PART II.
Nature hath her élite in every land,
Sealed by her signet, felt although unseen.
Winona ’mid her fellows moved a queen,
And scarce a youthful beau in all the band
But sighed in secret longing for her hand.
One only she distinguished o’er the rest,
The latest aspirant for martial fame,
Redstar, a youth whose coup-stick like his name
(Till recently he had been plain Chaské)[11]
Was new, fresh plucked the feathers on his crest.
Just what the feats on which he based his claim
To warlike glory it were hard to say;
He ne’er had seen more than one trivial fray,
But bold assurance sometimes wins the day.
Winona gave him generous credit, too,
For all the gallant deeds he meant to do.
His gay, barbaric dress, his lofty air
Enmeshed her in a sweet bewildering snare.
Transfigured by the light of her own passion,
She saw Chaské in much the usual fashion
Of fairer maids, who love, or think they do.
’Tis not the man they love, but what he seems;
A bright Hyperion, moving stately through
The rosy ether of exalted dreams.
Alas! that love, the purest and most real,
Clusters forever round some form ideal;
And martial things have some strange necromancy
To captivate romantic maiden fancy.
The very word “Lieutenant” hath a charm,
E’en coupled with a vulgar face and form,
A shrivelled heart and microscopic wit,
Scarce for a coachman or a barber fit;
His untried sword, his title, are to her
Better than genius, wealth, or high renown;
His uniform is sweeter than the gown
Of an Episcopalian minister;
And “dash,” for swagger but a synonym,
Is knightly grace and chivalry with him.
Unnoted young Winona’s passion grew,
Chaské alone the tender secret knew;
And he, too selfish love like hers to know,
Warmed by her presence to a transient glow,
Her silent homage drank as ’twere his due.
Winona asked no more though madly fond,
Nor hardly dreamed as yet of closer bond;
But Chance, or Providence, or iron Fate
(Call it what name you will), or soon or late,
Bends to its purpose every human will,
And brings to each its destined good or ill.
THE GROVE.
O’erlooking Minnetonka’s shore,
A grove enchanted lured of yore,
Inured to their deepest woe and joy,
A happy maiden and careless boy;
Lured their feet to its inmost core,
Where like snowy maidens the aspen trees
Swayed and beckoned in the breeze,
While the prairie grass, like rippling seas,
Faintly murmuring lulling hymns,
Rippled about their gleaming limbs.
There is no such charm in a garden-close,
However fair its bower and rose,
As a place where the wild and free rejoice.
Nor doth the storied and ivied arch
Woo the heart with half so sweet a voice
As the bowering arms of the wild-wood larch,
Where the clematis and wild woodbine
Festoon the flowering eglantine;
Where in every flower, shrub, and tree
Is heard the hum of the honey-bee,
And the linden blossoms are softly stirred,
As the fanning wings of the humming-bird
Scatter a perfume of pollen dust,
That mounts to the kindling soul like must;
Where the turtles each spring their loves renew—
The old, old story, “coo-roo, coo-roo,”
Mingles with the wooing note
That bubbles from the song-bird’s throat;
Where on waves of rosy light at play,
Mingle a thousand airy minions,
And drifting as on a golden bay,
The butterfly with his petal pinions,
From isle to isle of his fair dominions
Floats with the languid tides away;
Where the squirrel and rabbit shyly mate,
And none so timid but finds her fate;
The meek hen-robin upon the nest
Thrills to her lover’s flaming breast.
Youth, Love, and Life, ’mid scenes like this,
Go to the same sweet tune of bliss;
E’en the flaming flowers of passion seem
Pure as the lily buds that dream
On the bosom of a mountain stream.
Such was the grove that lured of yore,
O’erlooking Minnetonka’s shore,
Lured to their deepest woe and joy
A happy maiden and careless boy,—
Lured their feet to its inmost core;
Where still mysterious shadows slept,
While the plenilune from her path above
With liquid amber bathed the grove,
That through the tree-tops trickling crept,
And every tender alley swept.
The happy maiden and careless boy,
Caught for a moment their deepest joy,
And the iris hues of Youth and Love,
A tender glamour about them wove;
But the trembling shadows the aspens cast
From the maiden’s spirit never passed;
And the nectar was poisoned that thrilled and filled,
From every treacherous leaf distilled,
Her veins that night with a strange alloy.
Swift came the hour that maid and boy must part;
A glow unwonted, tinged with dusky red
Winona’s conscious face as home she sped;
And to the song exultant in her heart,
Beat her light moccasins with rhythmic tread.
