd,
All are happy, all are blest.
Rife the joys our fathers sought,
Sweet to eye and ear and thought,
Stay not here, my weeping maid,
'Tis a world in glooms arrayed.
Wishes there, all wants supply,Wants of hand, and heart, and eye;Labor is not known—that thornPricks not there, at night or morn,As it goads frail mortals here,With its pain, and toil, and fear;Shadows typical and fair,Fill the woods, the fields, the air,Stately deer, the forests fill,Just to have them is to will;Birds walk kindly from the lakes,And whoever wants them, takes;There no drop of blood is drawn,Darts are for an earthy lawn.Hunters, warriors, chiefs, are there,Plumed and radiant, bright and fair;But they are the ghosts of men,And ne'er mix in wars again;They no longer rove with ire,Wood or wold, or sit by fire;Council called—how best to tear,From the gray-head crown its hair,Dripping with its vital blood,Horror—echoed in the wood.Stay not here—where horrors dwell,Earth is but a name for hell.
Wishes there, all wants supply,
Wants of hand, and heart, and eye;
Labor is not known—that thorn
Pricks not there, at night or morn,
As it goads frail mortals here,
With its pain, and toil, and fear;
Shadows typical and fair,
Fill the woods, the fields, the air,
Stately deer, the forests fill,
Just to have them is to will;
Birds walk kindly from the lakes,
And whoever wants them, takes;
There no drop of blood is drawn,
Darts are for an earthy lawn.
Hunters, warriors, chiefs, are there,
Plumed and radiant, bright and fair;
But they are the ghosts of men,
And ne'er mix in wars again;
They no longer rove with ire,
Wood or wold, or sit by fire;
Council called—how best to tear,
From the gray-head crown its hair,
Dripping with its vital blood,
Horror—echoed in the wood.
Stay not here—where horrors dwell,
Earth is but a name for hell.
Oh, the Indian paradise is sweet,Naught but smiles the gazers meet;All is fair—the sage's breast,Swells with joy to hail each guest—Comes he, from these sounding shores,Or the North God's icy stores,Where the shivering children cry,In their snow-cots and bleak sky;Or the far receding south,Burned with heat, and palsied drought,All are welcome—all receive,Gifts great Chibiabos gives.Stay not, maiden—weep no more,I have found the happy shore.
Oh, the Indian paradise is sweet,
Naught but smiles the gazers meet;
All is fair—the sage's breast,
Swells with joy to hail each guest—
Comes he, from these sounding shores,
Or the North God's icy stores,
Where the shivering children cry,
In their snow-cots and bleak sky;
Or the far receding south,
Burned with heat, and palsied drought,
All are welcome—all receive,
Gifts great Chibiabos gives.
Stay not, maiden—weep no more,
I have found the happy shore.
Come with me, and we will rove,O'er the endless plains of love,Full of flowers, gems, and gold,Where there is no heart that's cold,Where there is no tear to dryIn a single human eye.Stay not here; cold world like this,Death but opes the door to bliss.
Come with me, and we will rove,
O'er the endless plains of love,
Full of flowers, gems, and gold,
Where there is no heart that's cold,
Where there is no tear to dry
In a single human eye.
Stay not here; cold world like this,
Death but opes the door to bliss.
ON THE STATE OF THE IROQUOIS,OR SIX NATIONS.
In 1845, the Legislature of New York directed a census of these cantons, which evinced an advanced state of industry.
