The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe White WampumThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The White WampumAuthor: E. Pauline JohnsonRelease date: September 5, 2016 [eBook #52988]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE WAMPUM ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The White WampumAuthor: E. Pauline JohnsonRelease date: September 5, 2016 [eBook #52988]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)
Title: The White Wampum
Author: E. Pauline Johnson
Author: E. Pauline Johnson
Release date: September 5, 2016 [eBook #52988]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE WAMPUM ***
THE WHITE WAMPVM BY E·PAVLINE JOHNSON Tekahionwake LONDON: John Lane 1895 Toronto: The Copp Clark Co: Boston: Lamson, Wolffe & Co.
“And few to-day remain;But copper-tinted face and smouldering fireOf wilder life, were left me by my sireTo be my proudest claim.”
“And few to-day remain;But copper-tinted face and smouldering fireOf wilder life, were left me by my sireTo be my proudest claim.”
“And few to-day remain;But copper-tinted face and smouldering fireOf wilder life, were left me by my sireTo be my proudest claim.”
As wampums to the Redman, so to the Poet are his songs; chiselled alike from that which is the purest of his possessions, woven alike with meaning into belt and book, fraught alike with the corresponding message of peace, the breathing of tradition, the value of more than coin, and the seal of fellowship with all men.So do I offer this belt of verse-wampum to those two who have taught me most of its spirit—my Mother, whose encouragement has been my mainstay in its weaving; my Father, whose feet have long since wandered to the Happy Hunting Grounds.E. P. J.
As wampums to the Redman, so to the Poet are his songs; chiselled alike from that which is the purest of his possessions, woven alike with meaning into belt and book, fraught alike with the corresponding message of peace, the breathing of tradition, the value of more than coin, and the seal of fellowship with all men.
So do I offer this belt of verse-wampum to those two who have taught me most of its spirit—my Mother, whose encouragement has been my mainstay in its weaving; my Father, whose feet have long since wandered to the Happy Hunting Grounds.
E. P. J.
I amOjistoh, I am she, the wifeOf him whose name breathes bravery and lifeAnd courage to the tribe that calls him chief.I am Ojistoh, his white star, and heIs land, and lake, and sky—and soul to me.Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves,Him who had flung their warriors into graves,Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steelTo all—save me, Ojistoh, chosen wifeOf my great Mohawk, white star of his life.Ah! but they hated him, and councilled longWith subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong;How to avenge their dead, and strike him whereHis pride was highest, and his fame most fair.Their hearts grew weak as women at his name:They dared no war-path since my Mohawk cameWith ashen bow, and flinten arrow-headTo pierce their craven bodies; but their deadMust be avenged. Avenged? They dared not walkIn day and meet his deadly tomahawk;They dared not face his fearless scalping knife;So—Niyoh![A]—then they thought of me, his wife.O! evil, evil face of them they sentWith evil Huron speech: “Would I consentTo take of wealth? be queen of all their tribe?Have wampum ermine?” Back I flung the bribeInto their teeth, and said, “While I have lifeKnow this—Ojistoh is the Mohawk’s wife.”Wah! how we struggled! But their arms were strong.They flung me on their pony’s back, with thongRound ankle, wrist, and shoulder. Then upleaptThe one I hated most: his eye he sweptOver my misery, and sneering said,“Thus, fair Ojistoh, we avenge our dead.”And we two rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,I, bound with buckskin to his hated waist,He, sneering, laughing, jeering, while he lashedThe horse to foam, as on and on we dashed.Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail,On, on we galloped like a northern gale.At last, his distant Huron fires aflameWe saw, and nearer, nearer still we came.I, bound behind him in the captive’s place,Scarcely could see the outline of his face.I smiled, and laid my cheek against his back:“Loose thou my hands,” I said. “This pace let slack.Forget we now that thou and I are foes.I like thee well, and wish to clasp thee close;I like the courage of thine eye and brow;I like thee better than my Mohawk now.”He cut the cords; we ceased our maddened haste.I wound my arms about his tawny waist;My hand crept up the buckskin of his belt;His knife hilt in my burning palm I felt;One hand caressed his cheek, the other drewThe weapon softly—“I love you, love you,”I whispered, “love you as my life.”And—buried in his back his scalping knife.Ha! how I rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,Mad with sudden freedom, mad with haste,Back to my Mohawk and my home, I lashedThat horse to foam, as on and on I dashed.Plunging thro’ creek and river, bush and trail,On, on I galloped like a northern gale.And then my distant Mohawk’s fires aflameI saw, as nearer, nearer still I came,My hands all wet, stained with a life’s red dye,But pure my soul, pure as those stars on high—“My Mohawk’s pure white star, Ojistoh, still am I.”
