THE LEGEND OF THE PICTURED ROCKS OF LAKE SUPERIOR. OJIBWAY
In the measure of Hiawatha.
[The numerals refer to Notes to The Sea-Gull, in Appendix.]
On the shore of Gitchee Gumee[[2]]—
Deep, mysterious, mighty waters—
Where the mânitoes—the spirits—
Ride the storms and speak in thunder,
In the days of Némè-Shómis,[[3]]
In the days that are forgotten,
Dwelt a tall and tawny hunter—
Gitchee Péz-ze-u the Panther,
Son of Waub-Ojeeg,[[4]] the warrior,
Famous Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior.
Strong was he and fleet as roebuck,
Brave was he and very stealthy;
On the deer crept like a panther;
Grappled with Makwâ,[[5]] the monster,
Grappled with the bear and conquered;
Took his black claws for a necklet,
Took his black hide for a blanket.
When the Panther wed the Sea-Gull,
Young was he and very gladsome;
Fair was she and full of laughter;
Like the robin in the spring-time,
Sang from sunrise till the sunset;
For she loved the handsome hunter.
Deep as Gitchee Gumee's waters
Was her love—as broad and boundless;
And the wedded twain were happy—
Happy as the mated robins.
When their first-born saw the sunlight
Joyful was the heart of Panther,
Proud and joyful was the mother.
All the days were full of sunshine,
All the nights were full of starlight.
Nightly from the land of spirits
On them smiled the starry faces—
Faces of their friends departed.
Little moccasins she made him,
Feathered cap and belt of wampum;
From the hide of fawn a blanket,
Fringed with feathers, soft as sable;
Singing at her pleasant labor,
By her side the tekenâgun, [[6]]
And the little hunter in it,
Oft the Panther smiled and fondled,
Smiled upon the babe and mother,
Frolicked with the boy and fondled,
Tall he grew and like his father,
And they called the boy the Raven—
Called him Kâk-kâh-gè—the Raven.
Happy hunter was the Panther.
From the woods he brought the pheasant,
Brought the red deer and the rabbit,
Brought the trout from Gitchee Gumee—
Brought the mallard from the marshes—
Royal feast for boy and mother:
Brought the hides of fox and beaver,
Brought the skins of mink and otter,
Lured the loon and took his blanket,
Took his blanket for the Raven.
Winter swiftly followed winter,
And again the tekenâgun
Held a babe—a tawny daughter,
Held a dark-eyed, dimpled daughter;
And they called her Waub-omeé-meé
Thus they named her—the White-Pigeon.
But as winter followed winter
Cold and sullen grew the Panther;
Sat and smoked his pipe in silence;
When he spoke he spoke in anger;
In the forest often tarried
Many days, and homeward turning,
Brought no game unto his wigwam;
Only brought his empty quiver,
Brought his dark and sullen visage.
Sad at heart and very lonely
Sat the Sea-Gull in the wigwam;
Sat and swung the tekenâgun
Sat and sang to Waub-omeé-meé:
Thus she sang to Waub-omeé-meé,
Thus the lullaby she chanted:
Wâ-wa, wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà;
Kah-wéen, nee-zhéka kè-diaus-âi,
Ke-gáh nau-wâi, ne-mé-go s'wéen,
Ne-bâun, ne-bâun, ne-dâun-is âis,
Wâ-wa, wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà;
Ne-bâun, ne-bâun, ne-dâun-is-âis,
E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà,
E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà.
TRANSLATION
Swing, swing, little one, lullaby;
Thou'rt not left alone to weep;
Mother cares for you—she is nigh;
Sleep, my little one, sweetly sleep;
Swing, swing, little one, lullaby;
Mother watches you—she is nigh;
Gently, gently, wee one, swing;
Gently, gently, while I sing
E-we wâ-wa—lullaby,
E-we wâ-wa—lullaby.
Homeward to his lodge returning
Kindly greeting found the hunter,
Fire to warm and food to nourish,
Golden trout from Gitchee Gumee,
Caught by Kâh-kâh-gè—the Raven.
With a snare he caught the rabbit—
Caught Wabóse,[[7]] the furry-footed,
Caught Penây,[a/][[7]] the forest-drummer;
Sometimes with his bow and arrows,
Shot the red deer in the forest,
Shot the squirrel in the pine-top,
Shot Ne-kâ, the wild-goose, flying.
