Part 4

Mah-pí-ya Dúta, O listen to me! Revenge is swift and revenge is strong, And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree. The proud Red Cloud will revenge his wrong Let the brave be patient, it is not long Till the leaves be green on the maple tree, And the Feast of the Virgins is then to be;-- The Feast of the Virgins is then to be!"

Proudly she turned from the silent brave, And went her way; but the warrior's eyes-- They flashed with the flame of a sudden fire, Like the lights that gleam in the Sacred Cave, When the black night covers the autumn skies, And the stars from their welkin watch retire.

Three nights he tarried--the brave Chaskè; Winged were the hours and they flitted away; On the wings of Wakândee they silently flew, For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo. Ah, little he cared for the bison-chase; For the red lilies bloomed on the fair maid's face; Ah, little he cared for the winds that blew, For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo. Brown-bosomed she sat on her fox-robe dark, Her ear to the tales of the brave inclined, Or tripped from the tee like the song of a lark, And gathered her hair from the wanton wind. Ah, little he thought of the leagues of snow He trode on the trail of the buffalo; And little he recked of the hurricanes That swept the snow from the frozen plains And piled the banks of the Bloody River. His bow unstrung and forgotten hung With his beaver hood and his otter quiver; He sat spell-bound by the artless grace Of her star-lit eyes and her moon-lit face. Ah, little he cared for the storms that blew, For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo. When he spoke with Wakâwa her sidelong eyes Sought the handsome chief in his hunter-guise. Wakâwa marked, and the lilies fair On her round cheeks spread to her raven hair. They feasted on rib of the bison fat, On the tongue of the Ta that the hunters prize, On the savory flesh of the red Hogân, On sweet tipsânna and pemmican, And the dun-brown cakes of the golden maize; And hour after hour the young chief sat, And feasted his soul on the maiden's eyes.

The sweeter the moments the swifter they fly; Love takes no account of the fleeting hours; He walks in a dream mid the blooming of flowers, And never awakes till the blossoms die. Ah, lovers are lovers the wide world over-- In the hunter's lodge and the royal palace. Sweet are the lips of his love to the lover,-- Sweet as new wine in a golden chalice, From the Tajo's slopes or the hills beyond; And blindly he sips from his loved one's lips, In lodge or palace the wide world over, The maddening honey of Trebizond.

O, what are leagues to the loving hunter, Or the blinding drift of the hurricane, When it raves and roars o'er the frozen plain! He would face the storm,--he would death encounter The darling prize of his heart to gain. But his hunters chafed at the long delay, For the swarthy bison were far away, And the brave young chief from the lodge departed. He promised to come with the robin in May, With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; And the fair Wiwâstè was happy-hearted, For Wakâwa promised the brave Chaskè.

Birds of a feather will flock together. The robin sings to his ruddy mate, And the chattering jays, in the winter weather, To prate and gossip will congregate; And the cawing crows on the autumn heather, Like evil omens, will flock together, In extra-session, for high debate; And the lass will slip from a doting mother To hang with her lad on the garden gate. Birds of a feather will flock together,-- 'Tis an adage old,--it is nature's law, And sure as the pole will the needle draw, The fierce Red Cloud with the flaunting feather, Will follow the finger of Hârpstinà.

The winter wanes and the south-wind blows From the Summer Islands legendary. The skéskas fly and the melted snows In lakelets lie on the dimpled prairie. The frost-flowers peep from their winter sleep Under the snow-drifts cold and deep.

To the April sun and the April showers, In field and forest, the baby flowers Lift their golden faces and azure eyes; And wet with the tears of the winter-fairies, Soon bloom and blossom the emerald prairies, Like the fabled Garden of Paradise.

The plum-trees, white with their bloom in May, Their sweet perfume on the vernal breeze Wide strew like the isles of the tropic seas, Where the paroquet chatters the livelong day. But the May-days pass and the brave Chaskè-- O, why does the lover so long delay? Wiwâstè waits in the lonely tee, Has her fair face fled from his memory? For the robin cherups his mate to please, The blue bird pipes in the poplar trees, The meadow lark warbles his jubilees, Shrilling his song in the azure seas, Till the welkin throbs to his melodies; And low is the hum of the humble bees, And the Feast of the Virgins is now to be.

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS.

The sun sails high in his azure realms; Beneath the arch of the breezy elms The feast is spread by the murmuring river. With his battle spear and his bow and quiver, And eagle plumes in his ebon hair, The chief Wakâwa himself is there; And round the feast in the Sacred Ring, Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing. Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tasted For three long days ere the holy feast; They sat in their teepee alone and fasted, Their faces turned to the Sacred East. In the polished bowls lies the golden maize And the flesh of fawn on the polished trays. For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide-- The blushing pink and the meek blue-bell, The purple plumes of the prairie's pride, The wild, uncultured asphodel, And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet That the Virgins call "Let-me-not-forget," In gay festoons and garlands twine With the cedar sprigs and the wildwood vine. So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed, And none but a virgin may enter there; And clad is each in a scarlet vest, And a fawn skin frock to the brown calves bare. Wild rosebuds peep from their flowing hair, And a rose half-blown on the budding breast; And bright with the quills of the porcupine The moccasined feet of the maidens shine.

