PART III.

Nature hath herélitein every land,Sealed by her signet, felt although unseen.Winona ’mid her fellows moved a queen,And scarce a youthful beau in all the bandBut sighed in secret longing for her hand.One only she distinguished o’er the rest,The latest aspirant for martial fame,Redstar, a youth whose coup-stick like his name(Till recently he had been plain Chaské)[11]Was new, fresh plucked the feathers on his crest.Just what the feats on which he based his claimTo warlike glory it were hard to say;He ne’er had seen more than one trivial fray,But bold assurance sometimes wins the day.Winona gave him generous credit, too,For all the gallant deeds he meant to do.His gay, barbaric dress, his lofty airEnmeshed her in a sweet bewildering snare.Transfigured by the light of her own passion,She saw Chaské in much the usual fashionOf fairer maids, who love, or think they do.’Tis not the man they love, but what he seems;A bright Hyperion, moving stately throughThe rosy ether of exalted dreams.Alas! that love, the purest and most real,Clusters forever round some form ideal;And martial things have some strange necromancyTo captivate romantic maiden fancy.The very word “Lieutenant” hath a charm,E’en coupled with a vulgar face and form,A shrivelled heart and microscopic wit,Scarce for a coachman or a barber fit;His untried sword, his title, are to herBetter than genius, wealth, or high renown;His uniform is sweeter than the gownOf an Episcopalian minister;And “dash,” for swagger but a synonym,Is knightly grace and chivalry with him.Unnoted young Winona’s passion grew,Chaské alone the tender secret knew;And he, too selfish love like hers to know,Warmed by her presence to a transient glow,Her silent homage drank as ’twere his due.Winona asked no more though madly fond,Nor hardly dreamed as yet of closer bond;But Chance, or Providence, or iron Fate(Call it what name you will), or soon or late,Bends to its purpose every human will,And brings to each its destined good or ill.

Nature hath herélitein every land,

Sealed by her signet, felt although unseen.

Winona ’mid her fellows moved a queen,

And scarce a youthful beau in all the band

But sighed in secret longing for her hand.

One only she distinguished o’er the rest,

The latest aspirant for martial fame,

Redstar, a youth whose coup-stick like his name

(Till recently he had been plain Chaské)[11]

Was new, fresh plucked the feathers on his crest.

Just what the feats on which he based his claim

To warlike glory it were hard to say;

He ne’er had seen more than one trivial fray,

But bold assurance sometimes wins the day.

Winona gave him generous credit, too,

For all the gallant deeds he meant to do.

His gay, barbaric dress, his lofty air

Enmeshed her in a sweet bewildering snare.

Transfigured by the light of her own passion,

She saw Chaské in much the usual fashion

Of fairer maids, who love, or think they do.

’Tis not the man they love, but what he seems;

A bright Hyperion, moving stately through

The rosy ether of exalted dreams.

Alas! that love, the purest and most real,Clusters forever round some form ideal;And martial things have some strange necromancyTo captivate romantic maiden fancy.The very word “Lieutenant” hath a charm,E’en coupled with a vulgar face and form,A shrivelled heart and microscopic wit,Scarce for a coachman or a barber fit;His untried sword, his title, are to herBetter than genius, wealth, or high renown;His uniform is sweeter than the gownOf an Episcopalian minister;And “dash,” for swagger but a synonym,Is knightly grace and chivalry with him.

Alas! that love, the purest and most real,

Clusters forever round some form ideal;

And martial things have some strange necromancy

To captivate romantic maiden fancy.

The very word “Lieutenant” hath a charm,

E’en coupled with a vulgar face and form,

A shrivelled heart and microscopic wit,

Scarce for a coachman or a barber fit;

His untried sword, his title, are to her

Better than genius, wealth, or high renown;

His uniform is sweeter than the gown

Of an Episcopalian minister;

And “dash,” for swagger but a synonym,

Is knightly grace and chivalry with him.

Unnoted young Winona’s passion grew,Chaské alone the tender secret knew;And he, too selfish love like hers to know,Warmed by her presence to a transient glow,Her silent homage drank as ’twere his due.Winona asked no more though madly fond,Nor hardly dreamed as yet of closer bond;But Chance, or Providence, or iron Fate(Call it what name you will), or soon or late,Bends to its purpose every human will,And brings to each its destined good or ill.

Unnoted young Winona’s passion grew,

Chaské alone the tender secret knew;

And he, too selfish love like hers to know,

Warmed by her presence to a transient glow,

Her silent homage drank as ’twere his due.

Winona asked no more though madly fond,

Nor hardly dreamed as yet of closer bond;

But Chance, or Providence, or iron Fate

(Call it what name you will), or soon or late,

Bends to its purpose every human will,

And brings to each its destined good or ill.