Proud as Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior,
To the lodge he bore his trophies.
So when homeward turned the Panther,
Ever found he food provided,
Found the lodge-fire brightly burning,
Found the faithful Sea-Gull waiting.
"You are cold," she said, "and famished;
Here are fire and food, my husband."
Not by word or look he answered;
Only ate the food provided,
Filled his pipe and pensive puffed it,
Sat and smoked in sullen silence.
Once—her dark eyes full of hunger—
Thus she spoke and thus besought him:
"Tell me, O my silent Panther,
Tell me, O beloved husband,
What has made you sad and sullen?
Have you met some evil spirit—
Met some goblin in the forest?
Has he put a spell upon you—
Filled your heart with bitter waters,
That you sit so sad and sullen,
Sit and smoke, but never answer,
Only when the storm is on you?"
Gruffly then the Panther answered:
"Brave among the brave is Panther
Son of Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior,
And the brave are ever silent;
But a whining dog is woman,
Whining ever like a coward."
Forth into the tangled forest,
Threading through the thorny thickets,
Treading trails on marsh and meadow,
Sullen strode the moody hunter.
Saw he not the bear or beaver,
Saw he not the elk or roebuck;
From his path the red fawn scampered,
But no arrow followed after;
From his den the sly wolf listened,
But no twang of bow-string heard he.
Like one walking in his slumber,
Listless, dreaming, walked the Panther;
Surely had some witch bewitched him,
Some bad spirit of the forest.
When the Sea-Gull wed the Panther,
Fair was she and full of laughter;
Like the robin in the spring-time,
Sang from sunrise till the sunset;
But the storms of many winters
Sifted frost upon her tresses,
Seamed her tawny face with wrinkles.
Not alone the storms of winters
Seamed her tawny face with wrinkles.
Twenty winters for the Panther
Had she ruled the humble wigwam;
For her haughty lord and master
Borne the burdens on the journey,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red-deer;
Made him moccasins and leggins,
Decked his hood with quills and feathers—
Colored quills of Kaug,[[8]] the thorny,
Feathers from Kenéw,[a/][[8]] the eagle.
For a warrior brave was Panther;
Often had he met the foemen,
Met the bold and fierce Dakotas,
Westward on the war-path met them;
And the scalps he won were numbered,
Numbered seven by Kenéw-feathers.
Sad at heart was Sea-Gull waiting,
Watching, waiting in the wigwam;
Not alone the storms of winters
Sifted frost upon her tresses.
Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty,[[9]]
He that sends the cruel winter,
He that turned to stone the Giant,
From the distant Thunder-mountain,
Far across broad Gitchee Gumee,
Sent his warning of the winter,
Sent the white frost and Kewâydin,[[10]]
Sent the swift and hungry North-wind.
Homeward to the South the Summer
Turned and fled the naked forests.
With the Summer flew the robin,
Flew the bobolink and blue-bird.
Flock-wise following chosen leaders,
Like the shaftless heads of arrows
Southward cleaving through the ether,
Soon the wild-geese followed after.
One long moon the Sea-Gull waited,
Watched and waited for her husband,
Till at last she heard his footsteps,
Heard him coming through the thicket.
Forth she went to met her husband,
Joyful went to greet her husband.
Lo behind the haughty hunter,
Closely following in his footsteps,
Walked a young and handsome woman,
Walked the Red Fox from the island—
Gitchee Ménis the Grand Island—
Followed him into the wigwam,
Proudly took her seat beside him.
On the Red Fox smiled the hunter,
On the hunter smiled the woman.
Old and wrinkled was the Sea-Gull,
Good and true, but old and wrinkled.
Twenty winters for the Panther
Had she ruled the humble wigwam,
Borne the burdens on the journey,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red-deer,
Made him moccasins and leggins,
Decked his hood with quills and feathers,
Colored quills of Kaug, the thorny,
Feathers from the great war-eagle;
Ever diligent and faithful,
Ever patient, ne'er complaining.
But like all brave men the Panther
Loved a young and handsome woman;
So he dallied with the danger,
Dallied with the fair Algónkin,[[11]]
Till a magic mead she gave him,
Brewed of buds of birch and cedar.[[12]]
Madly then he loved the woman;
Then she ruled him, then she held him
Tangled in her raven tresses,
Tied and tangled in her tresses.
