Part 31

Light of Christianity in the Wigwam 315

The Nocturnal Grave Lights 316

Manito 317

Niagara, an Allegory 318

Chileeli, a Spirit's Whisperings 319

Stanzas on the State of the Iroquois 322

The Loon's Foot--a Song 324

Tulco, Prince of Notto 325

On Presenting a Wild Rose plucked on the Sources of the Mississippi 326

The Red Man 327

The Skeleton wrapped in Gold 330

Waub Ojeeg's Death Whisperings 332

To the Miscodeed 333

The Star Family 335

Song of the Wolf-Brother 339

Abbinochi 341

To Pauguk 342

NOTES.

THE PIBBIGWUN.

I ope my voice, not with the organ's tone, Deep, solemn and majestic; not with sounds Of trump or drum, that cheer armed squadrons on, In coats of steel, o'er lines of bloody grounds, Nor is my tone, the tone of rushing storms, That sweep in mad career through forests tall, Up-tearing gnarled oaks, with sounds of hellish forms, That bode destruction black, and death to all. Nor is it yet the screaming warrior, loud, With hand upraised to mouth, hyena-strong, That tells of midnight onrush, hell-endowed, And bleeding scalp of aged, mild and young. Ah no! it is a note that's only blown, Where kindness fills the heart, and every thrill Is peace and love, while music's softer tone Steals on the evening air, its simple aims to fill, Waking the female ear to carols of the Pibbigwun.

Indian flute.

THE CHIPPEWA GIRL.

They tell me, the men with a white-white face Belong to a purer, nobler race; But why, if they do, and it may be so, Do their tongues cry, "Yes"--and their actions, "No?"

They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue, And it may be so, but the sky is blue; And the first of men--as our old men say, Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.

But throughout my life, I've heard it said, There's nothing surpasses a tint of red; Oh, the white man's cheeks look pale and sad, Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.

Then let them talk of their race divine, Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine; Give me a lodge, like my fathers had, And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.

DOUBT.

Ninimosha, think'st thou of me, When beneath the forest tree? Do'st thou in the passing wind, Catch the sighs I've cast behind? Ah! I fear--I fear--I fear, Evil bird hath filled thine ear.