I amOjistoh, I am she, the wifeOf him whose name breathes bravery and lifeAnd courage to the tribe that calls him chief.I am Ojistoh, his white star, and heIs land, and lake, and sky—and soul to me.Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves,Him who had flung their warriors into graves,Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steelTo all—save me, Ojistoh, chosen wifeOf my great Mohawk, white star of his life.Ah! but they hated him, and councilled longWith subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong;How to avenge their dead, and strike him whereHis pride was highest, and his fame most fair.Their hearts grew weak as women at his name:They dared no war-path since my Mohawk cameWith ashen bow, and flinten arrow-headTo pierce their craven bodies; but their deadMust be avenged. Avenged? They dared not walkIn day and meet his deadly tomahawk;They dared not face his fearless scalping knife;So—Niyoh![A]—then they thought of me, his wife.O! evil, evil face of them they sentWith evil Huron speech: “Would I consentTo take of wealth? be queen of all their tribe?Have wampum ermine?” Back I flung the bribeInto their teeth, and said, “While I have lifeKnow this—Ojistoh is the Mohawk’s wife.”Wah! how we struggled! But their arms were strong.They flung me on their pony’s back, with thongRound ankle, wrist, and shoulder. Then upleaptThe one I hated most: his eye he sweptOver my misery, and sneering said,“Thus, fair Ojistoh, we avenge our dead.”And we two rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,I, bound with buckskin to his hated waist,He, sneering, laughing, jeering, while he lashedThe horse to foam, as on and on we dashed.Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail,On, on we galloped like a northern gale.At last, his distant Huron fires aflameWe saw, and nearer, nearer still we came.I, bound behind him in the captive’s place,Scarcely could see the outline of his face.I smiled, and laid my cheek against his back:“Loose thou my hands,” I said. “This pace let slack.Forget we now that thou and I are foes.I like thee well, and wish to clasp thee close;I like the courage of thine eye and brow;I like thee better than my Mohawk now.”He cut the cords; we ceased our maddened haste.I wound my arms about his tawny waist;My hand crept up the buckskin of his belt;His knife hilt in my burning palm I felt;One hand caressed his cheek, the other drewThe weapon softly—“I love you, love you,”I whispered, “love you as my life.”And—buried in his back his scalping knife.Ha! how I rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,Mad with sudden freedom, mad with haste,Back to my Mohawk and my home, I lashedThat horse to foam, as on and on I dashed.Plunging thro’ creek and river, bush and trail,On, on I galloped like a northern gale.And then my distant Mohawk’s fires aflameI saw, as nearer, nearer still I came,My hands all wet, stained with a life’s red dye,But pure my soul, pure as those stars on high—“My Mohawk’s pure white star, Ojistoh, still am I.”
I amOjistoh, I am she, the wifeOf him whose name breathes bravery and lifeAnd courage to the tribe that calls him chief.I am Ojistoh, his white star, and heIs land, and lake, and sky—and soul to me.
Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves,Him who had flung their warriors into graves,Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steelTo all—save me, Ojistoh, chosen wifeOf my great Mohawk, white star of his life.
Ah! but they hated him, and councilled longWith subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong;How to avenge their dead, and strike him whereHis pride was highest, and his fame most fair.Their hearts grew weak as women at his name:They dared no war-path since my Mohawk cameWith ashen bow, and flinten arrow-headTo pierce their craven bodies; but their deadMust be avenged. Avenged? They dared not walkIn day and meet his deadly tomahawk;They dared not face his fearless scalping knife;So—Niyoh![A]—then they thought of me, his wife.
O! evil, evil face of them they sentWith evil Huron speech: “Would I consentTo take of wealth? be queen of all their tribe?Have wampum ermine?” Back I flung the bribeInto their teeth, and said, “While I have lifeKnow this—Ojistoh is the Mohawk’s wife.”
Wah! how we struggled! But their arms were strong.They flung me on their pony’s back, with thongRound ankle, wrist, and shoulder. Then upleaptThe one I hated most: his eye he sweptOver my misery, and sneering said,“Thus, fair Ojistoh, we avenge our dead.”
And we two rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,I, bound with buckskin to his hated waist,He, sneering, laughing, jeering, while he lashedThe horse to foam, as on and on we dashed.Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail,On, on we galloped like a northern gale.At last, his distant Huron fires aflameWe saw, and nearer, nearer still we came.
I, bound behind him in the captive’s place,Scarcely could see the outline of his face.I smiled, and laid my cheek against his back:“Loose thou my hands,” I said. “This pace let slack.Forget we now that thou and I are foes.I like thee well, and wish to clasp thee close;I like the courage of thine eye and brow;I like thee better than my Mohawk now.”
He cut the cords; we ceased our maddened haste.I wound my arms about his tawny waist;My hand crept up the buckskin of his belt;His knife hilt in my burning palm I felt;One hand caressed his cheek, the other drewThe weapon softly—“I love you, love you,”I whispered, “love you as my life.”And—buried in his back his scalping knife.
Ha! how I rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,Mad with sudden freedom, mad with haste,Back to my Mohawk and my home, I lashedThat horse to foam, as on and on I dashed.Plunging thro’ creek and river, bush and trail,On, on I galloped like a northern gale.And then my distant Mohawk’s fires aflameI saw, as nearer, nearer still I came,My hands all wet, stained with a life’s red dye,But pure my soul, pure as those stars on high—“My Mohawk’s pure white star, Ojistoh, still am I.”
[A]God, in the Mohawk language.
[A]God, in the Mohawk language.
Captive! Is there a hell to him like this?A taunt more galling than the Huron’s hiss?He—proud and scornful, he—who laughed at law,He—scion of the deadly Iroquois,He—the bloodthirsty, he—the Mohawk chief,He—who despises pain and sneers at grief,Here in the hated Huron’s vicious clutch,That even captive he disdains to touch!Captive! Butneverconquered; Mohawk braveStoops not to be toanyman a slave;Least, to the puny tribe his soul abhors,The tribe whose wigwams sprinkle Simcoe’s shores.With scowling brow he stands and courage high,Watching with haughty and defiant eyeHis captors, as they council o’er his fate,Or strive his boldness to intimidate.Then fling they unto him the choice;“Wilt thouWalk o’er the bed of fire that waits thee now—Walk with uncovered feet upon the coalsUntil thou reach the ghostly Land of Souls,And, with thy Mohawk death-song please our ear?Or wilt thou with the women rest thee here?”His eyes flash like an eagle’s, and his handsClench at the insult. Like a god he stands.“Prepare the fire!” he scornfully demands.He knoweth not that this same jeering bandWill bite the dust—will lick the Mohawk’s hand;Will kneel and cower at the Mohawk’s feet;Will shrink when Mohawk war-drums wildly beat.His death will be avenged with hideous hateBy Iroquois, swift to annihilateHis vile detested captors, that now flauntTheir war clubs in his face with sneer and taunt,Not thinking, soon that reeking, red, and raw,Their scalps will deck the belts of Iroquois.The path of coals outstretches, white with heat,A forest fir’s length—ready for his feet.Unflinching as a rock he steps alongThe burning mass, and sings his wild war song;Sings, as he sang when once he used to roamThroughout the forests of his southern home,Where, down the Genesee, the water roars,Where gentle Mohawk purls between its shores,Songs, that of exploit and of prowess tell;Songs of the Iroquois invincible.Up the long trail of fire he boasting goes,Dancing a war dance to defy his foes.His flesh is scorched, his muscles burn and shrink,But still he dances to death’s awful brink.The eagle plume that crests his haughty headWillneverdroop until his heart be dead.Slower and slower yet his footstep swings,Wilder and wilder still his death-song rings,Fiercer and fiercer thro’ the forest boundsHis voice that leaps to Happier Hunting Grounds.One savage yell—Then loyal to his race,He bends to death—butneverto disgrace.
