The Ballad of Breakneck.The sun shines out on the mountain[261]crest;Far down the valley the shadows[262]fall;All crimson and gold is the glowing west;[263]And wheeling and soaring the eagles[264]call.The good ship[265]rides with a filling sail;The sailors are crying, “Away! away!We must stem the tide ere the North wind fail;The night and the breeze brook no delay.”The young mate lingers upon the strand[266]Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek;In his broad brown palm he holds her hand,And eager and low are the words they speak.“Weep[267]not, Nekama; I shall return;Wait for me here on the mountain side;When the woods in their autumn glory burn,I shall come again to claim my bride.”Slowly the Indian lifts her head;Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye:“Nekama[268]will wait as thou hast said:The son of the pale-face cannot lie.Seeking thy sails on the stream below,[269]Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,[270]When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow,From the mountain top I shall watch for thee.”The sailors are calling; the broad sails flap;From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain,Flings[271]the gleaming links in Nekama’s lap,Then springs[272]to the shallop’s stern again.The stout ash bends to the rowers’ will,Till the small boat reaches the vessel’s side,Then he turns to Nekama waiting still,Sad, but calm in her savage pride.Sails the ship under high Cro’ Nest,[273]Wearing and tacking in Martins’ Reach,[274]While Dirck looks back with a man’s unrest;And Nekama[275]lingers upon the beach.Fade the sails to a vague white speck;Loom the mountains, hazy and tall;Dirck watches still from the vessel’s deck,And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall.A year has passed, and upon the hills[276]Scarlet and russet have faded to brown;No sound is heard but the flowing rills,[277]The summer’s voices are hushed[278]and gone.[279]A late, sad crow[280]on a bare beech topCaws and swings in an autumn wind;The dead leaves fall, and the acorn’s drop[281]Breaks the stillness and scares the hind.Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands,Scans[282]the horizon with eager eye.Lateshe lingers. She clasps[283]her hands,And a sadness dims her wide dark eye.Is it a mist[284]o’er the distant shore?Look how the maiden’s[285]dusky faceGlows and brightens! a moment more,And the white speck changes,[286]and grows apace.He comes! he comes! From the wigwams nearGather the braves[287]and the squaws again;The men are decked with arrow and spear,And the women of wampum and feathers vain.Flecked is the river[288]with light canoes,Laden with gifts for the welcome guest;The spoils of the chase let him freely choose;Close to the ship[289]are the frail barks pressed.Brown and still as a bronze relief,Shyly Nekama[290]keeps her placeBehind her father, the Mohawk chief,Who, plumed and tall, with painted face,Grasping a spear[291]in his nervous hand,Looking in vain one face to see,Turns and utters his proud demand:“Dirck Brandsen[292]comes not: where lingers he?”“Dirck stays in Holland,”[293]the sailors say;“He has wedded a dame of wealth and state;He sails no more for many a day—God send us all like happy fate!”Dark grows the brow of the angered sire:“Can the white man lie like a Huron knave?”The eyes of the maiden burn like fire,But her mien is steady, her words are brave.From her bosom she drags[294]the great gold chain;Dashed[295]at the captain’s feet it lies:“Take back to the traitor his gift again;Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies!”Proudly she steps[296]to her light canoe;Bends her paddle at every stroke;The graceful bark o’er the waters flew,Nor wist they a woman’s heart had broke.Up the mountain[297]Nekama hies;Stands in the pine tree’s shade again;Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes;Moans like a creature in mortal pain.The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,[298]Caws the crow on the bough[299]o’erheadThe great limbs bend and the branches creak—“Ah, why do I live?