O’erlooking Minnetonka’s shore,A grove enchanted lured of yore,Inured to their deepest woe and joy,A happy maiden and careless boy;Lured their feet to its inmost core,Where like snowy maidens the aspen treesSwayed and beckoned in the breeze,While the prairie grass, like rippling seas,Faintly murmuring lulling hymns,Rippled about their gleaming limbs.There is no such charm in a garden-close,However fair its bower and rose,As a place where the wild and free rejoice.Nor doth the storied and ivied archWoo the heart with half so sweet a voiceAs the bowering arms of the wild-wood larch,Where the clematis and wild woodbineFestoon the flowering eglantine;Where in every flower, shrub, and treeIs heard the hum of the honey-bee,And the linden blossoms are softly stirred,As the fanning wings of the humming-birdScatter a perfume of pollen dust,That mounts to the kindling soul like must;Where the turtles each spring their loves renew—The old, old story, “coo-roo, coo-roo,”Mingles with the wooing noteThat bubbles from the song-bird’s throat;Where on waves of rosy light at play,Mingle a thousand airy minions,And drifting as on a golden bay,The butterfly with his petal pinions,From isle to isle of his fair dominionsFloats with the languid tides away;Where the squirrel and rabbit shyly mate,And none so timid but finds her fate;The meek hen-robin upon the nestThrills to her lover’s flaming breast.Youth, Love, and Life, ’mid scenes like this,Go to the same sweet tune of bliss;E’en the flaming flowers of passion seemPure as the lily buds that dreamOn the bosom of a mountain stream.Such was the grove that lured of yore,O’erlooking Minnetonka’s shore,Lured to their deepest woe and joyA happy maiden and careless boy,—Lured their feet to its inmost core;Where still mysterious shadows slept,While the plenilune from her path aboveWith liquid amber bathed the grove,That through the tree-tops trickling crept,And every tender alley swept.The happy maiden and careless boy,Caught for a moment their deepest joy,And the iris hues of Youth and Love,A tender glamour about them wove;But the trembling shadows the aspens castFrom the maiden’s spirit never passed;And the nectar was poisoned that thrilled and filled,From every treacherous leaf distilled,Her veins that night with a strange alloy.Swift came the hour that maid and boy must part;A glow unwonted, tinged with dusky redWinona’s conscious face as home she sped;And to the song exultant in her heart,Beat her light moccasins with rhythmic tread.But at the summit of a little hill,Along whose base the village lay outspread,A sudden sense of some impending illSmote the sweet fever in her veins with chill.The lake she skirted, on whose mailèd breastRode like a shield the moon from out the west.She neared her lodge, but there her quick eye caughtThe voice of Gray Cloud, and her steps were stayed,For over her of late an icy fearBrooded with vulture wings when he was near.She knew not why, her eye he never sought,Nor deigned to speak, and yet she felt dismayedAt thought of him, as the mimosa’s leafBefore the fingers touch it shrinks with dread.She paused a moment, then with furtive treadClose to the tipi glided like a thief;With lips apart, and eager bended head,She listened there to what the conjurer said.His voice, low, musical, recounted o’erStrange tales of days when other forms he wore:How, far above the highest airy plainWhere soars and sings the weird, fantastic crane,Wafted like thistle-down he strayed at will,With power almost supreme for good or ill,Over all lands and nations near and far,Beyond the seas, or ’neath the northern star,And long had pondered where were best to dwellWhen he should deign a human shape to wear.“Whether to be of them that buy and sell,With fish-scale eyes, and yellow corn-silk hair,Or with the stone-men chase the giant game.But wander where you may, no land can claimA sky so fair as ours; the sun each dayCircles the earth with glaring eye, but seesNo lakes or plains so beautiful as these;Nor e’er hath trod or shall upon the earthA race like ours of true Dakota birth.Our chiefs and sages, who so wise as theyTo counsel or to lead in peace or war,And heal the sick by deep mysterious law.Our beauteous warriors lithe of limb and strong,Fierce to avenge their own and others’ wrong,What gasping terror smites their battle songWhen, night-birds gathering near the dawn of day,Or wolves in chorus ravening for the prey,They burst upon the sleeping Chippeway;[12]Their women wail whose hated fingers dareTo reap the harvest of our midnight hair;Swifter than eagles, as a panther fleet,A hungry panther seeking for his meat,So swift and noiseless their avenging feet.* * * * *Dakota matrons truest are and best,Dakota maidens too are loveliest.”He ceased, and soon, departing through the night,She watched his burly form till out of sight.And then the Raven spoke in whispers low:“Gray Cloud demands our daughter’s hand, and sheUnto his tipi very soon must go.”Winona’s mother sought to make reply,But something checked her in his tone or eye.Again the Raven spoke, imperiously:“Winona is of proper age to wed;Her suitor suits me, let no more be said.”Winona heard no more; a rising waveOf mingled indignation, fear, and shameLike a resistless tempest shook her frame,The earth swam round her, and her senses reeled;Better for her a thousand times the graveThan life in Gray Cloud’s tent, but what could sheAgainst the stern, implacable decreeOf one whose will was never known to yield?Winona fled, scarce knowing where or how;Fled like a phantom through the moonlight coolUntil she stood upon the rocky browThat overlooked a deep sequestered pool,Where slumbering in a grove-encircled bayLake Minnetonka’s purest waters lay.Unto the brink she rushed, but faltered there—Life to the young is sweet; in vain her eyeSwept for a moment grove and wave and skyWith mute appeal. But see, two white swans fairGleamed from the shadows that o’erhung the shore,Like moons emerging from a sable screen;Swimming abreast, what haughty king and queen,With arching necks their regal course they bore.Winona marvelled at the unwonted sightOf white swans swimming there at dead of night,Her frenzy half beguiling with the scene.Unearthly heralds sure, for in their wakeWhat ruddy furrows seamed the placid lake.Almost beneath her feet they came, so nearShe might have tossed a pebble on their backs,When lo, their long necks pierced the waters clear,As down they dove, two shafts of purest light,And chasing fast on their descending tracks,A swarm of spirals luminous and white,Swirled to the gloom of nether depths from sight.Then all was still for some few moments’ space,So smooth the pool, so vanished every trace,It seemed that surely the fantastic pairHad been but snowy phantoms passing there.Winona hardly hoped to see them rise,But while she gazed with half expectant eyes,The waters strangely quivered in a placeAbout the bigness of a tipi’s space,Where weirdly lighting up the hollow waveBeat a deep-glowing heart, whose pulsing rayNow faded to a rosy flush away,Now filled with fiery glare the farthest cave.A shapeless bulk arose, then, taking form,Bloomed forth upon the bosom of the lakeA crystal rose, or hillock mammiform,And round its base the curling foam did breakAs round a sunny islet in a storm;And on it poised a swiftly changing form,With filmy mantle falling musical,And colors of the floating bubble’s ball,Fair and elusive as the sprites that play,Bright children of the sun-illumined spray,’Mid rainbows of a mountain waterfall.Then mingling with the falling waters cameIn whispers sibilant Winona’s name;So indistinct and low that voice intense,That she, half frightened, cowering in the grassIn much bewilderment at what did pass,Till thrice repeated noted not its sense.She rose, and on the very brink defined,Against the sky in silhouette outlined,Erect before the Water-Demon stood.Again those accents weird her wonder stirred,And this is what the listening maiden heard:“Thy fate, Winona, hangs on thine own choiceTo scorn or heed the Water-Demon’s voice.Gone are thy pleasant days of maidenhood,And evil hours draw nigh, but knowest thou not,That what thou fleest is the common lotOf all thy sisters? Thou must be the brideOf one thou lovest not, must toil for him,Watch for his coming, and endure his whim;Must share his tent, and lying at his sideWeep for another till thine eyes grow dim.And he, so fondly loved, will pass thee byIndifferent with cold averted eye;E’en he, whose wanton hands and hated armsHave crushed the fair flower of thy maidenhood,Will weary of thy swiftly fading charms,And seek another when thy beauty wanes.Aha, thou shudderest; in thy tense veins,Fierce and rebellious, leaps the mingling bloodOf countless warriors, high of soul and brave;And would’st thou quench their spirit ’neath the wave?Is Gray Cloud’s life more dear to thee than thine?The village sleeps, unguarded is his tent,Thy knife is keen, and unto thee is lentA spell to-night of potency malign.Cradled in blissful dreams alone he lies,And he shall stray so deep in sleep’s dominions,He would not waken though the rushing pinionsOf his own Thunder-Bird should shake the sky.All freedom-loving spirits are with thee,Strike hard and fear not as thou would’st be free;Lest thine own hatred prove too weak a charm,The Water-Demon’s hate shall nerve thine arm.”The Water-Demon sank and disappeared,And faint and fainter fell those accents weird,Until the air was silent as the grave,Still as December’s crystal seal the wave.Homeward again Winona took her way.How changed in one short hour! no longer nowThe song-birds singing at her heart, but thereA thousand gnashing furies made their lair,And urged her on; her nearest pathway layOver a little hill, and on its browA group of trees, whereof each blackened boughBore up to heaven as if in protest muteIts clustering load of ghostly charnel fruit,[13]The swaddled forms of all the village dead—Maid, lusty warrior, and toothless hag,The infant and the conjurer with his bag,Peacefully rotting in their airy bed.As on a battle plain she saw them lie,Fouling the fairness of the moonlit sky;And heavily there flapped above her head,Some floating drapery or tress of hair,Loading with pestilential breath the airThat fanned her temples, or the reeking wingOf unclean bird obscenely hovering;And something crossed her path that halting nigh,At the intruder glared with evil eye,—She hardly heeded passing swiftly by.Leaving behind that hideous umbrage fast,What wraith escaping from its tenement,Winona through the sleeping village passed,And pausing not, to Gray Cloud’s tipi went,Laid back the door, and with a stealthy tread,Entered and softly crouched beside his head.Her gaze that seemed to pierce his inmost thought,Keen as the ready knife her hand had sought,And through the open door the slant moonbeamsSmiting the sleeper’s face awaked him not.He vaguely muttered in his wandering dreamsOf “medicine,” and of the Thunder-Bird.As if to go, her knife she half returned;Whether her woman’s heart with pity stirred,Or superstitious awe, she slightly turned,But gazing still, over his features cameThe semblance of a smile, and his arms moved,Clasping in rosy dreams some form beloved,And his lips moved, and though no sound she heard,She thought they shaped her name, and a red flameLeaped to her brain, and through her vision passed;A raging demon seized and filled her frame,And like a lightning flash leaped forth her knife:That cold keen heart-pang is his last of life;The Water-Demon is avenged at last.

O’erlooking Minnetonka’s shore,

A grove enchanted lured of yore,

Inured to their deepest woe and joy,

A happy maiden and careless boy;

Lured their feet to its inmost core,

Where like snowy maidens the aspen trees

Swayed and beckoned in the breeze,

While the prairie grass, like rippling seas,

Faintly murmuring lulling hymns,

Rippled about their gleaming limbs.

There is no such charm in a garden-close,However fair its bower and rose,As a place where the wild and free rejoice.Nor doth the storied and ivied archWoo the heart with half so sweet a voiceAs the bowering arms of the wild-wood larch,Where the clematis and wild woodbineFestoon the flowering eglantine;Where in every flower, shrub, and treeIs heard the hum of the honey-bee,And the linden blossoms are softly stirred,As the fanning wings of the humming-birdScatter a perfume of pollen dust,That mounts to the kindling soul like must;Where the turtles each spring their loves renew—The old, old story, “coo-roo, coo-roo,”Mingles with the wooing noteThat bubbles from the song-bird’s throat;Where on waves of rosy light at play,Mingle a thousand airy minions,And drifting as on a golden bay,The butterfly with his petal pinions,From isle to isle of his fair dominionsFloats with the languid tides away;Where the squirrel and rabbit shyly mate,And none so timid but finds her fate;The meek hen-robin upon the nestThrills to her lover’s flaming breast.Youth, Love, and Life, ’mid scenes like this,Go to the same sweet tune of bliss;E’en the flaming flowers of passion seemPure as the lily buds that dreamOn the bosom of a mountain stream.

There is no such charm in a garden-close,

However fair its bower and rose,

As a place where the wild and free rejoice.

Nor doth the storied and ivied arch

Woo the heart with half so sweet a voice

As the bowering arms of the wild-wood larch,

Where the clematis and wild woodbine

Festoon the flowering eglantine;

Where in every flower, shrub, and tree

Is heard the hum of the honey-bee,

And the linden blossoms are softly stirred,

As the fanning wings of the humming-bird

Scatter a perfume of pollen dust,

That mounts to the kindling soul like must;

Where the turtles each spring their loves renew—

The old, old story, “coo-roo, coo-roo,”

Mingles with the wooing note

That bubbles from the song-bird’s throat;

Where on waves of rosy light at play,

Mingle a thousand airy minions,

And drifting as on a golden bay,

The butterfly with his petal pinions,

From isle to isle of his fair dominions

Floats with the languid tides away;

Where the squirrel and rabbit shyly mate,

And none so timid but finds her fate;

The meek hen-robin upon the nest

Thrills to her lover’s flaming breast.

Youth, Love, and Life, ’mid scenes like this,

Go to the same sweet tune of bliss;

E’en the flaming flowers of passion seem

Pure as the lily buds that dream

On the bosom of a mountain stream.

Such was the grove that lured of yore,O’erlooking Minnetonka’s shore,Lured to their deepest woe and joyA happy maiden and careless boy,—Lured their feet to its inmost core;Where still mysterious shadows slept,While the plenilune from her path aboveWith liquid amber bathed the grove,That through the tree-tops trickling crept,And every tender alley swept.The happy maiden and careless boy,Caught for a moment their deepest joy,And the iris hues of Youth and Love,A tender glamour about them wove;But the trembling shadows the aspens castFrom the maiden’s spirit never passed;And the nectar was poisoned that thrilled and filled,From every treacherous leaf distilled,Her veins that night with a strange alloy.

