Part 2

1st. By beginning each line with a short syllable instead of a long one. And it will be seen that I often begin a line with two short syllables.

2d. By often using one short syllable unaccompanied by another.

3d. I have increased the average number of syllables in the line to better adapt it to our super-abundance of short syllables.

4th. In Winona I have introduced a rhyme at the pivotal pause of the line, not because my Hexameter requires it, but because I think it increases the melody, and more emphatically marks the central pause.

I am not quite sure that, in a long poem, the rhyme is not detrimental. That depends greatly, however, upon the skill with which it is handled. Surely the same Hexameter can be written as smoothly and more vigorously without rhyme. Rhyme adds greatly to the labor of composition; it rarely assists, but often hinders, the expression of the sense which the author would convey. At times I have been on the point of abandoning it in despair, but after having been under the hammer and the file, at intervals for the last four years, Winona is at last done, if not finished.

It will be observed that I have slightly changed the length and the rhythm of the old Hexameter line, but it is still Hexameter, and, I think, improved. I am not afraid of intelligent criticism. I invoke it, and will endeavor to profit by it in the future as in the past.

The reception of my Pauline at home and abroad has been so flattering that I have been encouraged to attempt something better. That was my first real effort and full of crudities but if the Legends are received by our best critics as well as Pauline was received I shall be well pleased with my efforts.

After much thought I have decided to publish the first edition of my Legends here at home:

1st Because they pertain particularly to the lakes and rivers to the fair forests and fertile fields of our own Minnesota and ought to be appreciated here if anywhere.

2d Because many of our people are competent to judge whether my representations of Dakota customs, life, traditions, and superstitions are correct or not and at the same time the reading public of the North west is as intelligent and discriminating as that of any other portion of our country. If these Legends be appreciated and approved by our own people who are familiar with the scenery described and more or less, with the customs, traditions and superstitions of the Dakotas, and if beyond that these poems shall stand the test of candid criticism I may give them a wider publication.

H. L. GORDON.

MINNEAPOLIS. June 1, 1881.

PRELUDE.

THE MISSISSIPPI.

Onward rolls the Royal River, proudly sweeping to the sea, Dark and deep and grand, forever wrapt in myth and mystery. Lo he laughs along the highlands, leaping o'er the granite walls: Lo he sleeps among the islands, where the loon her lover calls. Still like some huge monster winding downward through the prairie plains, Seeking rest but never finding, till the tropic gulf he gains. In his mighty arms he claspeth now an empire broad and grand; In his left hand lo he graspeth leagues of fen and forest land; In his right the mighty mountains, hoary with eternal snow. Where a thousand foaming fountains singing seek the plains below. Fields of corn and feet of cities lo the mighty river laves, Where the Saxon sings his ditties o'er the swarthy warriors' graves. Aye, before the birth, of Moses--ere the Pyramids were piled-- All his banks were red with roses from the sea to nor'lands wild, And from forest, fen and meadows, in the deserts of the north, Elk and bison stalked like shadows, and the tawny tribes came forth; Deeds of death and deeds of daring on his leafy banks were done-- Women loved and men went warring--ere the siege of Troy begun. Where his wayward waters thundered, roaring o'er the rocky walls, Dusky hunters sat and wondered, listening to the spirits' calls. "Ha-ha!" cried the warrior greeting from afar the cataract's roar; "Ha-ha!" rolled the answer, beating down the rock-ribbed leagues of shore. Now, alas, the bow and quiver and the dusky braves have fled, And the sullen, shackled river drives the droning mills instead.

Where the war whoop rose, and, after, women wailed their warriors slain, List the Saxon's silvery laughter, and his humming hives of gain. Swiftly sped the tawny runner o'er the pathless prairies then, Now the iron-reindeer sooner carries weal or woe to men. On thy bosom, Royal River, silent sped the birch canoe, Bearing brave with bow and quiver, on his way to war or woo; Now with flaunting flags and streamers--mighty monsters of the deep-- Lo the puffing, panting steamers, through thy foaming waters sweep; And behold the grain-fields golden, where the bison grazed of eld; See the fanes of forests olden by the ruthless Saxon felled,-- Pluméd pines that spread their shadows ere Columbus spread his sails. Firs that fringed the mossy meadows ere the Mayflower braved the gales, Iron oaks that nourished bruin while the Vikings roamed the main, Crashing fall in broken ruin for the greedy marts of gain.

Still forever and forever rolls the restless river on, Slumbering oft but ceasing never, while the circling centuries run. In his palm the lakelet lingers, in his hair the brooklets hide, Grasped within his thousand fingers lies a continent fair and wide,-- Yea, a mighty empire swarming with its millions like the bees, Delving, drudging, striving, storming, all their lives, for golden ease.