[300]He is false!”[301]she said.A shriek is heard through the gathering storm;A rushing figure darkens the air;Out from the cliff[302]springs a slender formAnd the maiden’s grief lies buried there.[303]Towers the gray crag[304]grim and high;Drips the blood from its rugged side;Loud and shrill is the eagle’s callO’er the muttering wash of the angry tide!But Storm King[306]nods to old Cro’ Nest,[307]Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call,Though the Mohawk sleeps ’neath that rocky crest,[308]While the leaves on his ruined castles fall.To-day on the Hudson sailing by,Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill,We tell the legend, and heave a sigh,Where Nekama’s memory lingers still.—Harper’s Magazine.Gestures.[261]Left A. O.[262]P. H. F.[263]H. L.[264]Left A. Sw.[265]H. F.[266]H. O.[267]Look to H. O.[268]Look to Left H. O.[269]H. O.[270]A. O.[271]Sp.[272]H. F.[273]A. O.[274]Left H. F.[275]H. O.[276]Left A. O.[277]H. L.[278]P. H. O.[279]Drop hand.[280]Left A. O.[281]Sp.[282]Hand over eyes, and lean forward.[283]Clasp hands.[284]Left H. F.[285]H. O.[286]Left H. F.[287]B. H. O.[288]P. H. F.[289]H. F.[290]H.O.[291]Sp.[292]Turn to left.[293]to right.[294]Sp.[295]D. F.[296]H. O.[297]A. O.[298]B. Par. A. O.[299]A. F.[300]Wring hands.[301]B. D. Cli.[302]A. O.[303]Ind. D. O.[304]A. O.[305]H. O.[306]Left A. O.[307]A. O.[308]Ind. A. O.
The Ballad of Breakneck.The sun shines out on the mountain[261]crest;Far down the valley the shadows[262]fall;All crimson and gold is the glowing west;[263]And wheeling and soaring the eagles[264]call.The good ship[265]rides with a filling sail;The sailors are crying, “Away! away!We must stem the tide ere the North wind fail;The night and the breeze brook no delay.”The young mate lingers upon the strand[266]Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek;In his broad brown palm he holds her hand,And eager and low are the words they speak.“Weep[267]not, Nekama; I shall return;Wait for me here on the mountain side;When the woods in their autumn glory burn,I shall come again to claim my bride.”Slowly the Indian lifts her head;Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye:“Nekama[268]will wait as thou hast said:The son of the pale-face cannot lie.Seeking thy sails on the stream below,[269]Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,[270]When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow,From the mountain top I shall watch for thee.”The sailors are calling; the broad sails flap;From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain,Flings[271]the gleaming links in Nekama’s lap,Then springs[272]to the shallop’s stern again.The stout ash bends to the rowers’ will,Till the small boat reaches the vessel’s side,Then he turns to Nekama waiting still,Sad, but calm in her savage pride.Sails the ship under high Cro’ Nest,[273]Wearing and tacking in Martins’ Reach,[274]While Dirck looks back with a man’s unrest;And Nekama[275]lingers upon the beach.Fade the sails to a vague white speck;Loom the mountains, hazy and tall;Dirck watches still from the vessel’s deck,And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall.A year has passed, and upon the hills[276]Scarlet and russet have faded to brown;No sound is heard but the flowing rills,[277]The summer’s voices are hushed[278]and gone.[279]A late, sad crow[280]on a bare beech topCaws and swings in an autumn wind;The dead leaves fall, and the acorn’s drop[281]Breaks the stillness and scares the hind.Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands,Scans[282]the horizon with eager eye.Lateshe lingers. She clasps[283]her hands,And a sadness dims her wide dark eye.Is it a mist[284]o’er the distant shore?Look how the maiden’s[285]dusky faceGlows and brightens! a moment more,And the white speck changes,[286]and grows apace.He comes! he comes! From the wigwams nearGather the braves[287]and the squaws again;The men are decked with arrow and spear,And the women of wampum and feathers vain.Flecked is the river[288]with light canoes,Laden with gifts for the welcome guest;The spoils of the chase let him freely choose;Close to the ship[289]are the frail barks pressed.Brown and still as a bronze relief,Shyly Nekama[290]keeps her placeBehind her father, the Mohawk chief,Who, plumed and tall, with painted face,Grasping a spear[291]in his nervous hand,Looking in vain one face to see,Turns and utters his proud demand:“Dirck Brandsen[292]comes not: where lingers he?”“Dirck stays in Holland,”[293]the sailors say;“He has wedded a dame of wealth and state;He sails no more for many a day—God send us all like happy fate!”Dark grows the brow of the angered sire:“Can the white man lie like a Huron knave?”The eyes of the maiden burn like fire,But her mien is steady, her words are brave.From her bosom she drags[294]the great gold chain;Dashed[295]at the captain’s feet it lies:“Take back to the traitor his gift again;Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies!”Proudly she steps[296]to her light canoe;Bends her paddle at every stroke;The graceful bark o’er the waters flew,Nor wist they a woman’s heart had broke.Up the mountain[297]Nekama hies;Stands in the pine tree’s shade again;Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes;Moans like a creature in mortal pain.The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,[298]Caws the crow on the bough[299]o’erheadThe great limbs bend and the branches creak—“Ah, why do I live?[300]He is false!”[301]she said.A shriek is heard through the gathering storm;A rushing figure darkens the air;Out from the cliff[302]springs a slender formAnd the maiden’s grief lies buried there.[303]Towers the gray crag[304]grim and high;Drips the blood from its rugged side;Loud and shrill is the eagle’s callO’er the muttering wash of the angry tide!But Storm King[306]nods to old Cro’ Nest,[307]Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call,Though the Mohawk sleeps ’neath that rocky crest,[308]While the leaves on his ruined castles fall.To-day on the Hudson sailing by,Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill,We tell the legend, and heave a sigh,Where Nekama’s memory lingers still.—Harper’s Magazine.Gestures.[261]Left A. O.[262]P. H. F.[263]H. L.[264]Left A. Sw.[265]H. F.[266]H. O.[267]Look to H. O.[268]Look to Left H. O.[269]H. O.[270]A. O.[271]Sp.[272]H. F.[273]A. O.[274]Left H. F.[275]H. O.[276]Left A. O.[277]H. L.[278]P. H. O.[279]Drop hand.[280]Left A. O.[281]Sp.[282]Hand over eyes, and lean forward.[283]Clasp hands.[284]Left H. F.[285]H. O.[286]Left H. F.[287]B. H. O.[288]P. H. F.[289]H. F.[290]H.O.[291]Sp.[292]Turn to left.[293]to right.[294]Sp.[295]D. F.[296]H. O.[297]A. O.[298]B. Par. A. O.[299]A. F.[300]Wring hands.[301]B. D. Cli.[302]A. O.[303]Ind. D. O.[304]A. O.[305]H. O.[306]Left A. O.[307]A. O.[308]Ind. A. O.
The sun shines out on the mountain[261]crest;Far down the valley the shadows[262]fall;All crimson and gold is the glowing west;[263]And wheeling and soaring the eagles[264]call.The good ship[265]rides with a filling sail;The sailors are crying, “Away! away!We must stem the tide ere the North wind fail;The night and the breeze brook no delay.”The young mate lingers upon the strand[266]Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek;In his broad brown palm he holds her hand,And eager and low are the words they speak.