Such was the grove that lured of yore,

O’erlooking Minnetonka’s shore,

Lured to their deepest woe and joy

A happy maiden and careless boy,—

Lured their feet to its inmost core;

Where still mysterious shadows slept,

While the plenilune from her path above

With liquid amber bathed the grove,

That through the tree-tops trickling crept,

And every tender alley swept.

The happy maiden and careless boy,

Caught for a moment their deepest joy,

And the iris hues of Youth and Love,

A tender glamour about them wove;

But the trembling shadows the aspens cast

From the maiden’s spirit never passed;

And the nectar was poisoned that thrilled and filled,

From every treacherous leaf distilled,

Her veins that night with a strange alloy.

Swift came the hour that maid and boy must part;A glow unwonted, tinged with dusky redWinona’s conscious face as home she sped;And to the song exultant in her heart,Beat her light moccasins with rhythmic tread.But at the summit of a little hill,Along whose base the village lay outspread,A sudden sense of some impending illSmote the sweet fever in her veins with chill.The lake she skirted, on whose mailèd breastRode like a shield the moon from out the west.She neared her lodge, but there her quick eye caughtThe voice of Gray Cloud, and her steps were stayed,For over her of late an icy fearBrooded with vulture wings when he was near.

Swift came the hour that maid and boy must part;

A glow unwonted, tinged with dusky red

Winona’s conscious face as home she sped;

And to the song exultant in her heart,

Beat her light moccasins with rhythmic tread.

But at the summit of a little hill,

Along whose base the village lay outspread,

A sudden sense of some impending ill

Smote the sweet fever in her veins with chill.

The lake she skirted, on whose mailèd breast

Rode like a shield the moon from out the west.

She neared her lodge, but there her quick eye caught

The voice of Gray Cloud, and her steps were stayed,

For over her of late an icy fear

Brooded with vulture wings when he was near.

She knew not why, her eye he never sought,Nor deigned to speak, and yet she felt dismayedAt thought of him, as the mimosa’s leafBefore the fingers touch it shrinks with dread.She paused a moment, then with furtive treadClose to the tipi glided like a thief;With lips apart, and eager bended head,She listened there to what the conjurer said.

She knew not why, her eye he never sought,

Nor deigned to speak, and yet she felt dismayed

At thought of him, as the mimosa’s leaf

Before the fingers touch it shrinks with dread.

She paused a moment, then with furtive tread

Close to the tipi glided like a thief;

With lips apart, and eager bended head,

She listened there to what the conjurer said.

His voice, low, musical, recounted o’erStrange tales of days when other forms he wore:How, far above the highest airy plainWhere soars and sings the weird, fantastic crane,Wafted like thistle-down he strayed at will,With power almost supreme for good or ill,Over all lands and nations near and far,Beyond the seas, or ’neath the northern star,And long had pondered where were best to dwellWhen he should deign a human shape to wear.“Whether to be of them that buy and sell,With fish-scale eyes, and yellow corn-silk hair,Or with the stone-men chase the giant game.But wander where you may, no land can claimA sky so fair as ours; the sun each dayCircles the earth with glaring eye, but seesNo lakes or plains so beautiful as these;Nor e’er hath trod or shall upon the earthA race like ours of true Dakota birth.Our chiefs and sages, who so wise as theyTo counsel or to lead in peace or war,And heal the sick by deep mysterious law.Our beauteous warriors lithe of limb and strong,Fierce to avenge their own and others’ wrong,What gasping terror smites their battle songWhen, night-birds gathering near the dawn of day,Or wolves in chorus ravening for the prey,They burst upon the sleeping Chippeway;[12]Their women wail whose hated fingers dareTo reap the harvest of our midnight hair;Swifter than eagles, as a panther fleet,A hungry panther seeking for his meat,So swift and noiseless their avenging feet.* * * * *Dakota matrons truest are and best,Dakota maidens too are loveliest.”

His voice, low, musical, recounted o’er

Strange tales of days when other forms he wore:

How, far above the highest airy plain

Where soars and sings the weird, fantastic crane,

Wafted like thistle-down he strayed at will,

With power almost supreme for good or ill,

Over all lands and nations near and far,

Beyond the seas, or ’neath the northern star,

And long had pondered where were best to dwell

When he should deign a human shape to wear.

“Whether to be of them that buy and sell,

With fish-scale eyes, and yellow corn-silk hair,

Or with the stone-men chase the giant game.

But wander where you may, no land can claim

A sky so fair as ours; the sun each day

Circles the earth with glaring eye, but sees

No lakes or plains so beautiful as these;

Nor e’er hath trod or shall upon the earth

A race like ours of true Dakota birth.

Our chiefs and sages, who so wise as they

To counsel or to lead in peace or war,

And heal the sick by deep mysterious law.

Our beauteous warriors lithe of limb and strong,

Fierce to avenge their own and others’ wrong,

What gasping terror smites their battle song

When, night-birds gathering near the dawn of day,

Or wolves in chorus ravening for the prey,

They burst upon the sleeping Chippeway;[12]

Their women wail whose hated fingers dare

To reap the harvest of our midnight hair;

Swifter than eagles, as a panther fleet,

A hungry panther seeking for his meat,

So swift and noiseless their avenging feet.

* * * * *

Dakota matrons truest are and best,

Dakota maidens too are loveliest.”

He ceased, and soon, departing through the night,She watched his burly form till out of sight.And then the Raven spoke in whispers low:“Gray Cloud demands our daughter’s hand, and sheUnto his tipi very soon must go.”Winona’s mother sought to make reply,But something checked her in his tone or eye.Again the Raven spoke, imperiously:“Winona is of proper age to wed;Her suitor suits me, let no more be said.”

He ceased, and soon, departing through the night,

She watched his burly form till out of sight.

And then the Raven spoke in whispers low:

“Gray Cloud demands our daughter’s hand, and she

Unto his tipi very soon must go.”

Winona’s mother sought to make reply,

But something checked her in his tone or eye.

Again the Raven spoke, imperiously:

“Winona is of proper age to wed;

Her suitor suits me, let no more be said.”

Winona heard no more; a rising waveOf mingled indignation, fear, and shameLike a resistless tempest shook her frame,The earth swam round her, and her senses reeled;Better for her a thousand times the graveThan life in Gray Cloud’s tent, but what could sheAgainst the stern, implacable decreeOf one whose will was never known to yield?

Winona heard no more; a rising wave

Of mingled indignation, fear, and shame

Like a resistless tempest shook her frame,

The earth swam round her, and her senses reeled;

Better for her a thousand times the grave

Than life in Gray Cloud’s tent, but what could she

Against the stern, implacable decree

Of one whose will was never known to yield?

Winona fled, scarce knowing where or how;Fled like a phantom through the moonlight coolUntil she stood upon the rocky browThat overlooked a deep sequestered pool,Where slumbering in a grove-encircled bayLake Minnetonka’s purest waters lay.Unto the brink she rushed, but faltered there—Life to the young is sweet; in vain her eyeSwept for a moment grove and wave and skyWith mute appeal. But see, two white swans fairGleamed from the shadows that o’erhung the shore,Like moons emerging from a sable screen;Swimming abreast, what haughty king and queen,With arching necks their regal course they bore.Winona marvelled at the unwonted sightOf white swans swimming there at dead of night,Her frenzy half beguiling with the scene.Unearthly heralds sure, for in their wakeWhat ruddy furrows seamed the placid lake.Almost beneath her feet they came, so nearShe might have tossed a pebble on their backs,When lo, their long necks pierced the waters clear,As down they dove, two shafts of purest light,And chasing fast on their descending tracks,A swarm of spirals luminous and white,Swirled to the gloom of nether depths from sight.

Winona fled, scarce knowing where or how;

Fled like a phantom through the moonlight cool

Until she stood upon the rocky brow

That overlooked a deep sequestered pool,

Where slumbering in a grove-encircled bay

Lake Minnetonka’s purest waters lay.

Unto the brink she rushed, but faltered there—

Life to the young is sweet; in vain her eye

Swept for a moment grove and wave and sky

With mute appeal. But see, two white swans fair

Gleamed from the shadows that o’erhung the shore,

Like moons emerging from a sable screen;

Swimming abreast, what haughty king and queen,

With arching necks their regal course they bore.

Winona marvelled at the unwonted sight

Of white swans swimming there at dead of night,

Her frenzy half beguiling with the scene.

Unearthly heralds sure, for in their wake

What ruddy furrows seamed the placid lake.

Almost beneath her feet they came, so near

She might have tossed a pebble on their backs,

When lo, their long necks pierced the waters clear,

As down they dove, two shafts of purest light,

And chasing fast on their descending tracks,

A swarm of spirals luminous and white,

Swirled to the gloom of nether depths from sight.

