Part 2

He hears my words--'tis well-- And let him write them down Upon the spirit-skin, That, when he has cross'd the lake, The Great Salt Lake, The lake, where the gentle spring winds dwell, And the mighty fishes sport, And has called his babes to his knee, And his beauteous dove to his arms, And has smok'd in the calumet With the friends he left behind, And his father, and mother, and kin, Are gather'd around his fire, To learn what red men say, He may the skin unroll, and bid His Okki this tradition read-- The parting words of the Roanoke, And his tale of a lover and maiden true, Who paddle the Lake in a White Canoe.

There liv'd upon the Great Arm's brink, In that far day, The warlike Roanokes, The masters of the wilds: They warr'd on distant lands, This valiant nation, victors every where; Their shouts rung through the hollow oaks, That beetle over the Spirit Bay, Where the red elk comes to drink; The frozen clime of the Hunter's Star Rang shrill with the shout of their bands, And the whistle of their cress; And they fought the distant Cherokee, The Chickasaw, and the Muscogulgee, And the Sioux of the West. They liv'd for nought but war, Though now and then would be caught a view Of a Roanoke in a White Canoe.

Among this tribe, this valiant tribe, Of brave and warlike Roanokes, Were two--a youth and maid, Who lov'd each other well, Long and fondly lov'd, Lov'd from the childish hour, When, through the bosky dell, Together they fondly rov'd, In quest of the little flower, That likes to bloom in the quiet shade Of the tall and stately oaks. The pale face calls it the violet-- 'Tis a beautiful child when its leaves are wet With the morning dew, and spread To the beam of the sun, and its little head Sinks low with the weight of the tear That gems its pale blue eye, Causing it to lie Like a maiden whose heart is broke.-- Does my brother hear?

He hears my words--'tis well-- The names of this fond youth and maid Tell who they were, For he was Annawan, the Brave, And she Pequida, the girl of the braid, The fairest of the fair. Her foot was the foot of the nimble doe, That flies from a cruel carcajou, Deeming speed the means to save; Her eyes were the eyes of the yellow owl, That builds his nest by the River of Fish; Her hair was black as the wings of the fowl That drew this world from the great abyss. Small and plump was her hand; Small and slender her foot; And, when she opened her lips to sing, Ripe red lips, soft sweet lips, Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips, The birds in the grove were mute, The bittern forgot his toot, And the owl forbore his hoot, And the king-bird set his wing, And the woodpecker ceas'd his tap On the hollow beech, And the son of the loon on the neighbouring strand Gave over his idle screech, And fell to sleep in his mother's lap.

And she was good as fair, This maid of the Roanokes; She was mild as a day in spring; Morning, noon, and night, Young Pequida smil'd on all, But most on one. She smil'd more sweet if he were there, And her laugh more joyous rung, And her step had a firmer spring, And her eye had a keener light, And her tongue dealt out blither jokes, And she had more songs to spare, And she better mock'd the blue jay's cry, When his dinner of maize was done; And better far, when he stood in view, Could she paddle the Lake in her White Canoe.

And who was he she lov'd? The bravest he of the Roanokes, A leader, before his years Were the years of a full-grown man; A warrior, when his strength Was less than a warrior's need; But, when his limbs were grown, And he stood erect and tall, Who could bend the sprout of the oak Of which his bow was made? Who could poise his choice of spears, To him but a little reed? None in all the land. And who had a soul so warm? Who was so kind a friend(2)? And who so free to lend To the weary stranger bed and bread, Food for his stomach, rest for his head, As Annawan, the Roanoke, The valiant son of the chief Red Oak?

They liv'd from infancy together; They seem'd two sides of a sparrow's feather; Together they roam'd o'er the rocky hill, And through the woody hollow, And by the river brink, And o'er the winter snows; And they sat for hours by the summer rill, To watch the stag as he came to drink, And to see the beaver wallow; And when the waters froze, They still had a sport to follow O'er the smooth ice, for, full in view, Lay the glassy Lake of the White Canoe.