“Weep[267]not, Nekama; I shall return;Wait for me here on the mountain side;When the woods in their autumn glory burn,I shall come again to claim my bride.”Slowly the Indian lifts her head;Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye:“Nekama[268]will wait as thou hast said:The son of the pale-face cannot lie.Seeking thy sails on the stream below,[269]Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,[270]When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow,From the mountain top I shall watch for thee.”The sailors are calling; the broad sails flap;From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain,Flings[271]the gleaming links in Nekama’s lap,Then springs[272]to the shallop’s stern again.The stout ash bends to the rowers’ will,Till the small boat reaches the vessel’s side,Then he turns to Nekama waiting still,Sad, but calm in her savage pride.Sails the ship under high Cro’ Nest,[273]Wearing and tacking in Martins’ Reach,[274]While Dirck looks back with a man’s unrest;And Nekama[275]lingers upon the beach.Fade the sails to a vague white speck;Loom the mountains, hazy and tall;Dirck watches still from the vessel’s deck,And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall.A year has passed, and upon the hills[276]Scarlet and russet have faded to brown;No sound is heard but the flowing rills,[277]The summer’s voices are hushed[278]and gone.[279]A late, sad crow[280]on a bare beech topCaws and swings in an autumn wind;The dead leaves fall, and the acorn’s drop[281]Breaks the stillness and scares the hind.Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands,Scans[282]the horizon with eager eye.Lateshe lingers. She clasps[283]her hands,And a sadness dims her wide dark eye.Is it a mist[284]o’er the distant shore?Look how the maiden’s[285]dusky faceGlows and brightens! a moment more,And the white speck changes,[286]and grows apace.He comes! he comes! From the wigwams nearGather the braves[287]and the squaws again;The men are decked with arrow and spear,And the women of wampum and feathers vain.Flecked is the river[288]with light canoes,Laden with gifts for the welcome guest;The spoils of the chase let him freely choose;Close to the ship[289]are the frail barks pressed.Brown and still as a bronze relief,Shyly Nekama[290]keeps her placeBehind her father, the Mohawk chief,Who, plumed and tall, with painted face,Grasping a spear[291]in his nervous hand,Looking in vain one face to see,Turns and utters his proud demand:“Dirck Brandsen[292]comes not: where lingers he?”“Dirck stays in Holland,”[293]the sailors say;“He has wedded a dame of wealth and state;He sails no more for many a day—God send us all like happy fate!”Dark grows the brow of the angered sire:“Can the white man lie like a Huron knave?”The eyes of the maiden burn like fire,But her mien is steady, her words are brave.From her bosom she drags[294]the great gold chain;Dashed[295]at the captain’s feet it lies:“Take back to the traitor his gift again;Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies!”Proudly she steps[296]to her light canoe;Bends her paddle at every stroke;The graceful bark o’er the waters flew,Nor wist they a woman’s heart had broke.Up the mountain[297]Nekama hies;Stands in the pine tree’s shade again;Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes;Moans like a creature in mortal pain.The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,[298]Caws the crow on the bough[299]o’erheadThe great limbs bend and the branches creak—“Ah, why do I live?[300]He is false!”[301]she said.A shriek is heard through the gathering storm;A rushing figure darkens the air;Out from the cliff[302]springs a slender formAnd the maiden’s grief lies buried there.[303]Towers the gray crag[304]grim and high;Drips the blood from its rugged side;Loud and shrill is the eagle’s callO’er the muttering wash of the angry tide!But Storm King[306]nods to old Cro’ Nest,[307]Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call,Though the Mohawk sleeps ’neath that rocky crest,[308]While the leaves on his ruined castles fall.To-day on the Hudson sailing by,Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill,We tell the legend, and heave a sigh,Where Nekama’s memory lingers still.—Harper’s Magazine.