Then all was still for some few moments’ space,So smooth the pool, so vanished every trace,It seemed that surely the fantastic pairHad been but snowy phantoms passing there.Winona hardly hoped to see them rise,But while she gazed with half expectant eyes,The waters strangely quivered in a placeAbout the bigness of a tipi’s space,Where weirdly lighting up the hollow waveBeat a deep-glowing heart, whose pulsing rayNow faded to a rosy flush away,Now filled with fiery glare the farthest cave.A shapeless bulk arose, then, taking form,Bloomed forth upon the bosom of the lakeA crystal rose, or hillock mammiform,And round its base the curling foam did breakAs round a sunny islet in a storm;And on it poised a swiftly changing form,With filmy mantle falling musical,And colors of the floating bubble’s ball,Fair and elusive as the sprites that play,Bright children of the sun-illumined spray,’Mid rainbows of a mountain waterfall.Then mingling with the falling waters cameIn whispers sibilant Winona’s name;So indistinct and low that voice intense,That she, half frightened, cowering in the grassIn much bewilderment at what did pass,Till thrice repeated noted not its sense.

Then all was still for some few moments’ space,

So smooth the pool, so vanished every trace,

It seemed that surely the fantastic pair

Had been but snowy phantoms passing there.

Winona hardly hoped to see them rise,

But while she gazed with half expectant eyes,

The waters strangely quivered in a place

About the bigness of a tipi’s space,

Where weirdly lighting up the hollow wave

Beat a deep-glowing heart, whose pulsing ray

Now faded to a rosy flush away,

Now filled with fiery glare the farthest cave.

A shapeless bulk arose, then, taking form,

Bloomed forth upon the bosom of the lake

A crystal rose, or hillock mammiform,

And round its base the curling foam did break

As round a sunny islet in a storm;

And on it poised a swiftly changing form,

With filmy mantle falling musical,

And colors of the floating bubble’s ball,

Fair and elusive as the sprites that play,

Bright children of the sun-illumined spray,

’Mid rainbows of a mountain waterfall.

Then mingling with the falling waters came

In whispers sibilant Winona’s name;

So indistinct and low that voice intense,

That she, half frightened, cowering in the grass

In much bewilderment at what did pass,

Till thrice repeated noted not its sense.

She rose, and on the very brink defined,Against the sky in silhouette outlined,Erect before the Water-Demon stood.Again those accents weird her wonder stirred,And this is what the listening maiden heard:“Thy fate, Winona, hangs on thine own choiceTo scorn or heed the Water-Demon’s voice.Gone are thy pleasant days of maidenhood,And evil hours draw nigh, but knowest thou not,That what thou fleest is the common lotOf all thy sisters? Thou must be the brideOf one thou lovest not, must toil for him,Watch for his coming, and endure his whim;Must share his tent, and lying at his sideWeep for another till thine eyes grow dim.And he, so fondly loved, will pass thee byIndifferent with cold averted eye;E’en he, whose wanton hands and hated armsHave crushed the fair flower of thy maidenhood,Will weary of thy swiftly fading charms,And seek another when thy beauty wanes.Aha, thou shudderest; in thy tense veins,Fierce and rebellious, leaps the mingling bloodOf countless warriors, high of soul and brave;And would’st thou quench their spirit ’neath the wave?Is Gray Cloud’s life more dear to thee than thine?The village sleeps, unguarded is his tent,Thy knife is keen, and unto thee is lentA spell to-night of potency malign.Cradled in blissful dreams alone he lies,And he shall stray so deep in sleep’s dominions,He would not waken though the rushing pinionsOf his own Thunder-Bird should shake the sky.All freedom-loving spirits are with thee,Strike hard and fear not as thou would’st be free;Lest thine own hatred prove too weak a charm,The Water-Demon’s hate shall nerve thine arm.”

She rose, and on the very brink defined,

Against the sky in silhouette outlined,

Erect before the Water-Demon stood.

Again those accents weird her wonder stirred,

And this is what the listening maiden heard:

“Thy fate, Winona, hangs on thine own choice

To scorn or heed the Water-Demon’s voice.

Gone are thy pleasant days of maidenhood,

And evil hours draw nigh, but knowest thou not,

That what thou fleest is the common lot

Of all thy sisters? Thou must be the bride

Of one thou lovest not, must toil for him,

Watch for his coming, and endure his whim;

Must share his tent, and lying at his side

Weep for another till thine eyes grow dim.

And he, so fondly loved, will pass thee by

Indifferent with cold averted eye;

E’en he, whose wanton hands and hated arms

Have crushed the fair flower of thy maidenhood,

Will weary of thy swiftly fading charms,

And seek another when thy beauty wanes.

Aha, thou shudderest; in thy tense veins,

Fierce and rebellious, leaps the mingling blood

Of countless warriors, high of soul and brave;

And would’st thou quench their spirit ’neath the wave?

Is Gray Cloud’s life more dear to thee than thine?

The village sleeps, unguarded is his tent,

Thy knife is keen, and unto thee is lent

A spell to-night of potency malign.

Cradled in blissful dreams alone he lies,

And he shall stray so deep in sleep’s dominions,

He would not waken though the rushing pinions

Of his own Thunder-Bird should shake the sky.

All freedom-loving spirits are with thee,

Strike hard and fear not as thou would’st be free;

Lest thine own hatred prove too weak a charm,

The Water-Demon’s hate shall nerve thine arm.”

The Water-Demon sank and disappeared,And faint and fainter fell those accents weird,Until the air was silent as the grave,Still as December’s crystal seal the wave.Homeward again Winona took her way.How changed in one short hour! no longer nowThe song-birds singing at her heart, but thereA thousand gnashing furies made their lair,And urged her on; her nearest pathway layOver a little hill, and on its browA group of trees, whereof each blackened boughBore up to heaven as if in protest muteIts clustering load of ghostly charnel fruit,[13]The swaddled forms of all the village dead—Maid, lusty warrior, and toothless hag,The infant and the conjurer with his bag,Peacefully rotting in their airy bed.As on a battle plain she saw them lie,Fouling the fairness of the moonlit sky;And heavily there flapped above her head,Some floating drapery or tress of hair,Loading with pestilential breath the airThat fanned her temples, or the reeking wingOf unclean bird obscenely hovering;And something crossed her path that halting nigh,At the intruder glared with evil eye,—She hardly heeded passing swiftly by.

The Water-Demon sank and disappeared,

And faint and fainter fell those accents weird,

Until the air was silent as the grave,

Still as December’s crystal seal the wave.

Homeward again Winona took her way.

How changed in one short hour! no longer now

The song-birds singing at her heart, but there

A thousand gnashing furies made their lair,

And urged her on; her nearest pathway lay

Over a little hill, and on its brow

A group of trees, whereof each blackened bough

Bore up to heaven as if in protest mute

Its clustering load of ghostly charnel fruit,[13]

The swaddled forms of all the village dead—

Maid, lusty warrior, and toothless hag,

The infant and the conjurer with his bag,

Peacefully rotting in their airy bed.

As on a battle plain she saw them lie,

Fouling the fairness of the moonlit sky;

And heavily there flapped above her head,

Some floating drapery or tress of hair,

Loading with pestilential breath the air

That fanned her temples, or the reeking wing

Of unclean bird obscenely hovering;

And something crossed her path that halting nigh,

At the intruder glared with evil eye,—

She hardly heeded passing swiftly by.

Leaving behind that hideous umbrage fast,What wraith escaping from its tenement,Winona through the sleeping village passed,And pausing not, to Gray Cloud’s tipi went,Laid back the door, and with a stealthy tread,Entered and softly crouched beside his head.Her gaze that seemed to pierce his inmost thought,Keen as the ready knife her hand had sought,And through the open door the slant moonbeamsSmiting the sleeper’s face awaked him not.He vaguely muttered in his wandering dreamsOf “medicine,” and of the Thunder-Bird.As if to go, her knife she half returned;Whether her woman’s heart with pity stirred,Or superstitious awe, she slightly turned,But gazing still, over his features cameThe semblance of a smile, and his arms moved,Clasping in rosy dreams some form beloved,And his lips moved, and though no sound she heard,She thought they shaped her name, and a red flameLeaped to her brain, and through her vision passed;A raging demon seized and filled her frame,And like a lightning flash leaped forth her knife:That cold keen heart-pang is his last of life;The Water-Demon is avenged at last.

Leaving behind that hideous umbrage fast,

What wraith escaping from its tenement,

Winona through the sleeping village passed,

And pausing not, to Gray Cloud’s tipi went,

Laid back the door, and with a stealthy tread,

Entered and softly crouched beside his head.

Her gaze that seemed to pierce his inmost thought,

Keen as the ready knife her hand had sought,

And through the open door the slant moonbeams

Smiting the sleeper’s face awaked him not.

He vaguely muttered in his wandering dreams

Of “medicine,” and of the Thunder-Bird.

As if to go, her knife she half returned;

Whether her woman’s heart with pity stirred,

Or superstitious awe, she slightly turned,

But gazing still, over his features came

The semblance of a smile, and his arms moved,

Clasping in rosy dreams some form beloved,

And his lips moved, and though no sound she heard,

She thought they shaped her name, and a red flame

Leaped to her brain, and through her vision passed;

A raging demon seized and filled her frame,

And like a lightning flash leaped forth her knife:

That cold keen heart-pang is his last of life;

The Water-Demon is avenged at last.