The youth was the son of a chief, And the maiden a warrior's daughter; Both were approv'd for deeds of blood; Both were fearless, strong, and brave: One was a Roanoke, The other a captive Maqua boy, In battle sav'd from slaughter(3)-- A single ear from a blighted sheaf, Planted in Aragisken land; And these two men were foes. When they to manhood came, And each had skill and strength to bend A bow with a warrior's aim, And to wield the club of massy oak That a warrior-man should wield, And to pride themselves on a blood-red hand, And to deem its cleanness shame, Each claim'd to lead the band, And angry words arose, But the warriors chose Red Oak, Because his sire was a Roanoke.

Then fill'd the Maqua's heart with ire, And out he spoke: "Have his deeds equall'd mine? Three are the scalps on his pole-- In my smoke are nine; I have fought with a Cherokee; I have stricken a warrior's blow, Where the waves of Ontario roll; I have borne my lance where he dare not go; I have looked on a stunted pine In the realms of endless frost, And the path of the Knisteneau And the Abenaki crost. While the Red Oak planted the land, It was mine to lead the band."

Then fiercely answer'd the rival Brave, And bitter strife arose; Loud and angry words, Noisy boasts and taunts, Menaces and blows, These foolish men each other gave; And each like a panther pants For the blood of his brother chief; Each himself with his war-club girds, And forth he madly goes, His wrath and ire to wreak; But the warriors interpose. Thenceforth they met as two eagles meet, When food but for one lies dead at their feet, And neither dare be the thief: Each is prompt to show his ire; The eye of each is an eye of fire, And trembles each hand to give The last and fatal blow; And thus my brother may see them live With the feelings that wolf-dogs know.

And when each of these brave men Had built himself a lodge, And each had a bird in his nest, And each had a babe at his knee, Their hate had no abatement known, Still each was his brother's enemy. And thirsted for his blood. And when those babes had grown, The one to be a man In stature, years, and soul, With a warrior's eye and brow, And his poll a shaven poll, And his step as a wild colt's free, And his voice like the winter wind, Or the roaring of the sea; The other a maiden ripe, With a woman's tender heart, Full of soft and gentle wishes, Sighs by day and dreams by night, Their hostile fathers bade them roam Together no more o'er the rocky dell, And through the woody hollow, And by the river brink, And o'er the winter snows, Nor sit for hours by the summer rill, To watch the stag as he came to drink, And to see the beaver wallow, Nor when the waters froze, Have a pleasant sport to follow, O'er the smooth ice; they bade them shun, Each other as the stars the sun.

What did they then--this youth and maid? Did they their fathers mind?-- I will tell my brother.-- They met--in secret met'Twas not in the rocky dell, Nor in the woody hollow, Nor by the river brink, Nor o'er the winter snows, Nor by the summer rill, Watching the stag as he came to drink, And to see the beaver wallow, That these two lovers met, Nor when the waters froze, Giving good sport to follow: But, when the sky was mild, And the moon's pale light was veil'd, And hushed was every breeze, In prairie, village, and wild, And the bittern had stayed his toot, And the serpent had ceased his hiss, And the wolf forgot his howl, And the owl forbore his hoot, And the plaintive wekolis, And his neighbour, the frog, were mute-- Then would my brother have heard A plash like the dip of a water-fowl, In the lake with mist so white, And the smooth wave roll to the bank, And have seen the current stirr'd By something that seemed a White Canoe, Gliding past his troubled view.

And thus for moons they met By night on the tranquil lake, When darkness veils the earth; Nought care they for the wolf, That stirs the brake on the bank; Nought that the junipers shake With the weight of the nimble bear, Nor that bitterns start by tens, Nor to hear the cayman's plash, Nor the hoot of the owl in the boughs of the ash, Where he sat so calm and cool: And thus each night they met, And thus a summer pass'd.