Hand in hand round the feast they dance, And sing to the notes of a rude bassoon, And never a pause or a dissonance In the merry dance or the merry tune. Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon, When she peeps o'er the hills of the dewy east, Wiwâstè sings at the Virgins Feast; And bright is the light in her luminous eyes; They glow like the stars in the winter skies; And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heart Their golden blush to her cheeks impart-- Her cheeks half hid in her midnight hair. Fair is her form--as the red fawn's fair, And long is the flow of her raven hair; It falls to her knees, and it streams on the breeze Like the path of a storm on the swelling seas.

Proud of their rites are the Virgins fair, For none but a Virgin may enter there. 'Tis a custom of old and a sacred thing; Nor rank nor beauty the warriors spare, If a tarnished maiden should enter there. And her that enters the Sacred Ring With a blot that is known or a secret stain The warrior who knows is bound to expose, And lead her forth from the ring again. And the word of the warrior is a sacred by law; For the Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing. Aside with the mothers sat Hârpstinà: She durst not enter the virgins' ring.

Round and round to the merry song The maidens dance in their gay attire. While the loud "Ho-Ho's" of the tawny throng Their flying feet and their song inspire. They have finished the song and the sacred dance, And hand in hand to the feast advance-- To the polished bowls of the golden maize, And the sweet fawn meat in the polished trays.

Then up from his seat in the silent crowd Rose the frowning, fierce-eyed, tall Red Cloud; Swift was his stride as the panther's spring, When he leaps on the fawn from his cavern lair; Wiwâstè he caught by her flowing hair, And dragged her forth from the Sacred Ring. She turned on the warrior. Her eyes flashed fire; Her proud lips quivered with queenly ire; Her hand to the Spirits she raised and said, And her sun browned cheeks were aflame with red: "I am pure!--I am pure as falling snow! Great Tâku-Skan-Skan will testify! And dares the tall coward to say me no?" But the sullen warrior made no reply. She turned to the chief with her frantic cries: "Wakâwa--my Father; he lies!--he lies! Wiwâstè is pure as the faun unborn; Lead me back to the feast, or Wiwâstè dies!" But the warriors uttered a cry of scorn, And he turned his face from her pleading eyes.

Then the sullen warrior, the tall Red Cloud, Looked up and spoke and his voice was loud; But he held his wrath and spoke with care: "Wiwâstè is young, she is proud and fair, But she may not boast of the virgin snows. The Virgins Feast is a Sacred thing: How durst she enter the Virgins ring? The warrior would fain, but he dares not spare; She is tarnished and only the Red Cloud knows."

She clutched her hair in her clenched hand: She stood like statue bronzed and grand: Wakân-deè flashed in her fiery eyes; Then, swift as the meteor cleaves the skies-- Nay, swift as the fiery Wakinyan's dart, She snatch the knife from the warriors belt, And plunged it clean to the polished hilt-- With deadly cry--in the villain's heart. Staggering he clutched the air and fell; His life-blood smoked on the trampled sand, And dripped from the knife in the virgin's hand. Then rose his kinsmen's savage yell. Swift as the doe's Wiwâstè's feet Fled away to the forest. The hunters fleet In vain pursue, and in vain they prowl, And lurk in the forest till dawn of day. They hear the hoot of the mottled owl; They hear the were-wolf's winding howl; But the swift Wiwâstè is far away. They found no trace in the forest land, They found no trail in the dew-damp grass, They found no track in the river sand, Where they thought Wiwâstè would surely pass.

The braves returned to the troubled chief; In his lodge he sat in his silent grief. "Surely," they said, "she has turned a spirit. No trail she left with her flying feet; No pathway leads to her far retreat. She flew in the air, and her wail--we could hear it, As she upward rose to the shining stars; And we heard on the river, as we stood near it, The falling drops of Wiwâstè's tears."

Wakâwa thought of his daughter's words Ere the south-wind came and the piping birds-- "My Father, listen,--my words are true," And sad was her voice as the whippowil When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill, "Wiwâstè lingers alone with you; The rest are sleeping on yonder hill-- Save one--and he an undutiful son,-- And you, my Father, will sit alone When Sisóka sings and the snow is gone." His broad breast heaved on his troubled soul, The shadow of grief o'er his visage stole Like a cloud on the face of the setting sun.

"She has followed the years that are gone," he said; "The spirits the words of the witch fulfill; For I saw the ghost of my father dead, By the moon's dim light on the misty hill. He shook the plumes on his withered head, And the wind through his pale form whistled shrill. And a low, sad voice on the hill I heard. Like the mournful wail of a widowed bird." Then lo, as he looked from his lodge afar, He saw the glow of the Evening-star; "And yonder," he said, "is Wiwâstè's face; She looks from her lodge on our fading race. Devoured by famine, and fraud, and war, And chased and hounded from woe to woe, As the white wolves follow the buffalo." And he named the planet the Virgin Star.