She struck but once, no need hath lightning strokeFor second blow to rend the heart of oak,Nor waited there to see how Gray Cloud died;Her fury all in that fierce outburst spent,As from a charnel cave she fled the tent;The wolfish dog suspiciously outsideSniffed at her moccasins but let her pass.Her tipi soon she reached, distant no moreThan arrow from a warrior’s bowstring sent,Paused but to wipe her knife upon the grass,And found her usual couch upon the floor.But not to sleep; she closed her eyes in vain,Shutting away the moonlight from her view;Darkness and moonlight wore the same dread hue,Flooding the universe with crimson stain.She clasped her bosom with her hands to stillThe throbbing of her heart that seemed to fillWith tell-tale echoes all the air; an owlThe secret with unearthly shrieks confessed,And Gray Cloud’s dog sent forth a doleful howlAt intervals; but worse than all the rest,That dreadful drum still beating in her breast,As furious war-drums in the scalp-dance beatTo the mad circling of delirious feet.Early next morning, as the first faint raysOf sunlight through the rustling lindens played,Two children sent to seek the conjurer’s aid,Gazed on the sight, with horror and amaze,Of Gray Cloud’s lifeless body rolled in blood.Fast through the village spread the news, and stirredWith mingled fear and wonder all who heard.The oracles were baffled and dismayed,And spoke with muffled tones and looks of dread:“Some envious foeman lurking in the wood,With medicine more strong than his,” they said,“Stole in last night and gave the fatal wound.”The warriors scoured the country miles around,Seeking for sign or trail, but naught they found:The murderer left behind no clue or traceMore than a vampire’s flight through darkling space.The Raven with a stoic calmness heardOf Gray Cloud’s death, nor showed by look or wordThe wrath that to its depth his being stirred.Winona heard the news with false surprise,As if just roused from sleep she rubbed her eyes;When she arose her knees like aspens shook,But this she quelled and forced a tranquil lookTo feign the calmness that her soul forsook.And when the mourning wail rose on the air,Winona’s voice was heard commingling there.She gathered with the other maidens where,On a rude bier, the conjurer’s body layAdorned and decked in funeral array.She flung a handful of her sable hair,And wept such tears above the painted clay[14]As weeps a youthful widow, only heir,Over the coffin of a millionaire.Moons waxed to fulness and to sickles waned.The gossips still conversed with bated breath.The appalling mystery of Gray Cloud’s death,Wrapped in impenetrable gloom, remainedA blighting shadow o’er the village spread.But youthful spirits are invincible,Nor fear nor superstition long can quellThe bubbling flow of that perennial well;And so the youths and maidens soon regainedThe wonted gayety that late had fled.All save Winona, in whose face and mien,Unto the careless eye, no change was seen;But one that noted might sometimes espyA furtive fear that shot across her eye,As in a forest, ’thwart some bit of blue,Darts a rare bird that shuns the hunter’s view.Her laugh, though gay, a subtle change confessed,And in her attitude a vague unrestBetrayed a world of feelings unexprest.A shade less light her footsteps in the dance,And sometimes now the Raven’s curious glanceHer soul with terrors new and strange oppressed.Grief shared is lighter, none had she to shareBurdens that grew almost too great to bear,For Redstar sometimes seemed to look askance,And sought, they said, to win another breast.Winona feigned to laugh, but in her heartThe rumor rankled like a poisoned dart.Sometimes she almost thought the Raven guessedThe guilty secrets that her thoughts oppressed,And sought, whene’er she could, to shun his sight.Apart from human kind, still more and more,The Raven dwelt, and human speech forbore.And once upon a wild tempestuous night,When all the demons of the earth and airLike raging furies were embattled there,She, peering fearfully, amid the swarmFlitting athwart the flashes of the storm,By fitful gleams beheld the Raven’s form.To her he spoke not since the fateful nightHis chosen comrade passed from human sight,Save only once, forgetting he was byAnd half forgetting too her cares and woes,Unto her lips some idle jest arose.“Winona,” said the Raven, in a toneOf stern reproof that on the instant frozeAll thought of mirth, and when she met his eye,As by a serpent’s charm it fixed her own;The hate and anger of a soul intenseWere all compressed in that remorseless glance,The coldly cruel meaning of whose senseSmote down the shield of her false innocence.She strove to wrest her eye from his in vain,Held by that gaze ophidian like a bird,As in a trance she neither breathed nor stirred.And gazing thus an icy little lance,Smaller than quill from wing of humming-bird,Shot from his eyes, and a keen stinging painSped through the open windows of her brain.Her senses failed, she sank upon the ground,And darkness veiled her eyes; she never knewHow long this was, but when she slowly grewBack from death’s counterfeit, and looked around,So little change was there, that it might seemThe scene had been but a disordered dream.The Raven sat in his accustomed place,Smoking his solitary pipe; his face,A gloomy mask that none might penetrate,Betrayed no sign of anger, grief, or hate;Absorbed so deep in thoughts that none might share,He noted not Winona’s presence there;From his disdainful lips the thin blue smokeFrom time to time in little spirals broke,Floating like languid sneers upon the air,And settling round him in a veil of blueSo sinister to her disordered view,That she arose and quickly stole away.She shunned him more than ever from that day,And never more unmoved could she beholdThat countenance inscrutable and cold.But Hope and Love, like Indian summer’s glow,Gilding the prairies ere December’s snow,Lit with a transient beam Winona’s eye.The season for the Maidens’ Dance drew nigh,And Redstar vowed, whatever might betide,To claim her on the morrow as his bride.What now to her was all the world beside?The evil omens darkening all her sky,Malicious sneers, her rival’s envious eye,While her false lover lingered at her side,All passed like thistle-down unheeded by.The evening for the dance arrived at last;An ancient crier through the village passed,And summoned all the maidens to repairTo the appointed place, a greensward where,Since last year unprofaned by human feet,Rustled the prairie grass and flowers sweet.None but the true and pure might enter there—Maidens whose souls unspotted had been kept.At set of sun the circle there was formed,And thitherward the happy maidens swarmed.The people gathered round to view the scene:Old men in broidered robes that trailing swept,And youths in all their finery arrayed,Dotting like tropic birds the prairie green,Their rival graces to the throng displayed.Winona came the last, but as she steptInto the mystic ring one word, “Beware!”Rang out in such a tone of high commandThat all was still, and every look was turnedTo where the Raven stood; his stern eye burned,And like a flower beneath that withering glareShe faded fast. No need that heavy handTo lead Winona from the joyous band;No need those shameful words that stained the air:“Let not the sacred circle be defiledBy one who, all too easily beguiled,Beneath her bosom bears a warrior’s child.”Winona swiftly fleeing, as she passed,One look upon her shrinking lover castThat scared his coward heart for many a day,Into the deepest woods she took her way.The dance was soon resumed, and as she fled,Like hollow laughter chasing overhead,Pursued the music and the maidens’ song.Just as she passed from sight an angry eyeGlared for a moment from the western sky,And flung one quivering shaft of dazzling white,With tenfold thunder-peal, adown the night.Her mother followed her, and sought her long,Calling and listening through the falling dew,While fast and furious still the cadence grewOf the gay dance, whose distant music fell,Smiting the mother like a funeral knell.High rode the sun in heaven next day beforeThe stricken mother found along the shoreThe object of her unremitting quest.The cooling wave whereon she lay at restHad stilled the tumult of Winona’s breast.Along that shapely ruin’s plastic grace,And in the parting of her braided hair,The hopeless mother’s glances searching thereThe Thunder-Bird’s mysterious mark might trace.So died Winona, and let all beware,For vengeance follows fast and will not spare,Nor maid, nor warrior that dares offendWho hath the cruel Thunder-Bird for friend.

She struck but once, no need hath lightning stroke

For second blow to rend the heart of oak,

Nor waited there to see how Gray Cloud died;

Her fury all in that fierce outburst spent,

As from a charnel cave she fled the tent;

The wolfish dog suspiciously outside

Sniffed at her moccasins but let her pass.

Her tipi soon she reached, distant no more

Than arrow from a warrior’s bowstring sent,

Paused but to wipe her knife upon the grass,

And found her usual couch upon the floor.

But not to sleep; she closed her eyes in vain,

Shutting away the moonlight from her view;

Darkness and moonlight wore the same dread hue,

Flooding the universe with crimson stain.

She clasped her bosom with her hands to still

The throbbing of her heart that seemed to fill

With tell-tale echoes all the air; an owl

The secret with unearthly shrieks confessed,

And Gray Cloud’s dog sent forth a doleful howl

At intervals; but worse than all the rest,

That dreadful drum still beating in her breast,

As furious war-drums in the scalp-dance beat

To the mad circling of delirious feet.

Early next morning, as the first faint raysOf sunlight through the rustling lindens played,Two children sent to seek the conjurer’s aid,Gazed on the sight, with horror and amaze,Of Gray Cloud’s lifeless body rolled in blood.Fast through the village spread the news, and stirredWith mingled fear and wonder all who heard.The oracles were baffled and dismayed,And spoke with muffled tones and looks of dread:“Some envious foeman lurking in the wood,With medicine more strong than his,” they said,“Stole in last night and gave the fatal wound.”The warriors scoured the country miles around,Seeking for sign or trail, but naught they found:The murderer left behind no clue or traceMore than a vampire’s flight through darkling space.