The sun shines out on the mountain[261]crest;Far down the valley the shadows[262]fall;All crimson and gold is the glowing west;[263]And wheeling and soaring the eagles[264]call.The good ship[265]rides with a filling sail;The sailors are crying, “Away! away!We must stem the tide ere the North wind fail;The night and the breeze brook no delay.”The young mate lingers upon the strand[266]Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek;In his broad brown palm he holds her hand,And eager and low are the words they speak.“Weep[267]not, Nekama; I shall return;Wait for me here on the mountain side;When the woods in their autumn glory burn,I shall come again to claim my bride.”Slowly the Indian lifts her head;Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye:“Nekama[268]will wait as thou hast said:The son of the pale-face cannot lie.Seeking thy sails on the stream below,[269]Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,[270]When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow,From the mountain top I shall watch for thee.”The sailors are calling; the broad sails flap;From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain,Flings[271]the gleaming links in Nekama’s lap,Then springs[272]to the shallop’s stern again.The stout ash bends to the rowers’ will,Till the small boat reaches the vessel’s side,Then he turns to Nekama waiting still,Sad, but calm in her savage pride.Sails the ship under high Cro’ Nest,[273]Wearing and tacking in Martins’ Reach,[274]While Dirck looks back with a man’s unrest;And Nekama[275]lingers upon the beach.Fade the sails to a vague white speck;Loom the mountains, hazy and tall;Dirck watches still from the vessel’s deck,And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall.A year has passed, and upon the hills[276]Scarlet and russet have faded to brown;No sound is heard but the flowing rills,[277]The summer’s voices are hushed[278]and gone.[279]A late, sad crow[280]on a bare beech topCaws and swings in an autumn wind;The dead leaves fall, and the acorn’s drop[281]Breaks the stillness and scares the hind.Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands,Scans[282]the horizon with eager eye.Lateshe lingers. She clasps[283]her hands,And a sadness dims her wide dark eye.Is it a mist[284]o’er the distant shore?Look how the maiden’s[285]dusky faceGlows and brightens! a moment more,And the white speck changes,[286]and grows apace.He comes! he comes! From the wigwams nearGather the braves[287]and the squaws again;The men are decked with arrow and spear,And the women of wampum and feathers vain.Flecked is the river[288]with light canoes,Laden with gifts for the welcome guest;The spoils of the chase let him freely choose;Close to the ship[289]are the frail barks pressed.Brown and still as a bronze relief,Shyly Nekama[290]keeps her placeBehind her father, the Mohawk chief,Who, plumed and tall, with painted face,Grasping a spear[291]in his nervous hand,Looking in vain one face to see,Turns and utters his proud demand:“Dirck Brandsen[292]comes not: where lingers he?”“Dirck stays in Holland,”[293]the sailors say;“He has wedded a dame of wealth and state;He sails no more for many a day—God send us all like happy fate!”Dark grows the brow of the angered sire:“Can the white man lie like a Huron knave?”The eyes of the maiden burn like fire,But her mien is steady, her words are brave.From her bosom she drags[294]the great gold chain;Dashed[295]at the captain’s feet it lies:“Take back to the traitor his gift again;Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies!”Proudly she steps[296]to her light canoe;Bends her paddle at every stroke;The graceful bark o’er the waters flew,Nor wist they a woman’s heart had broke.Up the mountain[297]Nekama hies;Stands in the pine tree’s shade again;Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes;Moans like a creature in mortal pain.The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,[298]Caws the crow on the bough[299]o’erheadThe great limbs bend and the branches creak—“Ah, why do I live?[300]He is false!”[301]she said.A shriek is heard through the gathering storm;A rushing figure darkens the air;Out from the cliff[302]springs a slender formAnd the maiden’s grief lies buried there.[303]Towers the gray crag[304]grim and high;Drips the blood from its rugged side;Loud and shrill is the eagle’s callO’er the muttering wash of the angry tide!But Storm King[306]nods to old Cro’ Nest,[307]Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call,Though the Mohawk sleeps ’neath that rocky crest,[308]While the leaves on his ruined castles fall.To-day on the Hudson sailing by,Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill,We tell the legend, and heave a sigh,Where Nekama’s memory lingers still.—Harper’s Magazine.
The sun shines out on the mountain[261]crest;
Far down the valley the shadows[262]fall;
All crimson and gold is the glowing west;[263]
And wheeling and soaring the eagles[264]call.
The good ship[265]rides with a filling sail;
The sailors are crying, “Away! away!
We must stem the tide ere the North wind fail;
The night and the breeze brook no delay.”
The young mate lingers upon the strand[266]Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek;In his broad brown palm he holds her hand,And eager and low are the words they speak.“Weep[267]not, Nekama; I shall return;Wait for me here on the mountain side;When the woods in their autumn glory burn,I shall come again to claim my bride.”