Captive! Is there a hell to him like this?A taunt more galling than the Huron’s hiss?He—proud and scornful, he—who laughed at law,He—scion of the deadly Iroquois,He—the bloodthirsty, he—the Mohawk chief,He—who despises pain and sneers at grief,Here in the hated Huron’s vicious clutch,That even captive he disdains to touch!Captive! Butneverconquered; Mohawk braveStoops not to be toanyman a slave;Least, to the puny tribe his soul abhors,The tribe whose wigwams sprinkle Simcoe’s shores.With scowling brow he stands and courage high,Watching with haughty and defiant eyeHis captors, as they council o’er his fate,Or strive his boldness to intimidate.Then fling they unto him the choice;“Wilt thouWalk o’er the bed of fire that waits thee now—Walk with uncovered feet upon the coalsUntil thou reach the ghostly Land of Souls,And, with thy Mohawk death-song please our ear?Or wilt thou with the women rest thee here?”His eyes flash like an eagle’s, and his handsClench at the insult. Like a god he stands.“Prepare the fire!” he scornfully demands.He knoweth not that this same jeering bandWill bite the dust—will lick the Mohawk’s hand;Will kneel and cower at the Mohawk’s feet;Will shrink when Mohawk war-drums wildly beat.His death will be avenged with hideous hateBy Iroquois, swift to annihilateHis vile detested captors, that now flauntTheir war clubs in his face with sneer and taunt,Not thinking, soon that reeking, red, and raw,Their scalps will deck the belts of Iroquois.The path of coals outstretches, white with heat,A forest fir’s length—ready for his feet.Unflinching as a rock he steps alongThe burning mass, and sings his wild war song;Sings, as he sang when once he used to roamThroughout the forests of his southern home,Where, down the Genesee, the water roars,Where gentle Mohawk purls between its shores,Songs, that of exploit and of prowess tell;Songs of the Iroquois invincible.Up the long trail of fire he boasting goes,Dancing a war dance to defy his foes.His flesh is scorched, his muscles burn and shrink,But still he dances to death’s awful brink.The eagle plume that crests his haughty headWillneverdroop until his heart be dead.Slower and slower yet his footstep swings,Wilder and wilder still his death-song rings,Fiercer and fiercer thro’ the forest boundsHis voice that leaps to Happier Hunting Grounds.One savage yell—Then loyal to his race,He bends to death—butneverto disgrace.
Captive! Is there a hell to him like this?A taunt more galling than the Huron’s hiss?He—proud and scornful, he—who laughed at law,He—scion of the deadly Iroquois,He—the bloodthirsty, he—the Mohawk chief,He—who despises pain and sneers at grief,Here in the hated Huron’s vicious clutch,That even captive he disdains to touch!
Captive! Butneverconquered; Mohawk braveStoops not to be toanyman a slave;Least, to the puny tribe his soul abhors,The tribe whose wigwams sprinkle Simcoe’s shores.With scowling brow he stands and courage high,Watching with haughty and defiant eyeHis captors, as they council o’er his fate,Or strive his boldness to intimidate.Then fling they unto him the choice;
“Wilt thouWalk o’er the bed of fire that waits thee now—Walk with uncovered feet upon the coalsUntil thou reach the ghostly Land of Souls,And, with thy Mohawk death-song please our ear?Or wilt thou with the women rest thee here?”His eyes flash like an eagle’s, and his handsClench at the insult. Like a god he stands.“Prepare the fire!” he scornfully demands.
He knoweth not that this same jeering bandWill bite the dust—will lick the Mohawk’s hand;Will kneel and cower at the Mohawk’s feet;Will shrink when Mohawk war-drums wildly beat.
His death will be avenged with hideous hateBy Iroquois, swift to annihilateHis vile detested captors, that now flauntTheir war clubs in his face with sneer and taunt,Not thinking, soon that reeking, red, and raw,Their scalps will deck the belts of Iroquois.
The path of coals outstretches, white with heat,A forest fir’s length—ready for his feet.Unflinching as a rock he steps alongThe burning mass, and sings his wild war song;Sings, as he sang when once he used to roamThroughout the forests of his southern home,Where, down the Genesee, the water roars,Where gentle Mohawk purls between its shores,Songs, that of exploit and of prowess tell;Songs of the Iroquois invincible.
Up the long trail of fire he boasting goes,Dancing a war dance to defy his foes.His flesh is scorched, his muscles burn and shrink,But still he dances to death’s awful brink.The eagle plume that crests his haughty headWillneverdroop until his heart be dead.Slower and slower yet his footstep swings,Wilder and wilder still his death-song rings,Fiercer and fiercer thro’ the forest boundsHis voice that leaps to Happier Hunting Grounds.One savage yell—
Then loyal to his race,He bends to death—butneverto disgrace.