"Wakâwa," he muttered, "the guilt is thine! She was pure,--she was pure as the fawn unborn. O, why did I hark to the cry of scorn, Or the words of the lying libertine? Wakâwa, Wakâwa, the guilt is thine! The springs will return with the voice of birds, But the voice of my daughter will come no more.

She wakened the woods with her musical words, And the sky-lark, ashamed of his voice, forbore. She called back the years that had passed, and long I heard their voice in her happy song. Her heart was the home of the sunbeam. Bright Poured the stream of her song on the starry night. O, why did the chief of the tall Hóhé His feet from Kapóza so long delay? For his father sat at my father's feast, And he at Wakâwa's--an honored guest. He is dead!--he is slain on the Bloody Plain, By the hand of the treacherous Chippeway; And the face shall I never behold again Of my brave young brother--the chief Chaskè. Death walks like a shadow among my kin; And swift are the feet of the flying years That cover Wakâwa with frost and tears, And leave their tracks on his wrinkled skin. Wakâwa, the voice of the years that are gone Will follow thy feet like the shadow of death, Till the paths of the forest and desert lone Shall forget thy footsteps. O living breath, Whence art thou, and whither so soon to fly? And whence are the years? Shall I overtake Their flying feet in the star-lit sky? From his last long sleep will the warrior wake? Will the morning break in Wakâwa's tomb, As it breaks and glows in the eastern skies? Is it true?--will the spirits of kinsmen come And bid the bones of the brave arise?"

"Wakâwa, Wakâwa, for thee the years Are red with blood and bitter with tears. Gone,--brothers, and daughters, and wife,--all gone That are kin to Wakâwa,--but one--but one-- Wakínyan Tanka--undutiful son! And he estranged from his fathers tee, Will never return till the chief shall die. And what cares he for his father's grief? He will smile at my death,--it will make him chief. Woe burns in my bosom. Ho, Warriors,--Ho! Raise the song of red war; for your chief must go To drown his grief in the blood of the foe! I shall fall. Raise my mound on the sacred hill. Let my warriors the wish of their chief fulfill; For my fathers sleep in the sacred ground. The Autumn blasts o'er Wakâwa's mound Shall chase the hair of the thistle's head, And the bare armed oak o'er the silent dead. When the whirling snows from the north descend, Shall wail and moan in the midnight wind. In the famine of winter the wolf shall prowl, And scratch the snow from the heap of stones, And sit in the gathering storm and howl, On the frozen mound, for Wakâwa's bones. But the years that are gone shall return again. As the robin returns and the whippowil When my warriors stand on the sacred hill And remember the deeds of their brave chief slain."

Beneath the glow of the Virgin Star They raised the song of the red war dance. At the break of dawn with the bow and lance They followed the chief on the path of war. To the north--to the forests of fir and pine-- Led their stealthy steps on the winding trail, Till they saw the Lake of the Spirit shine Through somber pines of the dusky dale.

Then they heard the hoot of the mottled owl; They heard the gray wolf's dismal howl; Then shrill and sudden the war whoop rose From an hundred throats of their swarthy foes, In ambush crouched in the tangled wood. Death shrieked in the twang of their deadly bows, And their hissing arrows drank brave men's blood. From rock, and thicket, and brush, and brakes, Gleamed the burning eyes of the forest snakes. From brake, and thicket, and brush, and stone, The bow string hummed and the arrow hissed, And the lance of a crouching Ojibway shone, Or the scalp-knife gleamed in a swarthy fist. Undaunted the braves of Wakâwa's band Jumped into the thicket with lance and knife, And grappled the Chippewas hand to hand; And foe with foe, in the deadly strife, Lay clutching the scalp of his foe and dead, With a tomahawk sunk in his ghastly head, Or his still heart sheathing a bloody blade. Like a bear in the battle Wakâwa raves, And cheers the hearts of his falling braves. But a panther crouches along his track,-- He springs with a yell on Wakâwa's back!

The tall Chief, stabbed to the heart, lies low; But his left hand clutches his deadly foe, And his red right clenches the bloody hilt Of his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed. And thus was the life of Wakâwa spilt, And slain and slayer lay side by side. The unscalped corpse of their honored chief His warriors snatched from the yelling pack, And homeward fled on their forest track With their bloody burden and load of grief.

The spirits the words of the brave fulfill,-- Wakâwa sleeps on the sacred hill, And Wakínyan Tânka, his son, is chief. Ah, soon shall the lips of men forget Wakâwa's name, and the mound of stone Will speak of the dead to the winds alone, And the winds will whistle their mock-regret.

The speckled cones of the scarlet berries Lie red and ripe in the prairie grass. The Sí-yo clucks on the emerald prairies To her infant brood. From the wild morass, On the sapphire lakelet set within it, Magâ sails forth with her wee ones daily. They ride on the dimpling waters gaily, Like a fleet of yachts and a man of war. The piping plover, the laughing linnet, And the swallow sail in the sunset skies. The whippowil from her cover hies, And trills her song on the amber air.