Ah, the tall and tawny Panther!
Ah, the brave and brawny Panther!
Son of Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior!
With a slender hair she led him,
With a slender hair she drew him,
Drew him often to her wigwam;
There she bound him, there she held him
Tangled in her raven tresses,
Tied and tangled in her tresses.
Ah, the best of men are tangled—
Sometimes tangled in the tresses
Of a fair and crafty woman.
So the Panther wed the Red Fox,
And she followed to his wigwam.
Young again he seemed and gladsome,
Glad as Raven when the father
Made his first bow from the elm-tree,
From the ash-tree made his arrows,
Taught him how to aim his arrows,
How to shoot Wabóse—the rabbit.
Then again the brawny hunter
Brought the black bear and the beaver,
Brought the haunch of elk and red-deer,
Brought the rabbit and the pheasant—
Choicest bits of all for Red Fox.
For her robes he brought the sable,
Brought the otter and the ermine,
Brought the black-fox tipped with silver.
But the Sea-Gull murmured never,
Not a word she spoke in anger,
Went about her work as ever,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red-deer,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Gathered rushes from the marshes;
Deftly into mats she wove them;
Kept the lodge as bright as ever.
Only to herself she murmured,
All alone with Waub-omeé-meé,
On the tall and toppling highland,
O'er the wilderness of waters;
Murmured to the murmuring waters,
Murmured to the Nébe-nâw-baigs—
To the spirits of the waters;
On the wild waves poured her sorrow.
Save the infant on her bosom
With her dark eyes wide with wonder,
None to hear her but the spirits,
And the murmuring pines above her.
Thus she cast away her burdens,
Cast her burdens on the waters;
Thus unto the good Great Spirit,
Made her lowly lamentation:
"Wahonówin!—showiness![[13]]
Gitchee Mânito, benâ-nin!
Nah, Ba-bâ, showâin neméshin!
Wahonówin!—Wahonówin!"
Ka-be-bón-ík-ka,[a/][[9]] the mighty,
He that sends the cruel winter,
From the distant Thunder-mountain
On the shore of Gitchee Gumee,
On the rugged northern border,
Sent his solemn, final warning,
Sent the white wolves of the Nor'land.[[14]]
Like the dust of stars in ether—
In the Pathway of the Spirits,[[15]]
Like the sparkling dust of diamonds,
Fell the frost upon the forest,
On the mountains and the meadows,
On the wilderness of woodland,
On the wilderness of waters.
All the lingering fowls departed—
All that seek the South in winter,
All but Shingebís, the diver;[[16]]
He defies the Winter-maker,
Sits and laughs at Winter-maker.
Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty,
From his wigwam called Kewâydin—
From his home among the icebergs,
From the sea of frozen waters,
Called the swift and hungry North-wind.
Then he spread his mighty pinions
Over all the land and shook them.
Like the white down of Waubésè[[17]]
Fell the feathery snow and covered
All the marshes and the meadows,
All the hill-tops and the highlands.
Then old Péböán[[18]]—the winter—
Laughed along the stormy waters,
Danced upon the windy headlands,
On the storm his white hair streaming,
And his steaming breath, ascending,
On the pine-tops and the cedars
Fell in frosty mists of silver,
Sprinkling spruce and fir with silver,
Sprinkling all the woods with silver.
By the lodge-fire all the winter
Sat the Sea-Gull and the Red Fox,
Sat and kindly spoke and chatted,
Till the twain seemed friends together.
Friends they seemed in word and action,
But within the breast of either
Smoldered still the baneful embers—
Fires of jealousy and hatred—
Like a camp-fire in the forest
Left by hunters and deserted;
Only seems a bed of ashes,
But the East wind, Wâbun-noódin,
Scatters through the woods the ashes,
Fans to flame the sleeping embers,
And the wild-fire roars and rages,
Roars and rages through the forest.
So the baneful embers smoldered,
Smoldered in the breast of either.
From the far-off Sunny Islands,
From the pleasant land of Summer,
Where the spirits of the blessed
Feel no more the fangs of hunger,
Or the cold breath of Kewâydin,
Came a stately youth and handsome,
Came Según,[[19]] the foe of Winter.