“False,” they said, “thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn;Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, nobler warrior ne’er was born;Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming,Show the white thine Indian scorn.”Thus they taunted her, declaring, “He remembers naught of thee:Likely some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea.”But she answered ever kindly,“He will come again to me,”Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies;But a deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes,As she scanned the rolling prairie,Where the foothills fall, and rise.Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains,Till the western world lay fettered in midwinter’s crystal chains,Still she listened for his coming,Still she watched the distant plains.Then a night with nor’land tempest, nor’land snows a-swirling fast,Out upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast,Calling, calling, “Yakonwita,I am coming, love, at last.”Hovered night above, about him, dark its wings and cold and dread;Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led;Till benumbed, he sank, and pillowedOn the drifting snows his head,Saying, “O! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guideTo the lodge beyond the prairie—for I vowed ere winter diedI would come again, belovéd;I would claim my Indian bride.”“Yakonwita, Yakonwita!” Oh, the dreariness that strainsThrough the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains,“Yakonwita, Yakonwita,I am lost upon the plains.”But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew,“Save me, save me! O! beloved, I am Pale but I am true.Yakonwita, Yakonwita,I am dying, love, for you.”Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed,Roused her kinsmen from their slumber: “He has come to-night,” she said.“I can hear him calling, calling;But his voice is as the dead.“Listen!” and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew,And a spirit-voice called faintly, “I am dying, love, for you.”Then they wailed, “O! Yakonwita.He was Pale, but he was true.”Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door,Saying, “I must follow, follow, though he call for evermore,Yakonwita, Yakonwita;”And they never saw her more.Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes,Far away they see a maiden, misty as the autumn rains,Guiding with her lamp of moonlightHunters lost upon the plains.
“False,” they said, “thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn;Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, nobler warrior ne’er was born;Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming,Show the white thine Indian scorn.”Thus they taunted her, declaring, “He remembers naught of thee:Likely some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea.”But she answered ever kindly,“He will come again to me,”Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies;But a deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes,As she scanned the rolling prairie,Where the foothills fall, and rise.Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains,Till the western world lay fettered in midwinter’s crystal chains,Still she listened for his coming,Still she watched the distant plains.Then a night with nor’land tempest, nor’land snows a-swirling fast,Out upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast,Calling, calling, “Yakonwita,I am coming, love, at last.”Hovered night above, about him, dark its wings and cold and dread;Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led;Till benumbed, he sank, and pillowedOn the drifting snows his head,Saying, “O! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guideTo the lodge beyond the prairie—for I vowed ere winter diedI would come again, belovéd;I would claim my Indian bride.”“Yakonwita, Yakonwita!” Oh, the dreariness that strainsThrough the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains,“Yakonwita, Yakonwita,I am lost upon the plains.”But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew,“Save me, save me! O! beloved, I am Pale but I am true.Yakonwita, Yakonwita,I am dying, love, for you.”Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed,Roused her kinsmen from their slumber: “He has come to-night,” she said.“I can hear him calling, calling;But his voice is as the dead.“Listen!” and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew,And a spirit-voice called faintly, “I am dying, love, for you.”Then they wailed, “O! Yakonwita.He was Pale, but he was true.”Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door,Saying, “I must follow, follow, though he call for evermore,Yakonwita, Yakonwita;”And they never saw her more.Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes,Far away they see a maiden, misty as the autumn rains,Guiding with her lamp of moonlightHunters lost upon the plains.
“False,” they said, “thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn;Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, nobler warrior ne’er was born;Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming,Show the white thine Indian scorn.”
Thus they taunted her, declaring, “He remembers naught of thee:Likely some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea.”But she answered ever kindly,“He will come again to me,”
Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies;But a deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes,As she scanned the rolling prairie,Where the foothills fall, and rise.
Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains,Till the western world lay fettered in midwinter’s crystal chains,Still she listened for his coming,Still she watched the distant plains.
Then a night with nor’land tempest, nor’land snows a-swirling fast,Out upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast,Calling, calling, “Yakonwita,I am coming, love, at last.”
Hovered night above, about him, dark its wings and cold and dread;Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led;Till benumbed, he sank, and pillowedOn the drifting snows his head,
Saying, “O! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guideTo the lodge beyond the prairie—for I vowed ere winter diedI would come again, belovéd;I would claim my Indian bride.”
“Yakonwita, Yakonwita!” Oh, the dreariness that strainsThrough the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains,“Yakonwita, Yakonwita,I am lost upon the plains.”
But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew,“Save me, save me! O! beloved, I am Pale but I am true.Yakonwita, Yakonwita,I am dying, love, for you.”
Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed,Roused her kinsmen from their slumber: “He has come to-night,” she said.“I can hear him calling, calling;But his voice is as the dead.
“Listen!” and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew,And a spirit-voice called faintly, “I am dying, love, for you.”Then they wailed, “O! Yakonwita.He was Pale, but he was true.”
Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door,Saying, “I must follow, follow, though he call for evermore,Yakonwita, Yakonwita;”And they never saw her more.
Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes,Far away they see a maiden, misty as the autumn rains,Guiding with her lamp of moonlightHunters lost upon the plains.