Early next morning, as the first faint rays

Of sunlight through the rustling lindens played,

Two children sent to seek the conjurer’s aid,

Gazed on the sight, with horror and amaze,

Of Gray Cloud’s lifeless body rolled in blood.

Fast through the village spread the news, and stirred

With mingled fear and wonder all who heard.

The oracles were baffled and dismayed,

And spoke with muffled tones and looks of dread:

“Some envious foeman lurking in the wood,

With medicine more strong than his,” they said,

“Stole in last night and gave the fatal wound.”

The warriors scoured the country miles around,

Seeking for sign or trail, but naught they found:

The murderer left behind no clue or trace

More than a vampire’s flight through darkling space.

The Raven with a stoic calmness heardOf Gray Cloud’s death, nor showed by look or wordThe wrath that to its depth his being stirred.Winona heard the news with false surprise,As if just roused from sleep she rubbed her eyes;When she arose her knees like aspens shook,But this she quelled and forced a tranquil lookTo feign the calmness that her soul forsook.And when the mourning wail rose on the air,Winona’s voice was heard commingling there.She gathered with the other maidens where,On a rude bier, the conjurer’s body layAdorned and decked in funeral array.She flung a handful of her sable hair,And wept such tears above the painted clay[14]As weeps a youthful widow, only heir,Over the coffin of a millionaire.

The Raven with a stoic calmness heard

Of Gray Cloud’s death, nor showed by look or word

The wrath that to its depth his being stirred.

Winona heard the news with false surprise,

As if just roused from sleep she rubbed her eyes;

When she arose her knees like aspens shook,

But this she quelled and forced a tranquil look

To feign the calmness that her soul forsook.

And when the mourning wail rose on the air,

Winona’s voice was heard commingling there.

She gathered with the other maidens where,

On a rude bier, the conjurer’s body lay

Adorned and decked in funeral array.

She flung a handful of her sable hair,

And wept such tears above the painted clay[14]

As weeps a youthful widow, only heir,

Over the coffin of a millionaire.

Moons waxed to fulness and to sickles waned.The gossips still conversed with bated breath.The appalling mystery of Gray Cloud’s death,Wrapped in impenetrable gloom, remainedA blighting shadow o’er the village spread.But youthful spirits are invincible,Nor fear nor superstition long can quellThe bubbling flow of that perennial well;And so the youths and maidens soon regainedThe wonted gayety that late had fled.All save Winona, in whose face and mien,Unto the careless eye, no change was seen;But one that noted might sometimes espyA furtive fear that shot across her eye,As in a forest, ’thwart some bit of blue,Darts a rare bird that shuns the hunter’s view.Her laugh, though gay, a subtle change confessed,And in her attitude a vague unrestBetrayed a world of feelings unexprest.A shade less light her footsteps in the dance,And sometimes now the Raven’s curious glanceHer soul with terrors new and strange oppressed.

Moons waxed to fulness and to sickles waned.

The gossips still conversed with bated breath.

The appalling mystery of Gray Cloud’s death,

Wrapped in impenetrable gloom, remained

A blighting shadow o’er the village spread.

But youthful spirits are invincible,

Nor fear nor superstition long can quell

The bubbling flow of that perennial well;

And so the youths and maidens soon regained

The wonted gayety that late had fled.

All save Winona, in whose face and mien,

Unto the careless eye, no change was seen;

But one that noted might sometimes espy

A furtive fear that shot across her eye,

As in a forest, ’thwart some bit of blue,

Darts a rare bird that shuns the hunter’s view.

Her laugh, though gay, a subtle change confessed,

And in her attitude a vague unrest

Betrayed a world of feelings unexprest.

A shade less light her footsteps in the dance,

And sometimes now the Raven’s curious glance

Her soul with terrors new and strange oppressed.

Grief shared is lighter, none had she to shareBurdens that grew almost too great to bear,For Redstar sometimes seemed to look askance,And sought, they said, to win another breast.Winona feigned to laugh, but in her heartThe rumor rankled like a poisoned dart.Sometimes she almost thought the Raven guessedThe guilty secrets that her thoughts oppressed,And sought, whene’er she could, to shun his sight.Apart from human kind, still more and more,The Raven dwelt, and human speech forbore.And once upon a wild tempestuous night,When all the demons of the earth and airLike raging furies were embattled there,She, peering fearfully, amid the swarmFlitting athwart the flashes of the storm,By fitful gleams beheld the Raven’s form.To her he spoke not since the fateful nightHis chosen comrade passed from human sight,Save only once, forgetting he was byAnd half forgetting too her cares and woes,Unto her lips some idle jest arose.“Winona,” said the Raven, in a toneOf stern reproof that on the instant frozeAll thought of mirth, and when she met his eye,As by a serpent’s charm it fixed her own;The hate and anger of a soul intenseWere all compressed in that remorseless glance,The coldly cruel meaning of whose senseSmote down the shield of her false innocence.She strove to wrest her eye from his in vain,Held by that gaze ophidian like a bird,As in a trance she neither breathed nor stirred.And gazing thus an icy little lance,Smaller than quill from wing of humming-bird,Shot from his eyes, and a keen stinging painSped through the open windows of her brain.Her senses failed, she sank upon the ground,And darkness veiled her eyes; she never knewHow long this was, but when she slowly grewBack from death’s counterfeit, and looked around,So little change was there, that it might seemThe scene had been but a disordered dream.The Raven sat in his accustomed place,Smoking his solitary pipe; his face,A gloomy mask that none might penetrate,Betrayed no sign of anger, grief, or hate;Absorbed so deep in thoughts that none might share,He noted not Winona’s presence there;From his disdainful lips the thin blue smokeFrom time to time in little spirals broke,Floating like languid sneers upon the air,And settling round him in a veil of blueSo sinister to her disordered view,That she arose and quickly stole away.She shunned him more than ever from that day,And never more unmoved could she beholdThat countenance inscrutable and cold.

Grief shared is lighter, none had she to share

Burdens that grew almost too great to bear,

For Redstar sometimes seemed to look askance,

And sought, they said, to win another breast.

Winona feigned to laugh, but in her heart

The rumor rankled like a poisoned dart.

Sometimes she almost thought the Raven guessed

The guilty secrets that her thoughts oppressed,

And sought, whene’er she could, to shun his sight.

Apart from human kind, still more and more,

The Raven dwelt, and human speech forbore.

And once upon a wild tempestuous night,

When all the demons of the earth and air

Like raging furies were embattled there,

She, peering fearfully, amid the swarm

Flitting athwart the flashes of the storm,

By fitful gleams beheld the Raven’s form.

To her he spoke not since the fateful night

His chosen comrade passed from human sight,

Save only once, forgetting he was by

And half forgetting too her cares and woes,

Unto her lips some idle jest arose.

“Winona,” said the Raven, in a tone

Of stern reproof that on the instant froze

All thought of mirth, and when she met his eye,

As by a serpent’s charm it fixed her own;

The hate and anger of a soul intense

Were all compressed in that remorseless glance,

The coldly cruel meaning of whose sense

Smote down the shield of her false innocence.

She strove to wrest her eye from his in vain,

Held by that gaze ophidian like a bird,

As in a trance she neither breathed nor stirred.

And gazing thus an icy little lance,

Smaller than quill from wing of humming-bird,

Shot from his eyes, and a keen stinging pain

Sped through the open windows of her brain.

Her senses failed, she sank upon the ground,

And darkness veiled her eyes; she never knew

How long this was, but when she slowly grew

Back from death’s counterfeit, and looked around,

So little change was there, that it might seem

The scene had been but a disordered dream.

The Raven sat in his accustomed place,

Smoking his solitary pipe; his face,

A gloomy mask that none might penetrate,

Betrayed no sign of anger, grief, or hate;

Absorbed so deep in thoughts that none might share,

He noted not Winona’s presence there;

From his disdainful lips the thin blue smoke

From time to time in little spirals broke,

Floating like languid sneers upon the air,

And settling round him in a veil of blue

So sinister to her disordered view,

That she arose and quickly stole away.

She shunned him more than ever from that day,

And never more unmoved could she behold

That countenance inscrutable and cold.

But Hope and Love, like Indian summer’s glow,Gilding the prairies ere December’s snow,Lit with a transient beam Winona’s eye.The season for the Maidens’ Dance drew nigh,And Redstar vowed, whatever might betide,To claim her on the morrow as his bride.What now to her was all the world beside?The evil omens darkening all her sky,Malicious sneers, her rival’s envious eye,While her false lover lingered at her side,All passed like thistle-down unheeded by.

But Hope and Love, like Indian summer’s glow,

Gilding the prairies ere December’s snow,

Lit with a transient beam Winona’s eye.

The season for the Maidens’ Dance drew nigh,

And Redstar vowed, whatever might betide,

To claim her on the morrow as his bride.

What now to her was all the world beside?

The evil omens darkening all her sky,

Malicious sneers, her rival’s envious eye,

While her false lover lingered at her side,

All passed like thistle-down unheeded by.