But at the summit of a little hill,
Along whose base the village lay outspread,
A sudden sense of some impending ill
Smote the sweet fever in her veins with chill.
The lake she skirted, on whose mailèd breast
Rode like a shield the moon from out the west.
She neared her lodge, but there her quick eye caught
The voice of Gray Cloud, and her steps were stayed,
For over her of late an icy fear
Brooded with vulture wings when he was near.
She knew not why, her eye he never sought,
Nor deigned to speak, and yet she felt dismayed
At thought of him, as the mimosa’s leaf
Before the fingers touch it shrinks with dread.
She paused a moment, then with furtive tread
Close to the tipi glided like a thief;
With lips apart, and eager bended head,
She listened there to what the conjurer said.
His voice, low, musical, recounted o’er
Strange tales of days when other forms he wore:
How, far above the highest airy plain
Where soars and sings the weird, fantastic crane,
Wafted like thistle-down he strayed at will,
With power almost supreme for good or ill,
Over all lands and nations near and far,
Beyond the seas, or ’neath the northern star,
And long had pondered where were best to dwell
When he should deign a human shape to wear.
“Whether to be of them that buy and sell,
With fish-scale eyes, and yellow corn-silk hair,
Or with the stone-men chase the giant game.
But wander where you may, no land can claim
A sky so fair as ours; the sun each day
Circles the earth with glaring eye, but sees
No lakes or plains so beautiful as these;
Nor e’er hath trod or shall upon the earth
A race like ours of true Dakota birth.
Our chiefs and sages, who so wise as they
To counsel or to lead in peace or war,
And heal the sick by deep mysterious law.
Our beauteous warriors lithe of limb and strong,
Fierce to avenge their own and others’ wrong,
What gasping terror smites their battle song
When, night-birds gathering near the dawn of day,
Or wolves in chorus ravening for the prey,
They burst upon the sleeping Chippeway;[12]
Their women wail whose hated fingers dare
To reap the harvest of our midnight hair;
Swifter than eagles, as a panther fleet,
A hungry panther seeking for his meat,
So swift and noiseless their avenging feet.
* * * * *
Dakota matrons truest are and best,
Dakota maidens too are loveliest.”
He ceased, and soon, departing through the night,
She watched his burly form till out of sight.
And then the Raven spoke in whispers low:
“Gray Cloud demands our daughter’s hand, and she
Unto his tipi very soon must go.”
Winona’s mother sought to make reply,
But something checked her in his tone or eye.
Again the Raven spoke, imperiously:
“Winona is of proper age to wed;
Her suitor suits me, let no more be said.”
Winona heard no more; a rising wave
Of mingled indignation, fear, and shame
Like a resistless tempest shook her frame,
The earth swam round her, and her senses reeled;
Better for her a thousand times the grave
Than life in Gray Cloud’s tent, but what could she
Against the stern, implacable decree
Of one whose will was never known to yield?
Winona fled, scarce knowing where or how;
Fled like a phantom through the moonlight cool
Until she stood upon the rocky brow
That overlooked a deep sequestered pool,
Where slumbering in a grove-encircled bay
Lake Minnetonka’s purest waters lay.
Unto the brink she rushed, but faltered there—
Life to the young is sweet; in vain her eye
Swept for a moment grove and wave and sky
With mute appeal. But see, two white swans fair
Gleamed from the shadows that o’erhung the shore,
Like moons emerging from a sable screen;
Swimming abreast, what haughty king and queen,
With arching necks their regal course they bore.
Winona marvelled at the unwonted sight
Of white swans swimming there at dead of night,
Her frenzy half beguiling with the scene.
Unearthly heralds sure, for in their wake
What ruddy furrows seamed the placid lake.
Almost beneath her feet they came, so near
She might have tossed a pebble on their backs,
When lo, their long necks pierced the waters clear,
As down they dove, two shafts of purest light,
And chasing fast on their descending tracks,
A swarm of spirals luminous and white,
Swirled to the gloom of nether depths from sight.
Then all was still for some few moments’ space,
So smooth the pool, so vanished every trace,
It seemed that surely the fantastic pair
Had been but snowy phantoms passing there.
Winona hardly hoped to see them rise,
But while she gazed with half expectant eyes,
The waters strangely quivered in a place
About the bigness of a tipi’s space,
Where weirdly lighting up the hollow wave
Beat a deep-glowing heart, whose pulsing ray
Now faded to a rosy flush away,
Now filled with fiery glare the farthest cave.