Theywere coming across the prairie, they were galloping hard and fast;For the eyes of those desperate riders had sighted their man at last—Sighted him off to Eastward, where the Cree encampment lay,Where the cotton woods fringed the river, miles and miles away.Mistake him? Never, Mistake him? the famous Eagle Chief!That terror to all the settlers, that desperate Cattle Thief—That monstrous, fearless Indian, who lorded it over the plain,Who thieved and raided, and scouted, who rode like a hurricane!But they’ve tracked him across the prairie; they’ve followed him hard and fast;For those desperate English settlers have sighted their man at last.Up they wheeled to the tepees, all their British blood aflame,Bent on bullets and bloodshed, bent on bringing down their game;But they searched in vain for the Cattle Thief: that lion had left his lair,And they cursed like a troop of demons—for the women alone were there.“The sneaking Indian coward,” they hissed; “he hides while yet he can;He’ll come in the night for cattle, but he’s scared to face aman.”“Never!” and up from the cotton woods, rang the voice of Eagle Chief;And right out into the open stepped, unarmed, the Cattle Thief.Was that the game they had coveted? Scarce fifty years had rolledOver that fleshless, hungry frame, starved to the bone and old;Over that wrinkled, tawny skin, unfed by the warmth of blood,Over those hungry, hollow eyes that glared for the sight of food.He turned, like a hunted lion: “I know not fear,” said he;And the words outleapt from his shrunken lips in the language of the Cree.“I’ll fight you, white-skins, one by one, till I kill youall,” he said;But the threat was scarcely uttered, ere a dozen balls of leadWhizzed through the air about him like a shower of metal rain,And the gaunt old Indian Cattle Thief, dropped dead on the open plain.And that band of cursing settlers, gave one triumphant yell,And rushed like a pack of demons on the body that writhed and fell.“Cut the fiend up into inches, throw his carcass on the plain;Let the wolves eat the cursed Indian, he’d have treated us the same.”A dozen hands responded, a dozen knives gleamed high,But the first stroke was arrested by a woman’s strange, wild cry.And out into the open, with a courage past belief,She dashed, and spread her blanket o’er the corpse of the Cattle Thief;And the words outleapt from her shrunken lips in the language of the Cree,“If you mean to touch that body, you must cut your way throughme.”And that band of cursing settlers dropped backward one by one,For they knew that an Indian woman roused, was a woman to let alone.And then she raved in a frenzy that they scarcely understood,Raved of the wrongs she had suffered since her earliest babyhood:“Stand back, stand back, you white-skins, touch that dead man to your shame;You have stolen my father’s spirit, but his body I only claim.You have killed him, but you shall not dare to touch him now he’s dead.You have cursed, and called him a Cattle Thief, though you robbed him first of bread—Robbed him and robbed my people—look there, at that shrunken face,Starved with a hollow hunger, we owe to you and your race.What have you left to us of land, what have you left of game,What have you brought but evil, and curses since you came?How have you paid us for our game? how paid us for our land?By abook, to save our souls from the sinsyoubrought in your other hand.Go back with your new religion, we never have understoodYour robbing an Indian’sbody, and mocking hissoulwith food.Go back with your new religion, and find—if find you can—Thehonestman you have ever made from out astarvingman.You say your cattle are not ours, your meat is not our meat;Whenyoupay for the land you live in,we’llpay for the meat we eat.Give back our land and our country, give back our herds of game;Give back the furs and the forests that were ours before you came;Give back the peace and the plenty. Then come with your new belief,And blame if you dare, the hunger thatdrovehim to be a thief.”
Theywere coming across the prairie, they were galloping hard and fast;For the eyes of those desperate riders had sighted their man at last—Sighted him off to Eastward, where the Cree encampment lay,Where the cotton woods fringed the river, miles and miles away.Mistake him? Never, Mistake him? the famous Eagle Chief!That terror to all the settlers, that desperate Cattle Thief—That monstrous, fearless Indian, who lorded it over the plain,Who thieved and raided, and scouted, who rode like a hurricane!But they’ve tracked him across the prairie; they’ve followed him hard and fast;For those desperate English settlers have sighted their man at last.Up they wheeled to the tepees, all their British blood aflame,Bent on bullets and bloodshed, bent on bringing down their game;But they searched in vain for the Cattle Thief: that lion had left his lair,And they cursed like a troop of demons—for the women alone were there.“The sneaking Indian coward,” they hissed; “he hides while yet he can;He’ll come in the night for cattle, but he’s scared to face aman.”“Never!” and up from the cotton woods, rang the voice of Eagle Chief;And right out into the open stepped, unarmed, the Cattle Thief.Was that the game they had coveted? Scarce fifty years had rolledOver that fleshless, hungry frame, starved to the bone and old;Over that wrinkled, tawny skin, unfed by the warmth of blood,Over those hungry, hollow eyes that glared for the sight of food.He turned, like a hunted lion: “I know not fear,” said he;And the words outleapt from his shrunken lips in the language of the Cree.“I’ll fight you, white-skins, one by one, till I kill youall,” he said;But the threat was scarcely uttered, ere a dozen balls of leadWhizzed through the air about him like a shower of metal rain,And the gaunt old Indian Cattle Thief, dropped dead on the open plain.And that band of cursing settlers, gave one triumphant yell,And rushed like a pack of demons on the body that writhed and fell.“Cut the fiend up into inches, throw his carcass on the plain;Let the wolves eat the cursed Indian, he’d have treated us the same.”A dozen hands responded, a dozen knives gleamed high,But the first stroke was arrested by a woman’s strange, wild cry.And out into the open, with a courage past belief,She dashed, and spread her blanket o’er the corpse of the Cattle Thief;And the words outleapt from her shrunken lips in the language of the Cree,“If you mean to touch that body, you must cut your way throughme.”And that band of cursing settlers dropped backward one by one,For they knew that an Indian woman roused, was a woman to let alone.And then she raved in a frenzy that they scarcely understood,Raved of the wrongs she had suffered since her earliest babyhood:“Stand back, stand back, you white-skins, touch that dead man to your shame;You have stolen my father’s spirit, but his body I only claim.You have killed him, but you shall not dare to touch him now he’s dead.You have cursed, and called him a Cattle Thief, though you robbed him first of bread—Robbed him and robbed my people—look there, at that shrunken face,Starved with a hollow hunger, we owe to you and your race.What have you left to us of land, what have you left of game,What have you brought but evil, and curses since you came?How have you paid us for our game? how paid us for our land?By abook, to save our souls from the sinsyoubrought in your other hand.Go back with your new religion, we never have understoodYour robbing an Indian’sbody, and mocking hissoulwith food.Go back with your new religion, and find—if find you can—Thehonestman you have ever made from out astarvingman.You say your cattle are not ours, your meat is not our meat;Whenyoupay for the land you live in,we’llpay for the meat we eat.Give back our land and our country, give back our herds of game;Give back the furs and the forests that were ours before you came;Give back the peace and the plenty. Then come with your new belief,And blame if you dare, the hunger thatdrovehim to be a thief.”