The evening for the dance arrived at last;An ancient crier through the village passed,And summoned all the maidens to repairTo the appointed place, a greensward where,Since last year unprofaned by human feet,Rustled the prairie grass and flowers sweet.None but the true and pure might enter there—Maidens whose souls unspotted had been kept.At set of sun the circle there was formed,And thitherward the happy maidens swarmed.The people gathered round to view the scene:Old men in broidered robes that trailing swept,And youths in all their finery arrayed,Dotting like tropic birds the prairie green,Their rival graces to the throng displayed.Winona came the last, but as she steptInto the mystic ring one word, “Beware!”Rang out in such a tone of high commandThat all was still, and every look was turnedTo where the Raven stood; his stern eye burned,And like a flower beneath that withering glareShe faded fast. No need that heavy handTo lead Winona from the joyous band;No need those shameful words that stained the air:“Let not the sacred circle be defiledBy one who, all too easily beguiled,Beneath her bosom bears a warrior’s child.”

The evening for the dance arrived at last;

An ancient crier through the village passed,

And summoned all the maidens to repair

To the appointed place, a greensward where,

Since last year unprofaned by human feet,

Rustled the prairie grass and flowers sweet.

None but the true and pure might enter there—

Maidens whose souls unspotted had been kept.

At set of sun the circle there was formed,

And thitherward the happy maidens swarmed.

The people gathered round to view the scene:

Old men in broidered robes that trailing swept,

And youths in all their finery arrayed,

Dotting like tropic birds the prairie green,

Their rival graces to the throng displayed.

Winona came the last, but as she stept

Into the mystic ring one word, “Beware!”

Rang out in such a tone of high command

That all was still, and every look was turned

To where the Raven stood; his stern eye burned,

And like a flower beneath that withering glare

She faded fast. No need that heavy hand

To lead Winona from the joyous band;

No need those shameful words that stained the air:

“Let not the sacred circle be defiled

By one who, all too easily beguiled,

Beneath her bosom bears a warrior’s child.”

Winona swiftly fleeing, as she passed,One look upon her shrinking lover castThat scared his coward heart for many a day,Into the deepest woods she took her way.The dance was soon resumed, and as she fled,Like hollow laughter chasing overhead,Pursued the music and the maidens’ song.Just as she passed from sight an angry eyeGlared for a moment from the western sky,And flung one quivering shaft of dazzling white,With tenfold thunder-peal, adown the night.Her mother followed her, and sought her long,Calling and listening through the falling dew,While fast and furious still the cadence grewOf the gay dance, whose distant music fell,Smiting the mother like a funeral knell.High rode the sun in heaven next day beforeThe stricken mother found along the shoreThe object of her unremitting quest.The cooling wave whereon she lay at restHad stilled the tumult of Winona’s breast.Along that shapely ruin’s plastic grace,And in the parting of her braided hair,The hopeless mother’s glances searching thereThe Thunder-Bird’s mysterious mark might trace.

Winona swiftly fleeing, as she passed,

One look upon her shrinking lover cast

That scared his coward heart for many a day,

Into the deepest woods she took her way.

The dance was soon resumed, and as she fled,

Like hollow laughter chasing overhead,

Pursued the music and the maidens’ song.

Just as she passed from sight an angry eye

Glared for a moment from the western sky,

And flung one quivering shaft of dazzling white,

With tenfold thunder-peal, adown the night.

Her mother followed her, and sought her long,

Calling and listening through the falling dew,

While fast and furious still the cadence grew

Of the gay dance, whose distant music fell,

Smiting the mother like a funeral knell.

High rode the sun in heaven next day before

The stricken mother found along the shore

The object of her unremitting quest.

The cooling wave whereon she lay at rest

Had stilled the tumult of Winona’s breast.

Along that shapely ruin’s plastic grace,

And in the parting of her braided hair,

The hopeless mother’s glances searching there

The Thunder-Bird’s mysterious mark might trace.

So died Winona, and let all beware,For vengeance follows fast and will not spare,Nor maid, nor warrior that dares offendWho hath the cruel Thunder-Bird for friend.

So died Winona, and let all beware,

For vengeance follows fast and will not spare,

Nor maid, nor warrior that dares offend

Who hath the cruel Thunder-Bird for friend.

FOOTNOTES[1]Thunder-Bird, a supernatural winged creature which causes thunder and lightning by the flapping of its wings and the winking of its eyes.[2]The name given by the Dakotas to the first-born, if a female.[3]Tipi, skin tent.[4]An edible root found on the prairies.[5]The Crow Indians, hereditary foes of the Dakotas, call themselves Absaraka, which means crow in their language.[6]Each Indian guest at a banquet carries with him his own wooden bowl and horn spoon.[7]Many Indians believe in the transmigration of souls, and some of them profess to remember previous states of existence.[8]A renowned chief formerly living on Lake Pepin.[9]A supernatural monster inhabiting the larger rivers and lakes, and hereditary foe of the Thunder-Bird.[10]The falls of St. Anthony.[11]The name given to the first-born, if a male. Upon becoming a warrior or performing some notable feat, the youth is permitted to select another name.[12]Hereditary foe of the Dakotas.[13]The Dakotas formerly disposed of their dead by fastening them to the branches of trees, or to rude platforms. This is still practised to some extent.[14]The Indians paint and adorn a body before sepulture.

[1]Thunder-Bird, a supernatural winged creature which causes thunder and lightning by the flapping of its wings and the winking of its eyes.

[2]The name given by the Dakotas to the first-born, if a female.

[3]Tipi, skin tent.

[4]An edible root found on the prairies.

[5]The Crow Indians, hereditary foes of the Dakotas, call themselves Absaraka, which means crow in their language.

[6]Each Indian guest at a banquet carries with him his own wooden bowl and horn spoon.

[7]Many Indians believe in the transmigration of souls, and some of them profess to remember previous states of existence.

[8]A renowned chief formerly living on Lake Pepin.

[9]A supernatural monster inhabiting the larger rivers and lakes, and hereditary foe of the Thunder-Bird.

[10]The falls of St. Anthony.

[11]The name given to the first-born, if a male. Upon becoming a warrior or performing some notable feat, the youth is permitted to select another name.

[12]Hereditary foe of the Dakotas.

[13]The Dakotas formerly disposed of their dead by fastening them to the branches of trees, or to rude platforms. This is still practised to some extent.

[14]The Indians paint and adorn a body before sepulture.

Caress thy pleasures with a reverent touch,Too soon at best their early fragrance flees.Seek not to know, to see, or taste too much:The sweetest, deepest cup hath still its lees;The blushing grape is not too rudely pressed,When gushes forth its richest and its best.Bird, bubble, butterfly on light wing straying,With changing tints of crimson, blue, and gold,Upon warm waves of summer sunlight swaying,When thy frail, flaming wing the boy shall hold,Alas, how soon its fragile charms expire!E’en so when strong men seize their soul’s desire.Rend not with ruthless hand the lily’s bell,To gather all its sweetness at a breath;Spill not the pearl deep in its bosom’s cell,The crystal gift Aurora’s tears bequeath.So shall a delicate perfume be thine,Through all the weary hours of day’s decline.The gentlest spirits of the earth and air—Sweet mysteries to ruder men unknown—Will yield delights as delicate as rare,The secret bowers of Love shall be thy own,The one great bliss, so long thy hope’s despair,Will press with eager feet to find thee there.

Caress thy pleasures with a reverent touch,

Too soon at best their early fragrance flees.

Seek not to know, to see, or taste too much:

The sweetest, deepest cup hath still its lees;

The blushing grape is not too rudely pressed,

When gushes forth its richest and its best.

Bird, bubble, butterfly on light wing straying,With changing tints of crimson, blue, and gold,Upon warm waves of summer sunlight swaying,When thy frail, flaming wing the boy shall hold,Alas, how soon its fragile charms expire!E’en so when strong men seize their soul’s desire.

Bird, bubble, butterfly on light wing straying,

With changing tints of crimson, blue, and gold,

Upon warm waves of summer sunlight swaying,

When thy frail, flaming wing the boy shall hold,

Alas, how soon its fragile charms expire!

E’en so when strong men seize their soul’s desire.

Rend not with ruthless hand the lily’s bell,To gather all its sweetness at a breath;Spill not the pearl deep in its bosom’s cell,The crystal gift Aurora’s tears bequeath.So shall a delicate perfume be thine,Through all the weary hours of day’s decline.

Rend not with ruthless hand the lily’s bell,

To gather all its sweetness at a breath;

Spill not the pearl deep in its bosom’s cell,

The crystal gift Aurora’s tears bequeath.

So shall a delicate perfume be thine,

Through all the weary hours of day’s decline.

The gentlest spirits of the earth and air—Sweet mysteries to ruder men unknown—Will yield delights as delicate as rare,The secret bowers of Love shall be thy own,The one great bliss, so long thy hope’s despair,Will press with eager feet to find thee there.

The gentlest spirits of the earth and air—

Sweet mysteries to ruder men unknown—

Will yield delights as delicate as rare,

The secret bowers of Love shall be thy own,

The one great bliss, so long thy hope’s despair,

Will press with eager feet to find thee there.