The lordly Iroquois is tending sheep,Gone are the plumes that decked his brow,For his bold raid, no more the wife shall weep—He holds the plough.The bow and quiver which his fathers made;The gun, that filled the warrior's deadliest vow;The mace, the spear, the axe, the ambuscade—Where are they now?Mute are the hills that woke his dreadful yell—Scared nations listen with affright no more;He walks a farmer over field and dellOnce red with gore.Frontlet and wampum, baldric, brand, and knife,Skill of the megalonyx, snake and fox,All now are gone!—transformed to peaceful life—He drives the ox.Algon, and Cherokee, and Illinese,No more beneath his stalwort blow shall writhe:Peace spreads her reign wide o'er his inland seas—He swings the scythe.Grain now, not men, employs his manly powers;To learn the white man's arts, and skill to rule,For this, his sons and daughters spend their hours—They go to school.Glory and fame, that erewhile fired his soul,And nerved for war his ever vengeful arm,Where are your charms his bosom to control?—He tills a farm.His war-scar'd visage, paints no more deform—His garments, made of beaver, deer, and rat,Are now exchanged for woollen doublets warm—He wears a hat.His very pipe, surcharged with sacred weed,Once smoked to spirits dreamy, dread and sore,Is laid aside—to think, to plan, to read—He keeps a store.This is the law of progress—kindlier artsHave shaped his native energies of mind,And back he comes—from wandering, woods and dartsBack to mankind.His drum and rattles, both are thrown away—His native altars stand without a blaze,—Truth, robed in gospel light, hath found her way—And hark! he prays!
The lordly Iroquois is tending sheep,Gone are the plumes that decked his brow,For his bold raid, no more the wife shall weep—He holds the plough.
The lordly Iroquois is tending sheep,
Gone are the plumes that decked his brow,
For his bold raid, no more the wife shall weep—
He holds the plough.
The bow and quiver which his fathers made;The gun, that filled the warrior's deadliest vow;The mace, the spear, the axe, the ambuscade—Where are they now?
The bow and quiver which his fathers made;
The gun, that filled the warrior's deadliest vow;
The mace, the spear, the axe, the ambuscade—
Where are they now?
Mute are the hills that woke his dreadful yell—Scared nations listen with affright no more;He walks a farmer over field and dellOnce red with gore.
Mute are the hills that woke his dreadful yell—
Scared nations listen with affright no more;
He walks a farmer over field and dell
Once red with gore.
Frontlet and wampum, baldric, brand, and knife,Skill of the megalonyx, snake and fox,All now are gone!—transformed to peaceful life—He drives the ox.
Frontlet and wampum, baldric, brand, and knife,
Skill of the megalonyx, snake and fox,
All now are gone!—transformed to peaceful life—
He drives the ox.
Algon, and Cherokee, and Illinese,No more beneath his stalwort blow shall writhe:Peace spreads her reign wide o'er his inland seas—He swings the scythe.
Algon, and Cherokee, and Illinese,
No more beneath his stalwort blow shall writhe:
Peace spreads her reign wide o'er his inland seas—
He swings the scythe.
Grain now, not men, employs his manly powers;To learn the white man's arts, and skill to rule,For this, his sons and daughters spend their hours—They go to school.
Grain now, not men, employs his manly powers;
To learn the white man's arts, and skill to rule,
For this, his sons and daughters spend their hours—
They go to school.
Glory and fame, that erewhile fired his soul,And nerved for war his ever vengeful arm,Where are your charms his bosom to control?—He tills a farm.
Glory and fame, that erewhile fired his soul,
And nerved for war his ever vengeful arm,
Where are your charms his bosom to control?—
He tills a farm.
His war-scar'd visage, paints no more deform—His garments, made of beaver, deer, and rat,Are now exchanged for woollen doublets warm—He wears a hat.
His war-scar'd visage, paints no more deform—
His garments, made of beaver, deer, and rat,
Are now exchanged for woollen doublets warm—
He wears a hat.
His very pipe, surcharged with sacred weed,Once smoked to spirits dreamy, dread and sore,Is laid aside—to think, to plan, to read—He keeps a store.
His very pipe, surcharged with sacred weed,
Once smoked to spirits dreamy, dread and sore,
Is laid aside—to think, to plan, to read—
He keeps a store.
This is the law of progress—kindlier artsHave shaped his native energies of mind,And back he comes—from wandering, woods and dartsBack to mankind.
This is the law of progress—kindlier arts
Have shaped his native energies of mind,
And back he comes—from wandering, woods and darts
Back to mankind.
His drum and rattles, both are thrown away—His native altars stand without a blaze,—Truth, robed in gospel light, hath found her way—And hark! he prays!
His drum and rattles, both are thrown away—
His native altars stand without a blaze,—
Truth, robed in gospel light, hath found her way—
And hark! he prays!