Theywere coming across the prairie, they were galloping hard and fast;For the eyes of those desperate riders had sighted their man at last—Sighted him off to Eastward, where the Cree encampment lay,Where the cotton woods fringed the river, miles and miles away.Mistake him? Never, Mistake him? the famous Eagle Chief!That terror to all the settlers, that desperate Cattle Thief—That monstrous, fearless Indian, who lorded it over the plain,Who thieved and raided, and scouted, who rode like a hurricane!But they’ve tracked him across the prairie; they’ve followed him hard and fast;For those desperate English settlers have sighted their man at last.Up they wheeled to the tepees, all their British blood aflame,Bent on bullets and bloodshed, bent on bringing down their game;But they searched in vain for the Cattle Thief: that lion had left his lair,And they cursed like a troop of demons—for the women alone were there.“The sneaking Indian coward,” they hissed; “he hides while yet he can;He’ll come in the night for cattle, but he’s scared to face aman.”“Never!” and up from the cotton woods, rang the voice of Eagle Chief;And right out into the open stepped, unarmed, the Cattle Thief.Was that the game they had coveted? Scarce fifty years had rolledOver that fleshless, hungry frame, starved to the bone and old;Over that wrinkled, tawny skin, unfed by the warmth of blood,Over those hungry, hollow eyes that glared for the sight of food.
He turned, like a hunted lion: “I know not fear,” said he;And the words outleapt from his shrunken lips in the language of the Cree.“I’ll fight you, white-skins, one by one, till I kill youall,” he said;But the threat was scarcely uttered, ere a dozen balls of leadWhizzed through the air about him like a shower of metal rain,And the gaunt old Indian Cattle Thief, dropped dead on the open plain.And that band of cursing settlers, gave one triumphant yell,And rushed like a pack of demons on the body that writhed and fell.“Cut the fiend up into inches, throw his carcass on the plain;Let the wolves eat the cursed Indian, he’d have treated us the same.”A dozen hands responded, a dozen knives gleamed high,But the first stroke was arrested by a woman’s strange, wild cry.And out into the open, with a courage past belief,She dashed, and spread her blanket o’er the corpse of the Cattle Thief;And the words outleapt from her shrunken lips in the language of the Cree,“If you mean to touch that body, you must cut your way throughme.”And that band of cursing settlers dropped backward one by one,For they knew that an Indian woman roused, was a woman to let alone.And then she raved in a frenzy that they scarcely understood,Raved of the wrongs she had suffered since her earliest babyhood:“Stand back, stand back, you white-skins, touch that dead man to your shame;You have stolen my father’s spirit, but his body I only claim.You have killed him, but you shall not dare to touch him now he’s dead.You have cursed, and called him a Cattle Thief, though you robbed him first of bread—Robbed him and robbed my people—look there, at that shrunken face,Starved with a hollow hunger, we owe to you and your race.What have you left to us of land, what have you left of game,What have you brought but evil, and curses since you came?How have you paid us for our game? how paid us for our land?By abook, to save our souls from the sinsyoubrought in your other hand.Go back with your new religion, we never have understoodYour robbing an Indian’sbody, and mocking hissoulwith food.Go back with your new religion, and find—if find you can—Thehonestman you have ever made from out astarvingman.You say your cattle are not ours, your meat is not our meat;Whenyoupay for the land you live in,we’llpay for the meat we eat.Give back our land and our country, give back our herds of game;Give back the furs and the forests that were ours before you came;Give back the peace and the plenty. Then come with your new belief,And blame if you dare, the hunger thatdrovehim to be a thief.”
MyForest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;We may not meet to-morrow; who can tellWhat mighty ills befall our little band,Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand?Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye.No roaming bison calls for it to-day;No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling packOf white-faced warriors, marching West to quellOur fallen tribe that rises to rebel.They all are young and beautiful and good;Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.Curse to the fate that brought them from the EastTo be our chiefs—to make our nation leastThat breathes the air of this vast continent.Still their new rule and council is well meant.They but forget we Indians owned the landFrom ocean unto ocean; that they standUpon a soil that centuries agoneWas our sole kingdom and our right alone.They never think how they would feel to-day,If some great nation came from far away,Wresting their country from their hapless braves,Giving what they gave us—but wars and graves.Then go and strike for liberty and life,And bring back honour to your Indian wife.Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?Who pities my poor love and agony?What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,As prayer is said for every volunteerThat swells the ranks that Canada sends out?Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout?Who prays for our poor nation lying low?None—therefore take your tomahawk and go.My heart may break and burn into its core,But I am strong to bid you go to war.Yet stay, my heart is not the only oneThat grieves the loss of husband and of son;Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas;Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced childThat marches on toward the North-West wild.The other prays to shield her love from harm,To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,Yourtomahawk his life’s best blood will drink.She never thinks of my wild aching breast,Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crestEndangered by a thousand rifle balls,My heart the target if my warrior falls.O! coward self I hesitate no more;Go forth, and win the glories of the war.Go forth, nor bend to greed of white man’s hands,By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low....Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.