In the warm twilight where I mused, there cameA bird of unknown race with breast of flame.Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame,I conjure thee, e’en by his sacred name,How may I lure and win Love to my side?There is no lure for Love, in patience bide,And if he cometh not await him still,Love cometh only when and where he will.But when he cometh, bird with breast of flame,Teach me his roving feet to bind and tame.Many have sought to bind him, but in vain;He will not brook nor gold nor silken chain.If he is caught, Love languishes and dies,And ’tis not Love, if free to stay, he flies.Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame,When true Love comes, how may I know his name?What are the golden words upon his tongue:What message sweeter than a seraph’s song?Love hath no shibboleth, and where are wordsFor the enraptured songs of summer birds?Tell me, dear Love, O bird with breast of flame,The deepest sense and meaning of thy name?Two all-sufficing souls for woe or bliss,But what they do, or what their converse is,Love only knows; they walk where none may see,Wrapped in the shades of a sweet mystery.

In the warm twilight where I mused, there cameA bird of unknown race with breast of flame.

In the warm twilight where I mused, there came

A bird of unknown race with breast of flame.

Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame,I conjure thee, e’en by his sacred name,How may I lure and win Love to my side?There is no lure for Love, in patience bide,And if he cometh not await him still,Love cometh only when and where he will.

Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame,

I conjure thee, e’en by his sacred name,

How may I lure and win Love to my side?

There is no lure for Love, in patience bide,

And if he cometh not await him still,

Love cometh only when and where he will.

But when he cometh, bird with breast of flame,Teach me his roving feet to bind and tame.Many have sought to bind him, but in vain;He will not brook nor gold nor silken chain.If he is caught, Love languishes and dies,And ’tis not Love, if free to stay, he flies.

But when he cometh, bird with breast of flame,

Teach me his roving feet to bind and tame.

Many have sought to bind him, but in vain;

He will not brook nor gold nor silken chain.

If he is caught, Love languishes and dies,

And ’tis not Love, if free to stay, he flies.

Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame,When true Love comes, how may I know his name?What are the golden words upon his tongue:What message sweeter than a seraph’s song?Love hath no shibboleth, and where are wordsFor the enraptured songs of summer birds?

Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame,

When true Love comes, how may I know his name?

What are the golden words upon his tongue:

What message sweeter than a seraph’s song?

Love hath no shibboleth, and where are words

For the enraptured songs of summer birds?

Tell me, dear Love, O bird with breast of flame,The deepest sense and meaning of thy name?Two all-sufficing souls for woe or bliss,But what they do, or what their converse is,Love only knows; they walk where none may see,Wrapped in the shades of a sweet mystery.

Tell me, dear Love, O bird with breast of flame,

The deepest sense and meaning of thy name?

Two all-sufficing souls for woe or bliss,

But what they do, or what their converse is,

Love only knows; they walk where none may see,

Wrapped in the shades of a sweet mystery.

Far away under Hesper,In seas never crossed,Like a faint-uttered whisper,Forgotten and lost;Where no sail ever fliesO’er the face of the deep,A lost island liesForgotten, asleep.An island reposes,Distant and dim,Where a cloud-veil of rosesNever uncloses,Dreams and reposesOn the horizon’s rim.An island arrayedIn such magical grace,It would seem to be madeFor some happier race.Each valley and bowerHas a charm of its own;A perfume each flower,Elsewhere unknown;A charm of such powerThat once known to the heart,If but for an hour,It can never depart.E’en the surges of ocean,Ceasing their roar,Their rage and commotion,Sigh in on the shoreWith a melody saintly,As vespers that seemChanted so quaintly,By sisters so saintly,Mingling so faintlyWith the voice of a dream.One summer time olden,That standeth aloneWith its memories golden,That isle was my own.O island enchanted!Where now does she rove—The bright nymph that hauntedThy fountain and grove,While still at her side,Whereever she strayed,By the mountain or tide,My footsteps were stayed?Do her pulses still beatTo the pulses of yore?Say, now, do her feetTread some pitiless shore,Still hoping to meetOne who cometh no more?O that summer! its rayIn my heart lingers yet,Long after the day-Star it came from has set.My star of the nightAnd of morning was she,My song-bird, my white-Wingèd bark on the sea;My rainbow, illumingWith beauty and light;My rose-garden, blooming,Sweetly perfumingThe hours of the night.But at last, in its fleetness,It seemed that each dayFrom the charm and the sweetnessTook something away,Till the flowers all fadedFrom summer’s bright crown,The skies were o’ershadowed,The forests were brown.In the voices of morningThere crept a new tone,A faint whispered warningFrom regions unknown,And over each heartStole a mystical fearThat our joy would departWith the flight of the year.A pale, cold, new-comerHad entered our isle,From a land beyond summerAnd sunshine and smile,Subduing us quite,Though we saw not his face,As winter gives blightWhen it cometh apace.Her glances and mineSought each other no more,Each fearing some signNot seen there before.Yet no word was revealingMisgiving or chill;Each sought for concealingThe deathly, congealingForeboding of ill.But at last came a nightWhen our last song was sung,And like children in frightTogether we clung.No farewell was spoken,Our voices were dumb,But we knew without tokenThat parting was come.In the darkness that bound usA night-bird did sing,And the black air around usWas moved by his wing,As in vulture waves sweepingHe sped from the shore,And away from my keepingMy Day-star he tore.

Far away under Hesper,

In seas never crossed,

Like a faint-uttered whisper,

Forgotten and lost;

Where no sail ever flies

O’er the face of the deep,

A lost island lies

Forgotten, asleep.

An island reposes,

Distant and dim,

Where a cloud-veil of roses

Never uncloses,

Dreams and reposes

On the horizon’s rim.

An island arrayed

In such magical grace,

It would seem to be made

For some happier race.

Each valley and bower

Has a charm of its own;

A perfume each flower,

Elsewhere unknown;

A charm of such power

That once known to the heart,

If but for an hour,

It can never depart.

E’en the surges of ocean,

Ceasing their roar,

Their rage and commotion,

Sigh in on the shore

With a melody saintly,

As vespers that seem

Chanted so quaintly,

By sisters so saintly,

Mingling so faintly

With the voice of a dream.

One summer time olden,That standeth aloneWith its memories golden,That isle was my own.O island enchanted!Where now does she rove—The bright nymph that hauntedThy fountain and grove,While still at her side,Whereever she strayed,By the mountain or tide,My footsteps were stayed?Do her pulses still beatTo the pulses of yore?Say, now, do her feetTread some pitiless shore,Still hoping to meetOne who cometh no more?

One summer time olden,

That standeth alone

With its memories golden,

That isle was my own.

O island enchanted!

Where now does she rove—

The bright nymph that haunted

Thy fountain and grove,

While still at her side,

Whereever she strayed,

By the mountain or tide,

My footsteps were stayed?

Do her pulses still beat

To the pulses of yore?

Say, now, do her feet

Tread some pitiless shore,

Still hoping to meet

One who cometh no more?

O that summer! its rayIn my heart lingers yet,Long after the day-Star it came from has set.My star of the nightAnd of morning was she,My song-bird, my white-Wingèd bark on the sea;My rainbow, illumingWith beauty and light;My rose-garden, blooming,Sweetly perfumingThe hours of the night.

O that summer! its ray

In my heart lingers yet,

Long after the day-

Star it came from has set.

My star of the night

And of morning was she,

My song-bird, my white-

Wingèd bark on the sea;

My rainbow, illuming

With beauty and light;

My rose-garden, blooming,

Sweetly perfuming

The hours of the night.

But at last, in its fleetness,It seemed that each dayFrom the charm and the sweetnessTook something away,Till the flowers all fadedFrom summer’s bright crown,The skies were o’ershadowed,The forests were brown.In the voices of morningThere crept a new tone,A faint whispered warningFrom regions unknown,And over each heartStole a mystical fearThat our joy would departWith the flight of the year.A pale, cold, new-comerHad entered our isle,From a land beyond summerAnd sunshine and smile,Subduing us quite,Though we saw not his face,As winter gives blightWhen it cometh apace.Her glances and mineSought each other no more,Each fearing some signNot seen there before.Yet no word was revealingMisgiving or chill;Each sought for concealingThe deathly, congealingForeboding of ill.

But at last, in its fleetness,

It seemed that each day

From the charm and the sweetness

Took something away,

Till the flowers all faded

From summer’s bright crown,

The skies were o’ershadowed,

The forests were brown.

In the voices of morning

There crept a new tone,

A faint whispered warning

From regions unknown,

And over each heart

Stole a mystical fear

That our joy would depart

With the flight of the year.

A pale, cold, new-comer

Had entered our isle,

From a land beyond summer

And sunshine and smile,

Subduing us quite,

Though we saw not his face,

As winter gives blight

When it cometh apace.

Her glances and mine

Sought each other no more,

Each fearing some sign

Not seen there before.

Yet no word was revealing

Misgiving or chill;

Each sought for concealing

The deathly, congealing

Foreboding of ill.

But at last came a nightWhen our last song was sung,And like children in frightTogether we clung.No farewell was spoken,Our voices were dumb,But we knew without tokenThat parting was come.In the darkness that bound usA night-bird did sing,And the black air around usWas moved by his wing,As in vulture waves sweepingHe sped from the shore,And away from my keepingMy Day-star he tore.

But at last came a night

When our last song was sung,

And like children in fright

Together we clung.

No farewell was spoken,

Our voices were dumb,

But we knew without token

That parting was come.

In the darkness that bound us

A night-bird did sing,

And the black air around us

Was moved by his wing,

As in vulture waves sweeping

He sped from the shore,

And away from my keeping

My Day-star he tore.

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