Like the rising sun his face was,
Like the shining stars his eyes were,
Light his footsteps as the Morning's,
In his hand were buds and blossoms,
On his brow a blooming garland.
Straightway to the icy wigwam
Of old Péböán, the Winter,
Strode Según and quickly entered.
There old Péböán sat and shivered,
Shivered o'er his dying lodge-fire.
"Ah, my son, I bid you welcome;
Sit and tell me your adventures;
I will tell you of my power;
We will pass the night together."
Thus spake Péböán—the Winter;
Then he filled his pipe and lighted;
Then by sacred custom raised it
To the spirits in the ether;
To the spirits in the caverns
Of the hollow earth he lowered it.
Thus he passed it to the spirits,
And the unseen spirits puffed it.
Next himself old Péböán honored;
Thrice he puffed his pipe and passed it,
Passed it to the handsome stranger.
"Lo I blow my breath," said Winter,
"And the laughing brooks are silent.
Hard as flint become the waters,
And the rabbit runs upon them."
Then Según, the fair youth, answered:
"Lo I breathe upon the hillsides,
On the valleys and the meadows,
And behold as if by magic—
By the magic of the spirits,
Spring the flowers and tender grasses."
Then old Péböán replying:
"Nah![[20]] I breathe upon the forests,
And the leaves fall sere and yellow;
Then I shake my locks and snow falls,
Covering all the naked landscape."
Then Según arose and answered:
"Nashké![a/][[20]]—see!—I shake my ringlets;
On the earth the warm rain falleth,
And the flowers look up like children
Glad-eyed from their mother's bosom.
Lo my voice recalls the robin,
Brings the bobolink and bluebird,
And the woods are full of music.
With my breath I melt their fetters,
And the brooks leap laughing onward."
Then old Péböán looked upon him,
Looked and knew Según, the Summer.
From his eyes the big tears started
And his boastful tongue was silent.
Now Keezís—the great life-giver,
From his wigwam in Waubú-nong[[21]]
Rose and wrapped his shining blanket
Round his giant form and started,
Westward started on his journey,
Striding on from hill to hill-top.
Upward then he climbed the ether—
On the Bridge of Stars[[22]] he traveled,
Westward traveled on his journey
To the far-off Sunset Mountains—
To the gloomy land of shadows.
On the lodge-poles sang the robin—
And the brooks began to murmur.
On the South-wind floated fragrance
Of the early buds and blossoms.
From old Péböán's eyes the tear-drops
Down his pale face ran in streamlets;
Less and less he grew in stature
Till he melted down to nothing;
And behold, from out the ashes,
From the ashes of his lodge-fire,
Sprang the Miscodeed[[23]] and, blushing,
Welcomed Según to the North-land.
So from Sunny Isles returning,
From the Summer-Land of spirits,
On the poles of Panther's wigwam
Sang Opeé-chee—sang the robin.
In the maples cooed the pigeons—
Cooed and wooed like silly lovers.
"Hah!—hah!" laughed the crow derisive,
In the pine-top, at their folly—
Laughed and jeered the silly lovers.
Blind with love were they, and saw not;
Deaf to all but love, and heard not;
So they cooed and wooed unheeding,
Till the gray hawk pounced upon them,
And the old crow shook with laughter.
[Illustration: SEGUN AND PEBOAN]
On the tall cliff by the sea-shore
Red Fox made a swing. She fastened
Thongs of moose-hide to the pine-tree,
To the strong arm of the pine-tree.
Like a hawk, above the waters,
There she swung herself and fluttered,
Laughing at the thought of danger,
Swung and fluttered o'er the waters.
Then she bantered Sea-Gull, saying,
"See!—I swing above the billows!
Dare you swing above the billows—
Swing like me above the billows?"
To herself said Sea-Gull—"Surely
I will dare whatever danger
Dares the Red Fox—dares my rival;
She shall never call me coward."
So she swung above the waters—
Dizzy height above the waters,
Pushed and aided by her rival,
To and fro with reckless daring,
Till the strong tree rocked and trembled,
Rocked and trembled with its burden.
As above the yawning billows
Flew the Sea-Gull like a whirlwind,
Red Fox, swifter than red lightning,
Cut the thongs, and headlong downward,
Like an osprey from the ether,
Like a wild-goose pierced with arrows,
Fluttering fell the frantic woman,
Fluttering fell into the waters—
Plunged and sunk beneath the waters!