MyForest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;We may not meet to-morrow; who can tellWhat mighty ills befall our little band,Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand?Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye.No roaming bison calls for it to-day;No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling packOf white-faced warriors, marching West to quellOur fallen tribe that rises to rebel.They all are young and beautiful and good;Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.Curse to the fate that brought them from the EastTo be our chiefs—to make our nation leastThat breathes the air of this vast continent.Still their new rule and council is well meant.They but forget we Indians owned the landFrom ocean unto ocean; that they standUpon a soil that centuries agoneWas our sole kingdom and our right alone.They never think how they would feel to-day,If some great nation came from far away,Wresting their country from their hapless braves,Giving what they gave us—but wars and graves.Then go and strike for liberty and life,And bring back honour to your Indian wife.Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?Who pities my poor love and agony?What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,As prayer is said for every volunteerThat swells the ranks that Canada sends out?Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout?Who prays for our poor nation lying low?None—therefore take your tomahawk and go.My heart may break and burn into its core,But I am strong to bid you go to war.Yet stay, my heart is not the only oneThat grieves the loss of husband and of son;Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas;Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced childThat marches on toward the North-West wild.The other prays to shield her love from harm,To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,Yourtomahawk his life’s best blood will drink.She never thinks of my wild aching breast,Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crestEndangered by a thousand rifle balls,My heart the target if my warrior falls.O! coward self I hesitate no more;Go forth, and win the glories of the war.Go forth, nor bend to greed of white man’s hands,By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low....Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.
MyForest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;We may not meet to-morrow; who can tellWhat mighty ills befall our little band,Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand?Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye.No roaming bison calls for it to-day;No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling packOf white-faced warriors, marching West to quellOur fallen tribe that rises to rebel.They all are young and beautiful and good;Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.Curse to the fate that brought them from the EastTo be our chiefs—to make our nation leastThat breathes the air of this vast continent.Still their new rule and council is well meant.They but forget we Indians owned the landFrom ocean unto ocean; that they standUpon a soil that centuries agoneWas our sole kingdom and our right alone.They never think how they would feel to-day,If some great nation came from far away,Wresting their country from their hapless braves,Giving what they gave us—but wars and graves.Then go and strike for liberty and life,And bring back honour to your Indian wife.Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?Who pities my poor love and agony?What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,As prayer is said for every volunteerThat swells the ranks that Canada sends out?Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout?Who prays for our poor nation lying low?None—therefore take your tomahawk and go.My heart may break and burn into its core,But I am strong to bid you go to war.Yet stay, my heart is not the only oneThat grieves the loss of husband and of son;Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas;Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced childThat marches on toward the North-West wild.The other prays to shield her love from harm,To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,Yourtomahawk his life’s best blood will drink.She never thinks of my wild aching breast,Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crestEndangered by a thousand rifle balls,My heart the target if my warrior falls.O! coward self I hesitate no more;Go forth, and win the glories of the war.Go forth, nor bend to greed of white man’s hands,By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low....Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.
There’sa spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore,They are chanting, they are singing through the starlight evermore,As they steal amid the silence,And the shadows of the shore.You can hear them when the Northern candles light the Northern sky,Those pale, uncertain candle flames, that shiver, dart and die,Those dead men’s icy finger tips,Athwart the Northern sky.You can hear the ringing war cry of a long forgotten braveEcho through the midnight forest, echo o’er the midnight wave,And the Northern lanterns trembleAt the war cry of that brave.And you hear a voice responding, but in soft and tender song;It is Dawendine’s spirit singing, singing all night long;And the whisper of the night windBears afar her Spirit song.And the wailing pine trees murmur with their voice attuned to hers,Murmur when they ’rouse from slumber as the night wind through them stirs;And you listen to their legend,And their voices blend with hers.There was feud and there was bloodshed near the river by the hill;And Dawendine listened, while her very heart stood still:Would her kinsman or her loverBe the victim by the hill?Who would be the great unconquered? who come boasting how he dealtDeath? and show his rival’s scalplock fresh and bleeding at his belt.Who would say, “O Dawendine!Look upon the death I dealt?”And she listens, listens, listens—till a war-cry rends the night,Cry of her victorious lover, monarch he of all the height;And his triumph wakes the horrors,Kills the silence of the night.Heart of her! it throbs so madly, then lies freezing in her breast,For the icy hand of death has chilled the brother she loved best;And her lover dealt the deathblow;And her heart dies in her breast.And she hears her mother saying, “Take thy belt of wampum white;Go unto yon evil savage while he glories on the height;Sing and sue for peace between us:At his feet lay wampum white,“Lest thy kinsmen all may perish, all thy brothers and thy sireFall before his mighty hatred as the forest falls to fire;Take thy wampum pale and peaceful,Save thy brothers, save thy sire.”And the girl arises softly, softly slips toward the shore;Loves she well the murdered brother, loves his hated foeman more,Loves, and longs to give the wampum;And she meets him on the shore.“Peace,” she sings, “O mighty victor, Peace! I bring thee wampum white.Sheathe thy knife whose blade has tasted my young kinsman’s blood to-nightEre it drink to slake its thirsting,I have brought thee wampum white.”Answers he, “O Dawendine! I will let thy kinsmen be,I accept thy belt of wampum; but my hate demands for meThat they give their fairest treasure,Ere I let thy kinsmen be.“Dawendine, for thy singing, for thy suing, war shall cease;For thy name, which speaks of dawning,Thoushalt be the dawn of peace;For thine eyes whose purple shadows tell of dawn,My hate shall cease.“Dawendine, Child of Dawning, hateful are thy kin to me;Red my fingers with their heart blood, but my heart is red for thee:Dawendine, Child of Dawning,Wilt thou fail or follow me?”And her kinsmen still are waiting her returning from the night,Waiting, waiting for her coming with her belt of wampum white;But forgetting all, she follows,Where he leads through day or night.There’s a spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore,And they sing of love and loving through the starlight evermore,As they steal amid the silence,And the shadows of the shore.