The young mate lingers upon the strand[266]
Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek;
In his broad brown palm he holds her hand,
And eager and low are the words they speak.
“Weep[267]not, Nekama; I shall return;
Wait for me here on the mountain side;
When the woods in their autumn glory burn,
I shall come again to claim my bride.”
Slowly the Indian lifts her head;Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye:“Nekama[268]will wait as thou hast said:The son of the pale-face cannot lie.Seeking thy sails on the stream below,[269]Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,[270]When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow,From the mountain top I shall watch for thee.”
Slowly the Indian lifts her head;
Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye:
“Nekama[268]will wait as thou hast said:
The son of the pale-face cannot lie.
Seeking thy sails on the stream below,[269]
Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,[270]
When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow,
From the mountain top I shall watch for thee.”
The sailors are calling; the broad sails flap;From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain,Flings[271]the gleaming links in Nekama’s lap,Then springs[272]to the shallop’s stern again.The stout ash bends to the rowers’ will,Till the small boat reaches the vessel’s side,Then he turns to Nekama waiting still,Sad, but calm in her savage pride.
The sailors are calling; the broad sails flap;
From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain,
Flings[271]the gleaming links in Nekama’s lap,
Then springs[272]to the shallop’s stern again.
The stout ash bends to the rowers’ will,
Till the small boat reaches the vessel’s side,
Then he turns to Nekama waiting still,
Sad, but calm in her savage pride.
Sails the ship under high Cro’ Nest,[273]Wearing and tacking in Martins’ Reach,[274]While Dirck looks back with a man’s unrest;And Nekama[275]lingers upon the beach.Fade the sails to a vague white speck;Loom the mountains, hazy and tall;Dirck watches still from the vessel’s deck,And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall.
Sails the ship under high Cro’ Nest,[273]
Wearing and tacking in Martins’ Reach,[274]
While Dirck looks back with a man’s unrest;
And Nekama[275]lingers upon the beach.
Fade the sails to a vague white speck;
Loom the mountains, hazy and tall;
Dirck watches still from the vessel’s deck,
And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall.
A year has passed, and upon the hills[276]Scarlet and russet have faded to brown;No sound is heard but the flowing rills,[277]The summer’s voices are hushed[278]and gone.[279]A late, sad crow[280]on a bare beech topCaws and swings in an autumn wind;The dead leaves fall, and the acorn’s drop[281]Breaks the stillness and scares the hind.
A year has passed, and upon the hills[276]
Scarlet and russet have faded to brown;
No sound is heard but the flowing rills,[277]
The summer’s voices are hushed[278]and gone.[279]
A late, sad crow[280]on a bare beech top
Caws and swings in an autumn wind;
The dead leaves fall, and the acorn’s drop[281]
Breaks the stillness and scares the hind.
Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands,Scans[282]the horizon with eager eye.Lateshe lingers. She clasps[283]her hands,And a sadness dims her wide dark eye.Is it a mist[284]o’er the distant shore?Look how the maiden’s[285]dusky faceGlows and brightens! a moment more,And the white speck changes,[286]and grows apace.
Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands,
Scans[282]the horizon with eager eye.
Lateshe lingers. She clasps[283]her hands,
And a sadness dims her wide dark eye.
Is it a mist[284]o’er the distant shore?
Look how the maiden’s[285]dusky face
Glows and brightens! a moment more,
And the white speck changes,[286]and grows apace.
He comes! he comes! From the wigwams nearGather the braves[287]and the squaws again;The men are decked with arrow and spear,And the women of wampum and feathers vain.Flecked is the river[288]with light canoes,Laden with gifts for the welcome guest;The spoils of the chase let him freely choose;Close to the ship[289]are the frail barks pressed.
He comes! he comes! From the wigwams near
Gather the braves[287]and the squaws again;
The men are decked with arrow and spear,
And the women of wampum and feathers vain.