Hark!—the wailing of the West-wind!
Hark!—the wailing of the waters,
And the beating of the billows!
But no more the voice of Sea-Gull.
[Illustration: FLUTTERING FELL THE FRANTIC WOMAN]
In the wigwam sat the Red Fox,
Hushed the wail of Waub-omeé-meé,
Weeping for her absent mother.
With the twinkling stars the hunter
From the forest came and Raven.
"Sea-Gull wanders late," said Red Fox,
"Late she wanders by the sea-shore,
And some evil may befall her."
In the misty morning twilight
Forth went Panther and the Raven,
Searched the forest and the marshes,
Searched for leagues along the lake-shore,
Searched the islands and the highlands;
But they found no trace or tidings,
Found no track in marsh or meadow,
Found no trail in fen or forest,
On the shore-sand found no footprints.
Many days they sought and found not.
Then to Panther spoke the Raven:
"She is in the Land of Spirits—
Surely in the Land of Spirits.
High at midnight I beheld her—
Like a flying star beheld her—
To the waves of Gitchee Gumee
Downward flashing through the ether.
Thus she flashed that I might see her,
See and know my mother's spirit;
Thus she pointed to the waters,
And beneath them lies her body,
In the wigwam of the spirits—
In the lodge of Nebe-nâw-baigs."[[24]]
Then spoke Panther to the Raven:
"On the tall cliff by the waters
Wait and watch with Waub-omeé-meé.
If the Sea-Gull hear the wailing
Of her infant she will answer."
On the tall cliff by the waters
So the Raven watched and waited;
All the day he watched and waited,
But the hungry infant slumbered,
Slumbered by the side of Raven,
Till the pines' gigantic shadows
Stretched and pointed to Waubú-nong[a/][[21]]—
To the far-off land of Sunrise;
Then the wee one woke and, famished,
Made a long and piteous wailing.
From afar where sky and waters
Meet in misty haze and mingle,
Straight toward the rocky highland,
Straight as flies the feathered arrow,
Straight to Raven and the infant,
Swiftly flew a snow-white sea-gull—
Flew and touched the earth a woman.
And behold, the long-lost mother
Caught her wailing child and nursed her,
Sang a lullaby and nursed her.
Thrice was wound a chain of silver
Round her waist and strongly fastened.
Far away into the waters—
To the wigwam of the spirits—
To the lodge of Nebe-nâw-baigs—
Stretched the magic chain of silver.
Spoke the mother to the Raven:
"O my son—my brave young hunter,
Feed my tender little orphan;
Be a father to my orphan;
Be a mother to my orphan—
For the crafty Red Fox robbed us—
Robbed the Sea-Gull of her husband,
Robbed the infant of her mother.
From this cliff the treacherous woman
Headlong into Gitchee Gumee
Plunged the mother of my orphan.
Then a Nebe-nâw-baig caught me—
Chief of all the Nebe-nâw-baigs—
Took me to his shining wigwam,
In the cavern of the waters,
Deep beneath the mighty waters.
All below is burnished copper,
All above is burnished silver
Gemmed with amethyst and agates.
As his wife the Spirit holds me;
By this silver chain he holds me.
"When my little one is famished,
When with long and piteous wailing
Cries the orphan for her mother,
Hither bring her, O my Raven;
I will hear her—I will answer.
Now the Nebe-nâw-baig calls me—
Pulls the chain—I must obey him."
Thus she spoke, and in the twinkling
Of a star the spirit-woman
Changed into a snow-white sea-gull,
Spread her wings and o'er the waters
Swiftly flew and swiftly vanished.
Then in secret to the Panther
Raven told his tale of wonder.
Sad and sullen was the hunter;
Sorrow gnawed his heart like hunger;
All the old love came upon him,
And the new love was a hatred.
Hateful to his heart was Red Fox,
But he kept from her the secret—
Kept his knowledge of the murder.
Vain was she and very haughty—
Oge-mâ-kwa[[25]] of the wigwam.
All in vain her fond caresses
On the Panther now she lavished;
When she smiled his face was sullen,
When she laughed he frowned upon her;
In her net of raven tresses
Now no more she held him tangled.
Now through all her fair disguises
Panther saw an evil spirit,
Saw the false heart of the woman.