A shapeless bulk arose, then, taking form,
Bloomed forth upon the bosom of the lake
A crystal rose, or hillock mammiform,
And round its base the curling foam did break
As round a sunny islet in a storm;
And on it poised a swiftly changing form,
With filmy mantle falling musical,
And colors of the floating bubble’s ball,
Fair and elusive as the sprites that play,
Bright children of the sun-illumined spray,
’Mid rainbows of a mountain waterfall.
Then mingling with the falling waters came
In whispers sibilant Winona’s name;
So indistinct and low that voice intense,
That she, half frightened, cowering in the grass
In much bewilderment at what did pass,
Till thrice repeated noted not its sense.
She rose, and on the very brink defined,
Against the sky in silhouette outlined,
Erect before the Water-Demon stood.
Again those accents weird her wonder stirred,
And this is what the listening maiden heard:
“Thy fate, Winona, hangs on thine own choice
To scorn or heed the Water-Demon’s voice.
Gone are thy pleasant days of maidenhood,
And evil hours draw nigh, but knowest thou not,
That what thou fleest is the common lot
Of all thy sisters? Thou must be the bride
Of one thou lovest not, must toil for him,
Watch for his coming, and endure his whim;
Must share his tent, and lying at his side
Weep for another till thine eyes grow dim.
And he, so fondly loved, will pass thee by
Indifferent with cold averted eye;
E’en he, whose wanton hands and hated arms
Have crushed the fair flower of thy maidenhood,
Will weary of thy swiftly fading charms,
And seek another when thy beauty wanes.
Aha, thou shudderest; in thy tense veins,
Fierce and rebellious, leaps the mingling blood
Of countless warriors, high of soul and brave;
And would’st thou quench their spirit ’neath the wave?
Is Gray Cloud’s life more dear to thee than thine?
The village sleeps, unguarded is his tent,
Thy knife is keen, and unto thee is lent
A spell to-night of potency malign.
Cradled in blissful dreams alone he lies,
And he shall stray so deep in sleep’s dominions,
He would not waken though the rushing pinions
Of his own Thunder-Bird should shake the sky.
All freedom-loving spirits are with thee,
Strike hard and fear not as thou would’st be free;
Lest thine own hatred prove too weak a charm,
The Water-Demon’s hate shall nerve thine arm.”
The Water-Demon sank and disappeared,
And faint and fainter fell those accents weird,
Until the air was silent as the grave,
Still as December’s crystal seal the wave.
Homeward again Winona took her way.
How changed in one short hour! no longer now
The song-birds singing at her heart, but there
A thousand gnashing furies made their lair,
And urged her on; her nearest pathway lay
Over a little hill, and on its brow
A group of trees, whereof each blackened bough
Bore up to heaven as if in protest mute
Its clustering load of ghostly charnel fruit,[13]
The swaddled forms of all the village dead—
Maid, lusty warrior, and toothless hag,
The infant and the conjurer with his bag,
Peacefully rotting in their airy bed.
As on a battle plain she saw them lie,
Fouling the fairness of the moonlit sky;
And heavily there flapped above her head,
Some floating drapery or tress of hair,
Loading with pestilential breath the air
That fanned her temples, or the reeking wing
Of unclean bird obscenely hovering;
And something crossed her path that halting nigh,
At the intruder glared with evil eye,—
She hardly heeded passing swiftly by.
Leaving behind that hideous umbrage fast,
What wraith escaping from its tenement,
Winona through the sleeping village passed,
And pausing not, to Gray Cloud’s tipi went,
Laid back the door, and with a stealthy tread,
Entered and softly crouched beside his head.
Her gaze that seemed to pierce his inmost thought,
Keen as the ready knife her hand had sought,
And through the open door the slant moonbeams
Smiting the sleeper’s face awaked him not.
He vaguely muttered in his wandering dreams
Of “medicine,” and of the Thunder-Bird.
As if to go, her knife she half returned;
Whether her woman’s heart with pity stirred,
Or superstitious awe, she slightly turned,
But gazing still, over his features came
The semblance of a smile, and his arms moved,
Clasping in rosy dreams some form beloved,
And his lips moved, and though no sound she heard,
She thought they shaped her name, and a red flame
Leaped to her brain, and through her vision passed;
A raging demon seized and filled her frame,
And like a lightning flash leaped forth her knife:
That cold keen heart-pang is his last of life;
The Water-Demon is avenged at last.