Flecked is the river[288]with light canoes,
Laden with gifts for the welcome guest;
The spoils of the chase let him freely choose;
Close to the ship[289]are the frail barks pressed.
Brown and still as a bronze relief,Shyly Nekama[290]keeps her placeBehind her father, the Mohawk chief,Who, plumed and tall, with painted face,Grasping a spear[291]in his nervous hand,Looking in vain one face to see,Turns and utters his proud demand:“Dirck Brandsen[292]comes not: where lingers he?”
Brown and still as a bronze relief,
Shyly Nekama[290]keeps her place
Behind her father, the Mohawk chief,
Who, plumed and tall, with painted face,
Grasping a spear[291]in his nervous hand,
Looking in vain one face to see,
Turns and utters his proud demand:
“Dirck Brandsen[292]comes not: where lingers he?”
“Dirck stays in Holland,”[293]the sailors say;“He has wedded a dame of wealth and state;He sails no more for many a day—God send us all like happy fate!”Dark grows the brow of the angered sire:“Can the white man lie like a Huron knave?”The eyes of the maiden burn like fire,But her mien is steady, her words are brave.
“Dirck stays in Holland,”[293]the sailors say;
“He has wedded a dame of wealth and state;
He sails no more for many a day—
God send us all like happy fate!”
Dark grows the brow of the angered sire:
“Can the white man lie like a Huron knave?”
The eyes of the maiden burn like fire,
But her mien is steady, her words are brave.
From her bosom she drags[294]the great gold chain;Dashed[295]at the captain’s feet it lies:“Take back to the traitor his gift again;Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies!”Proudly she steps[296]to her light canoe;Bends her paddle at every stroke;The graceful bark o’er the waters flew,Nor wist they a woman’s heart had broke.
From her bosom she drags[294]the great gold chain;
Dashed[295]at the captain’s feet it lies:
“Take back to the traitor his gift again;
Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies!”
Proudly she steps[296]to her light canoe;
Bends her paddle at every stroke;
The graceful bark o’er the waters flew,
Nor wist they a woman’s heart had broke.
Up the mountain[297]Nekama hies;Stands in the pine tree’s shade again;Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes;Moans like a creature in mortal pain.The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,[298]Caws the crow on the bough[299]o’erheadThe great limbs bend and the branches creak—“Ah, why do I live?[300]He is false!”[301]she said.
Up the mountain[297]Nekama hies;
Stands in the pine tree’s shade again;
Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes;
Moans like a creature in mortal pain.
The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,[298]
Caws the crow on the bough[299]o’erhead
The great limbs bend and the branches creak—
“Ah, why do I live?[300]He is false!”[301]she said.
A shriek is heard through the gathering storm;A rushing figure darkens the air;Out from the cliff[302]springs a slender formAnd the maiden’s grief lies buried there.[303]Towers the gray crag[304]grim and high;Drips the blood from its rugged side;Loud and shrill is the eagle’s callO’er the muttering wash of the angry tide!
A shriek is heard through the gathering storm;
A rushing figure darkens the air;
Out from the cliff[302]springs a slender form
And the maiden’s grief lies buried there.[303]
Towers the gray crag[304]grim and high;
Drips the blood from its rugged side;
Loud and shrill is the eagle’s call
O’er the muttering wash of the angry tide!
But Storm King[306]nods to old Cro’ Nest,[307]Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call,Though the Mohawk sleeps ’neath that rocky crest,[308]While the leaves on his ruined castles fall.To-day on the Hudson sailing by,Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill,We tell the legend, and heave a sigh,Where Nekama’s memory lingers still.—Harper’s Magazine.
But Storm King[306]nods to old Cro’ Nest,[307]
Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call,
Though the Mohawk sleeps ’neath that rocky crest,[308]
While the leaves on his ruined castles fall.
To-day on the Hudson sailing by,
Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill,
We tell the legend, and heave a sigh,
Where Nekama’s memory lingers still.
—Harper’s Magazine.
Gestures.