There’sa spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore,They are chanting, they are singing through the starlight evermore,As they steal amid the silence,And the shadows of the shore.You can hear them when the Northern candles light the Northern sky,Those pale, uncertain candle flames, that shiver, dart and die,Those dead men’s icy finger tips,Athwart the Northern sky.You can hear the ringing war cry of a long forgotten braveEcho through the midnight forest, echo o’er the midnight wave,And the Northern lanterns trembleAt the war cry of that brave.And you hear a voice responding, but in soft and tender song;It is Dawendine’s spirit singing, singing all night long;And the whisper of the night windBears afar her Spirit song.And the wailing pine trees murmur with their voice attuned to hers,Murmur when they ’rouse from slumber as the night wind through them stirs;And you listen to their legend,And their voices blend with hers.There was feud and there was bloodshed near the river by the hill;And Dawendine listened, while her very heart stood still:Would her kinsman or her loverBe the victim by the hill?Who would be the great unconquered? who come boasting how he dealtDeath? and show his rival’s scalplock fresh and bleeding at his belt.Who would say, “O Dawendine!Look upon the death I dealt?”And she listens, listens, listens—till a war-cry rends the night,Cry of her victorious lover, monarch he of all the height;And his triumph wakes the horrors,Kills the silence of the night.Heart of her! it throbs so madly, then lies freezing in her breast,For the icy hand of death has chilled the brother she loved best;And her lover dealt the deathblow;And her heart dies in her breast.And she hears her mother saying, “Take thy belt of wampum white;Go unto yon evil savage while he glories on the height;Sing and sue for peace between us:At his feet lay wampum white,“Lest thy kinsmen all may perish, all thy brothers and thy sireFall before his mighty hatred as the forest falls to fire;Take thy wampum pale and peaceful,Save thy brothers, save thy sire.”And the girl arises softly, softly slips toward the shore;Loves she well the murdered brother, loves his hated foeman more,Loves, and longs to give the wampum;And she meets him on the shore.“Peace,” she sings, “O mighty victor, Peace! I bring thee wampum white.Sheathe thy knife whose blade has tasted my young kinsman’s blood to-nightEre it drink to slake its thirsting,I have brought thee wampum white.”Answers he, “O Dawendine! I will let thy kinsmen be,I accept thy belt of wampum; but my hate demands for meThat they give their fairest treasure,Ere I let thy kinsmen be.“Dawendine, for thy singing, for thy suing, war shall cease;For thy name, which speaks of dawning,Thoushalt be the dawn of peace;For thine eyes whose purple shadows tell of dawn,My hate shall cease.“Dawendine, Child of Dawning, hateful are thy kin to me;Red my fingers with their heart blood, but my heart is red for thee:Dawendine, Child of Dawning,Wilt thou fail or follow me?”And her kinsmen still are waiting her returning from the night,Waiting, waiting for her coming with her belt of wampum white;But forgetting all, she follows,Where he leads through day or night.There’s a spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore,And they sing of love and loving through the starlight evermore,As they steal amid the silence,And the shadows of the shore.
There’sa spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore,They are chanting, they are singing through the starlight evermore,As they steal amid the silence,And the shadows of the shore.
You can hear them when the Northern candles light the Northern sky,Those pale, uncertain candle flames, that shiver, dart and die,Those dead men’s icy finger tips,Athwart the Northern sky.
You can hear the ringing war cry of a long forgotten braveEcho through the midnight forest, echo o’er the midnight wave,And the Northern lanterns trembleAt the war cry of that brave.
And you hear a voice responding, but in soft and tender song;It is Dawendine’s spirit singing, singing all night long;And the whisper of the night windBears afar her Spirit song.
And the wailing pine trees murmur with their voice attuned to hers,Murmur when they ’rouse from slumber as the night wind through them stirs;And you listen to their legend,And their voices blend with hers.
There was feud and there was bloodshed near the river by the hill;And Dawendine listened, while her very heart stood still:Would her kinsman or her loverBe the victim by the hill?
Who would be the great unconquered? who come boasting how he dealtDeath? and show his rival’s scalplock fresh and bleeding at his belt.Who would say, “O Dawendine!Look upon the death I dealt?”
And she listens, listens, listens—till a war-cry rends the night,Cry of her victorious lover, monarch he of all the height;And his triumph wakes the horrors,Kills the silence of the night.
Heart of her! it throbs so madly, then lies freezing in her breast,For the icy hand of death has chilled the brother she loved best;And her lover dealt the deathblow;And her heart dies in her breast.
And she hears her mother saying, “Take thy belt of wampum white;Go unto yon evil savage while he glories on the height;Sing and sue for peace between us:At his feet lay wampum white,
“Lest thy kinsmen all may perish, all thy brothers and thy sireFall before his mighty hatred as the forest falls to fire;Take thy wampum pale and peaceful,Save thy brothers, save thy sire.”
And the girl arises softly, softly slips toward the shore;Loves she well the murdered brother, loves his hated foeman more,Loves, and longs to give the wampum;And she meets him on the shore.
“Peace,” she sings, “O mighty victor, Peace! I bring thee wampum white.Sheathe thy knife whose blade has tasted my young kinsman’s blood to-nightEre it drink to slake its thirsting,I have brought thee wampum white.”
Answers he, “O Dawendine! I will let thy kinsmen be,I accept thy belt of wampum; but my hate demands for meThat they give their fairest treasure,Ere I let thy kinsmen be.
“Dawendine, for thy singing, for thy suing, war shall cease;For thy name, which speaks of dawning,Thoushalt be the dawn of peace;For thine eyes whose purple shadows tell of dawn,My hate shall cease.
“Dawendine, Child of Dawning, hateful are thy kin to me;Red my fingers with their heart blood, but my heart is red for thee:Dawendine, Child of Dawning,Wilt thou fail or follow me?”
And her kinsmen still are waiting her returning from the night,Waiting, waiting for her coming with her belt of wampum white;But forgetting all, she follows,Where he leads through day or night.
There’s a spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore,And they sing of love and loving through the starlight evermore,As they steal amid the silence,And the shadows of the shore.