On the tall cliff o'er the waters
Raven sat with Waub-omeé-meé,
Sat and watched again and waited,
Till the wee one, faint and famished,
Made a long and piteous wailing.
Then again the snow-white Sea-Gull,
From afar where sky and waters
Meet in misty haze and mingle,
Straight toward the rocky highland,
Straight as flies the feathered arrow,
Straight to Raven and the infant,
With the silver chain around her,
Flew and touched the earth a woman.
In her arms she caught her infant—
Caught the wailing Waub-omeé-meé,
Sang a lullaby and nursed her.
Sprang the Panther from the thicket—
Sprang and broke the chain of silver!
With his tomahawk he broke it.
Thus he freed the willing Sea-Gull—
From the Water-Spirit freed her,
From the Chief of Nebe-nâw-baigs.
Very angry was the Spirit;
When he drew the chain of silver,
Drew and found that it was broken,
Found that he had lost the woman,
Very angry was the Spirit.
Then he raged beneath the waters,
Raged and smote the mighty waters,
Till the big sea boiled and bubbled,
Till the white-haired, bounding billows
Roared around the rocky headlands,
Rolled and roared upon the shingle.
To the wigwam happy Panther,
As when first he wooed and won her
Led his wife—as young and handsome.
For the waves of Gitchee Gumee
Washed away the frost and wrinkles,
And the spirits by their magic
Made her young and fair forever.
In the wigwam sat the Red Fox,
Sat and sang a song of triumph,
For she little dreamed of danger,
Till the haughty hunter entered,
Followed by the happy mother,
Holding in her arms her infant.
When the Red Fox saw the Sea-Gull—
Saw the dead a living woman,
One wild cry she gave despairing,
One wild cry as of a demon.
Up she sprang and from the wigwam
To the tall cliff flew in terror;
Frantic sprang upon the margin,
Frantic plunged into the waters,
Headlong plunged into the waters.
Dead she tossed upon the billows;
For the Nebe-nâw-baigs knew her,
Knew the crafty, wicked woman,
And they cast her from the waters,
Spurned her from their shining wigwams;
Far away upon the shingle
With the roaring waves they cast her.
There upon her bloated body
Fed the cawing crows and ravens,
Fed the hungry wolves and foxes.
On the shore of Gitchee Gumee,
Ever young and ever handsome,
Long and happy lived the Sea-Gull,
Long and happy with the Panther.
Evermore the happy hunter
Loved the mother of his children.
Like a red star many winters
Blazed their lodge-fire on the sea-shore.
O'er the Bridge of Souls[[26]] together
Walked the Sea-Gull and the Panther.
To the far-off Sunny Islands—
To the Summer-Land of Spirits,
Sea-Gull journeyed with her husband—
Where no more the happy hunter
Feels the fangs of frost or famine,
Or the keen blasts of Kewâydin,
Where no pain or sorrow enters,
And no crafty, wicked woman.
There she rules his lodge forever,
And the twain are very happy,
On the far-off Sunny Islands,
In the Summer-Land of Spirits.
On the rocks of Gitchee Gumee—
On the Pictured Rocks—the legend
Long ago was traced and written,
Pictured by the Water-Spirits;
But the storms of many winters
Have bedimmed the pictured story,
So that none can read the legend
But the Jossakeeds,[[27]] the prophets.
POETRY.
I had rather write one word upon the rock
Of ages than ten thousand in the sand.
The rock of ages! lo I cannot reach
Its lofty shoulders with my puny hand:
I can but touch the sands about its feet.
Yea, I have painted pictures for the blind,
And sung my sweetest songs to ears of stone.
What matter if the dust of ages drift
Five fathoms deep above my grave unknown,
For I have sung and loved the songs I sung.
Who sings for fame the Muses may disown;
Who sings for gold will sing an idle song;
But he who sings because sweet music springs
Unbidden from his heart and warbles long,
May haply touch another heart unknown.
There is sweeter poetry in the hearts of men
Than ever poet wrote or minstrel sung;
For words are clumsy wings for burning thought.
The full heart falters on the stammering tongue,
And silence is more eloquent than song
When tender souls are wrung by grief or shameful wrong.