Still, methinks, the dusky shadows of the days that are no more Stalk around the lakes and meadows, haunting oft the wonted shore,-- Hunters from the land of spirits seek the bison and the deer, Where the Saxon now inherits golden field and silver mere; And beside the mound where burried lies the dark-eyed maid he loves, Some tall warrior, wan and wearied, in the misty moonlight moves. See--he stands erect and lingers--stoic still, but loth to go-- Clutching in his tawny fingers feathered shaft and polished bow. Never wail or moan he utters and no tear is on his face, But a warrior's curse he mutters on the crafty Saxon race.

O thou dark, mysterious River, speak and tell thy tales to me; Seal not up thy lips forever--veiled in mist and mystery. I will sit and lowly listen at the phantom-haunted falls, Where thy waters foam and glisten o'er the rugged, rocky walls. Till some spirit of the olden, mystic, weird, romantic days Shall emerge and pour her golden tales and legends through my lays. Then again the elk and bison on thy grassy banks shall feed, And along the low horizon shall the pluméd hunter speed; Then again on lake and river shall the silent birch canoe Bear the brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo: Then the beaver on the meadow shall rebuild his broken wall, And the wolf shall chase his shadow and his mate the panther call. From the prairies and the regions where the pine-plumed forest grows Shall arise the tawny legions with their lances and their bows; And again the shouts of battle shall resound along the plain, Bows shall twang and quivers rattle, women wail their warriors slain.

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS.

A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS.

(In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah"--"e" the sound of "a"--"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo," sound "ee" as in English. The numerals, 1, 2, etc. refer to explanatory notes in the appendix.)

THE GAME OF BALL.

Clear was the sky as a silver shield; The bright sun blazed on the frozen field. On icebound river and white robed prairie The diamonds gleamed in the flame of noon; But cold and keen were the breezes airy Wa-zi-ya blew from his icy throne.

On the solid ice of the silent river The bounds are marked, and a splendid prize, A robe of black fox lined with beaver-- Is hung in view of the eager eyes; And fifty merry Dakota maidens, The fairest moulded of woman kind, Are gathered in groups on the level ice. They look on the robe and its beauty gladdens, And maddens their hearts for the splendid prize. Lo the rounded ankles and raven hair That floats at will on the wanton wind, And the round brown arms to the breezes bare, And breasts like the mounds where the waters meet, And feet as fleet as the red deer's feet, And faces that glow like the full, round moon When she laughs in the luminous skies of June.

The leaders are chosen and swiftly divide The opposing parties on either side. Wiwâstè is chief of a nimble band. The star-eyed daughter of Little Crow; And the leader chosen to hold command Of the band adverse is a haughty foe-- The dusky, impetuous Hârpstinà, The queenly cousin of Wapasa. Kapóza's chief and his tawny hunters Are gathered to witness the queenly game. The ball is thrown and a bat encounters, And away it flies with a loud acclaim. Swift are the maidens that follow after, And swiftly it flies for the farther bound: And long and loud are the peals of laughter, As some fair runner is flung to ground; While backward and forward, and to and fro, The maidens contend on the trampled snow. With loud "Ihó!--Itó!--Ihó!" And waving the beautiful prize anon, The dusky warriors cheer them on. And often the limits are almost passed, As the swift ball flies and returns. At last It leaps the line at a single bound From the fair Wiwâstè's sturdy stroke, Like a fawn that flies from the baying hound. Wild were the shouts, and they rolled and broke On the beetling bluffs and the hills profound, An echoing, jubilant sea of sound. Wakâwa, the chief, and the loud acclaim Announced the end of the well-fought game, And the fair Wiwâstè was victor crowned.

Dark was the visage of Hârpstinà When the robe was laid at her rival's feet, And merry maidens and warriors saw Her flashing eyes and her look of hate, As she turned to Wakâwa, the chief, and said:-- "The game was mine were it fairly played. I was stunned by a blow on my bended head, As I snatched the ball from slippery ground Not half a fling from Wiwâstè's bound. And the cheat--behold her! for there she stands With the prize that is mine in her treacherous hands. The fawn may fly, but the wolf is fleet; The fox creeps sly on Magâ's retreat; And a woman's revenge--it is swift and sweet." She turned to her lodge, but a roar of laughter And merry mockery followed after. Little they heeded the words she said, Little they cared for her haughty tread, For maidens and warriors and chieftain knew That her lips were false and her charge untrue.

Wiwâstè, the fairest Dakota maiden, The sweet-faced daughter of Little Crow, To her teepee turned with her trophy laden-- The black robe trailing the virgin snow. Beloved was she by her princely father, Beloved was she by the young and old, By merry maidens and many a mother, And many a warrior bronzed and bold. For her face was as fair as a beautiful dream, And her voice like the song of the mountain stream; And her eyes like the stars when they glow and gleam. Through the somber pines of the nor'land wold, When the winds of winter are keen and cold.