Autumn came at length, With all its promised joys, Its host of glittering stars, Its fields of yellow corn, Its shrill and healthful winds, Its sports of field and flood. The buck in the grove was sleek and fat, The corn was ripe and tall; Grapes clustered thick on the vines; And the healing winds of the north Had left their cells to breathe On the fever'd cheeks of the Roanokes, And the skies were lit by brighter stars Than light them in the time of summer. Then said the father of the maid, "My daughter, hear-- A bird has whispered in my ear, That, often in the midnight hour, They who walk in the shades, The murky shades, dim, dark shades, Shades of the cypress, pine, and yew, That tower above the glassy lake, Will see glide past their troubled view Two forms as a meteor light, And will note a white canoe, Paddled along by two, And will bear the words of a tender song, Stealing like a spring-wind along; Tell me, my daughter, if either be you?"

Then down the daughter's cheek Ran drops like the summer rain, And thus she spoke: "Father, I love the valiant Annawan; Too long have we roam'd o'er the rocky dell, And through the woody hollow, And by the river brink, And o'er the winter snows, To tear him from my heart: Too long have we sat by the summer rill, To watch the buck as he came to drink, And to see the beaver wallow, To live from him apart-- My father hears."

"Thou lov'st the son of my foe, And know'st thou not the wrongs That foe hath heap'd on me? The nation made him chief-- Why made they him a chief? Had his deeds equall'd mine? Three were the scalps on his pole, In my smoke were nine: I had fought with a Cherokee; I had struck a warrior's blow, Where the waves of Ontario roll; I had borne my lance where he dare not go; I had look'd on a stunted pine, In the realms of endless frost, And the path of the Knisteneau, And the Abenaki crost; While the Red Oak planted his land, It was mine to lead the band. Since then we never spoke, Unless to utter reproach, And bandy bitter words; We meet as two hungry eagles meet, When a badger lies dead at their feet-- Each would use a spear on his foe, Each an arrow would put to his bow, And bid its goal be his foeman's breast, But the warriors interpose, And delay the vengeance I owe. Thou hear'st my words--'t is well.

"Then listen to my words-- The soul of a Maqua never cools; His ire can never be assuag'd, But with the smell of gore I thirst for the Red Oak's blood; I live but for revenge; Thou shalt not wed his son; Choose thee a mate elsewhere, And see that ye roam no more By night o'er the rocky dell, And through the woody hollow, But when the sun its eye-lids closes, See that thine own the example follow."

And the father of the youth Spake thus unto his son: "A bird has whispered in my ear, That when the stars have gone to rest, And the moon her eye-lids hath clos'd, Who walk beside the lake Will see glide past their troubled view Two forms as a meteor light, And will note a white canoe Paddled along by two, And will hear the words of a tender song. Stealing like a spring wind along. Tell me, my son, if either be you?"

Then answer'd the valiant son, "Mine is a warrior's soul, And mine is an arm of strength; I scorn to tell a lie; The bird has told thee true. And, father, hear my words: I now have come to man's estate; Who can bend the sprout of the oak, Of which my bow is made? Who can poise my choice of spears, To me but a slender reed? I fain would build myself a lodge, And take to that lodge a wife: And, father, hear thy son-- I love the Red Oak's daughter."

"Thou lov'st the daughter of my foe; And know'st thou not the taunts His tongue hath heap'd on me: The nation made me chief, And thence his ire arose; Thence came foul wrongs and blows, And neither yet aveng'd. He boasted that his fame exceeded mine: Three, he said, were the scalps on my pole, While in his lodge were nine-- He did not tell how many I struck, Nor spoke of my constancy, When the Nansemonds tore my flesh, With burning pincers tore; And he said he had fought with a Cherokee, And had struck a warrior's blow, Where the waves of Ontario roll, And had borne his lance where I dare not go, And had look'd on a stunted pine, In the realms of endless frost; And the path of the Knisteneau And the Abenaki crost: While--bitter taunt!--cruel taunt! And for it I'll drink his blood, And eat him broil'd in fire-- The Red Oak planted his land, It was his to lead the band.