The grandest poem is God's Universe:
In measured rhythm the planets whirl their course:
Rhythm swells and throbs in every sun and star,
In mighty ocean's organ-peals and roar,
In billows bounding on the harbor-bar,
In the blue surf that rolls upon the shore,
In the low zephyr's sigh, the tempest's sob,
In the rain's patter and the thunder's roar;
Aye, in the awful earthquake's shuddering throb,
When old Earth cracks her bones and trembles to her core.
I hear a piper piping on a reed
To listening flocks of sheep and bearded goats;
I hear the larks shrill-warbling o'er the mead
Their silver sonnets from their golden throats;
And in my boyhood's clover-fields I hear
The twittering swallows and the hum of bees.
Ah, sweeter to my heart and to my ear
Than any idyl poet ever sung,
The low, sweet music of their melodies;
Because I listened when my soul was young,
In those dear meadows under maple trees.
My heart they molded when its clay was moist,
And all my life the hum of honey-bees
Hath waked in me a spirit that rejoiced,
And touched the trembling chords of tenderest memories.
I hear loud voices and a clamorous throng
With braying bugles and with bragging drums—
Bards and bardies laboring at a song.
One lifts his locks, above the rest preferred,
And to the buzzing flies of fashion thrums
A banjo. Lo him follow all the herd.
When Nero's wife put on her auburn wig,
And at the Coliseum showed her head,
The hair of every dame in Rome turned red;
When Nero fiddled all Rome danced a jig.
Novelty sets the gabbling geese agape,
And fickle fashion follows like an ape.
Aye, brass is plenty; gold is scarce and dear;
Crystals abound, but diamonds still are rare.
Is this the golden age, or the age of gold?
Lo by the page or column fame is sold.
Hear the big journal braying like an ass;
Behold the brazen statesmen as they pass;
See dapper poets hurrying for their dimes
With hasty verses hammered out in rhymes:
The Muses whisper—'"Tis the age of brass."
Workmen are plenty, but the masters few—
Fewer to-day than in the days of old.
Rare blue-eyed pansies peeping pearled with dew,
And lilies lifting up their heads of gold,
Among the gaudy cockscombs I behold,
And here and there a lotus in the shade;
And under English oaks a rose that ne'er will fade.
Fair barks that flutter in the sun your sails,
Piping anon to gay and tented shores
Sweet music and low laughter, it is well
Ye hug the haven when the tempest roars,
For only stalwart ships of oak or steel
May dare the deep and breast the billowy sea
When sweeps the thunder-voiced, dark hurricane,
And the mad ocean shakes his shaggy mane,
And roars through all his grim and vast immensity.
The stars of heaven shine not till it is dark.
Seven cities strove for Homer's bones, 'tis said,
"Through which the living Homer begged for bread."
When in their coffins they lay dumb and stark
Shakespeare began to live, Dante to sing,
And Poe's sweet lute began its werbelling.
Rear monuments of fame or flattery—
Think ye their sleeping souls are made aware?
Heap o'er their heads sweet praise or calumny—
Think ye their moldering ashes hear or care?
Nay, praise and fame are by the living sought;
But he is wise who scorns their flattery,
And who escapes the tongue of calumny
May count himself an angel or a naught:
Lo over Byron's grave a maggot writhes distraught.
Genius is patience, labor and good sense.
Steel and the mind grow bright by frequent use;
In rest they rust. A goodly recompense
Comes from hard toil, but not from its abuse.
The slave, the idler, are alike unblessed;
Aye, in loved labor only is there rest.
But he will read and range and rhyme in vain
Who hath no dust of diamonds in his brain;
And untaught genius is a gem undressed.
The life of man is short, but Art is long,
And labor is the lot of mortal man,
Ordained by God since human time began:
Day follows day and brings its toil and song.
Behind the western mountains sinks the moon,
The silver dawn steals in upon the dark,
Up from the dewy meadow wheels the lark
And trills his welcome to the rising sun,
And lo another day of labor is begun.
Poets are born, not made, some scribbler said,
And every rhymester thinks the saying true:
Better unborn than wanting labor's aid:
Aye, all great poets—all great men—are made
Between the hammer and the anvil. Few
Have the true metal, many have the fire.
No slave or savage ever proved a bard;
Men have their bent, but labor its reward,
And untaught fingers cannot tune the lyre.
