Part 39

Broad the feasting board was covered, The high starry group to bind; When the star chief rose to utter His congratulations kind.

"List, my guests--the Spirit wills it, Earth to earth, and sky to sky; Choose ye each a claw or pinion, Such as ye may wish to try."

Wondrous change! by arts' transformance, At the typic heavenly feast; Each who chose a wing a bird was, Each who chose a claw, a beast.

Off they ran on plains of silver, Squirrel, rabbit, elk, or deer; White Hawk chose a wing, descending Down again to forests here,

Where the Waupees are still noted For their high essays of wing; And their noble deeds of bravery, In the forest, mount, and ring.

SONG OP THE WOLF-BROTHER.

Nesia, my elder brother, Bones have been my forest meal, Shared with wolves the long, long winter, And their nature now I feel.

Nesia, my elder brother, Now my fate is near its close; Soon my state shall cease to press me, Soon shall cease my day of woes.

Left by friends I loved the dearest, All who knew and loved me most; Woes the darkest and severest, Bide me on this barren coast.

Pity! ah, that manly feeling, Fled from hearts where once it grew, Now in wolfish forms revealing, Glows more warmly than in you.

Stony hearts! that saw me languish, Deaf to all a father said, Deaf to all a mother's anguish, All a brother's feelings fled.

Ah, ye wolves, in all your ranging, I have found you kind and true; More than man--and now I'm changing, And will soon be one of you.

Lodge of kindred once respected, Now my heart abhors your plan; Hated, shunned, disowned, neglected, Wolves are truer far than man.

And like them, I'll be a rover, With an honesty of bite That feigns not to be a lover, When the heart o'erflows with spite.

Go, ye traitors, to my lodge-fire; Go, ye serpents, swift to flee, War with kinds that have your natures, I am disenthrall'd and free.

ABBINOCHI.

A MOTHER'S CHANT TO HER SICK INFANT.

Abbinochi, baby dear, Leave me not--ah, leave me not; I have nursed with love sincere, Nursed thee in my forest cot-- Tied thee in thy cradle trim Kind adjusting every limb; With the fairest beads and bands Deck'd thy cradle with my hands, And with sweetest corn panaed From my little kettle fed, Oft with miscodeed roots shred, Fed thee in thy baby bed.

Abbinochi, droop not so, Leave me not--away to go To strange lands--thy little feet Are not grown the path to greet Or find out, with none to show Where the flowers of grave-land grow. Stay, my dear one, stay till grown, I will lead thee to that zone Where the stars like silver shine, And the scenes are all divine, And the happy, happy stray, And, like Abbinochi, play.

A child.

Claytonia Virginica.

TO PAUGUK.

(This is the impersonation of death in Indian mythology. He is represented with a bow and arrows.)

Pauguk! 'tis a scene of woe, This world of troubles; let me go Arm'd to show forth the Master's will, Strike on thy purpose to fulfil. I fear not death--my only fear Is ills and woes that press me here. Want stares me in the face, or woe, Where'er I dwell--where'er I go; Fishing and hunting only give The pinching means to let me live; And if, at night, I lay me down, In dreams and sleep my rest to crown, Ere day awakes its slumbering eyes, I start to hear the foe's mad cries, Louder and louder, as I clutch My club, or lance, or bow and dart, And, springing with a panther's touch, Display the red man's bloody art.

Nay, I am sick of life and blood, That drowns my country like a flood, Pouring o'er hill, and vale, and lea, Lodge, ville, and council, like a sea, Where one must gasp and gasp for breath To live--and stay the power of death. Ah! life's good things are all too poor, Its daily hardships to endure. My fathers told me, there's a land Where peace and joy abound in hand, And plenty smiles, and sweetest scenes Expand in lakes, and groves, and greens. No pain or hunger there is known, And pleasure reigns throughout alone-- I would go there, and taste and see A life so beauteous, bless'd and free, Where man has no more power to kill, And the Great Spirit all things fills. Blanch not, Pauguk, I have no fear, And would not longer linger here; But bend thy bow and aim thy dart, Behold an honest hunter's heart: Thereby a dart, a boon may give, A happy life on high to live.

'Tis all the same, in countries here, Or where Pacific billows roar, We roved in want, and woe and fear Along the Mississippi shore. And where Missouri's waters rush, To tell to man that God is strong, We shrank as from a tiger's touch, To hear the white man's shout or song. O not for us is peace and joy Arising from the race that spread, Their purpose only's to destroy-- Our only peace is with the dead. Think not my heart is pale with fear, But strike, Pauguk--strike boldly here.