"And listen further to my words-- My wrath can never be assuag'd; Thou shalt not wed his daughter, Choose thee a wife elsewhere; Choose thee one any where, Save in the Maqua's lodge. The Nansemonds have maidens fair, With bright black eyes, and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills; The Chippewa girls of the frosty north Have feet like the nimble antelopes' That bound on their native hills; And their voice is like the dove's in spring-- Take one of those doves to thy cage; But see no more, by day or night, The Maqua warrior's daughter." And haughtily he turn'd away.

Night was abroad on the earth; Mists were over the face of the moon, And the stars were like the sparkling flies That twinkle in the prairie glades, In my brother's month of June: And hideous forms had risen; The spirits of the swamp Had come from their caverns dark and deep, Where the slimy currents flow, With the serpent and wolf to romp, And to whisper in the sleeper's ear Of death and danger near.

Then to the margin of the lake A beauteous maiden came; Tall she was as a youthful fir, Upon the river's bank; Her step was the step of the antelope; Her eye was the eye of the doe; Her hair was black as a coal-black horse; Her hand was plump and small; Her foot was slender and small; And her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song. Beautiful lips had she, Ripe red lips, Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips, When its head is bow'd by dew.

She stood beneath the shade Of the dark and lofty trees, That threw their image on the lake, And waited long in silence there. "Why comes he not, my Annawan, My lover, brave and true? He knows his maiden waits for him Beneath the shade of the yew, To paddle the lake in her White Canoe." But Annawan came not: "He has miss'd me sure," the maiden said, "And skims the lake alone; Dark though it be, and the winds are high, I'll seek my warrior there." Then lightly to her white canoe The fair Pequida sprung, And is gone from the shore alone.

Loud blew the mighty winds, The clouds were dense and black, Thunders rolled among the hills, Lightnings flash'd through the shades; The spirits cried aloud Their melancholy cries, Cries which assail the listening ear When danger and death are near: Who is he that stands on the shore, Uttering sounds of grief? 'Tis Annawan, the favour'd youth, Detain'd so long lest envious eyes Should know wherefore at midnight hour He seeks the lake alone. He finds the maiden gone, And anguish fills his soul, And yet, perchance in childish sport, She hides among the groves. Loudly he calls, "My maiden fair, Thy Annawan is here! Where art thou, maid with the coal-black hair? What does thy bosom fear? If thou hast hid in playful mood In the shade of the pine, or the cypress wood, If the little heart that so gently heaves Is lightly pressing a bed of leaves; Tell me, maiden, by thy voice Bid thy lover's heart rejoice; Ope on him thy starry eyes; Let him clasp thee in his arms, Press thy ripe, red lips to his. Come, my fair Pequida, come!"

No answer meets the warrior's ears, But glimmering o'er the lake appears A solitary, twinkling light-- It seems a fire-fly lamp; It moves, with motion quick and strange, Over the broad lake's breast. The lover sprung to his light canoe, And swiftly followed the meteor spark, But the winds were high, and the clouds were dark, He could not find the maid, Nor near the glittering lamp.

He went to his father's lodge, And laid him on the earth, Calmly laid him down. Words he spoke to none, Looks bestow'd on none. They brought him food--he would not eat-- They brought him drink--he would not drink-- They brought him a spear and a bow, And a club, and an arrowy sheaf, And shouted the cry of war, And prais'd him, and nam'd him a Chief, And told how the treacherous Nanticokes Had slain three Braves of the Roanokes; That a man of the tribe who never ran Had vow'd to war on the Red Oak's son-- But he show'd no signs of wrath; His thoughts were abroad in another path.

Sudden he sprung to his feet, Like an arrow impell'd by a vigorous arm. "You have dug her grave," said he, "In a spot too cold and damp, All too cold and damp, For a soul so warm and true. Where, think ye, her soul has gone? Gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where all night long by a fire-fly lamp She paddles her White Canoe. And thither I will go!" And with that he took his quiver and bow, And bade them all adieu.