The poet's brain with spirit-vision teems;
The voice of nature warbles in his heart;
A sage, a seer, he moves from men apart,
And walks among the shadows of his dreams;
He sees God's light that in all nature beams;
And when he touches with the hand of art
The song of nature welling from his heart,
And guides it forth in pure and limpid streams,
Truth sparkles in the song and like a diamond gleams.
Time and patience change the mulberry-leaf
To shining silk; the lapidary's skill
Makes the rough diamond sparkle at his will,
And cuts a gem from quartz or coral-reef.
Better a skillful cobbler at his last
Than unlearned poet twangling on the lyre;
Who sails on land and gallops on the blast,
And mounts the welkin on a braying ass,
Clattering a shattered cymbal bright with brass,
And slips his girth and tumbles in the mire.
All poetry must be, if it be true,
Like the keen arrows of the—Grecian god
Apollo, that caught fire as they flew.
Ah, such was Byron's, but alas he trod
Ofttimes among the brambles and the rue,
And sometimes dived full deep and brought up mud.
But when he touched with tears, as only he
Could touch, the tender chords of sympathy,
His coldest critics warmed and marveled much,
And all old England's heart throbbed to his thrilling touch.
Truth is the touchstone of all genius Art,
In poet, painter, sculptor, is the same:
What cometh from the heart goes to the heart,
What comes from effort only is but tame.
Nature the only perfect artist is:
Who studies Nature may approach her skill;
Perfection hers, but never can be his,
Though her sweet voice his very marrow thrill;
The finest works of art are Nature's shadows still.
Look not for faultless men or faultless art;
Small faults are ever virtue's parasites:
As in a picture shadows show the lights,
So human foibles show a human heart.
O while I live and linger on the brink
Let the dear Muses be my company;
Their nectared goblets let my parched lips drink;
Ah, let me drink the soma of their lips!
As humming-bird the lily's nectar sips,
Or Houris sip the wine of Salsabil.
Aye, let me to their throbbing music thrill,
And let me never for one moment think,
Although no laurel crown my constancy,
Their gracious smiles are false, their dearest kiss a lie.
TWENTY YEARS AGO
I am growing old and weary
Ere yet my locks are gray;
Before me lies eternity,
Behind me—but a day.
How fast the years are vanishing!
They melt like April snow:
It seems to me but yesterday—
Twenty years ago.
There's the school-house on the hill-side,
And the romping scholars all;
Where we used to con our daily tasks,
And play our games of ball.
They rise to me in visions—
In sunny dreams—and ho'
I sport among the boys and girls
Twenty years ago.
We played at ball in summer time—
We boys—with hearty will;
With merry shouts in winter time
We coasted on the hill.
We would choose our chiefs, divide in bands,
And build our forts of snow,
And storm those forts right gallantly—
Twenty years ago.
Last year in June I visited
That dear old sacred spot,
But the school-house on the hill-side
And the merry shouts were not.
A church was standing where it stood;
I looked around, but no—
I could not see the boys and girls
Of twenty years ago.
There was sister dear, and brother,
Around the old home-hearth;
And a tender, Christian mother,
Too angel-like for earth.
She used to warn me from the paths
Where thorns and brambles grow,
And lead me in the "narrow way"—
Twenty years ago.
I loved her and I honored her
Through all my boyhood years;
I knew her joys—I knew her cares—
I knew her hopes and fears.
But alas, one autumn morning
She left her home below,
And she left us there a-weeping—
Twenty years ago.
They bore her to the church-yard,
With slow and solemn pace;
And there I took my last fond look
On her dear, peaceful face.
They lowered her in her silent grave,
While we bowed our heads in woe,
And they heaped the sods above her head—
Twenty years ago.
That low, sweet voice—my mother's voice—
I never can forget;
And in those loving eyes I see
The big tears trembling yet.
I try to tread the "narrow way;"
I stumble oft I know:
I miss—how much!—the helping hand
Of twenty years ago.
Mary—(Mary I will call you—
'Tis not the old-time name)
Sainted Mary—blue-eyed Mary—
Are you in heaven the same?
Are your eyes as bright and beautiful,
Your cheeks as full of glow,
As when the school-boy kissed you, May,
Twenty years ago?
How we swung upon the grape-vine
Down by the Genesee;
And I caught the speckled trout for you,
While you gathered flowers for me:
How we rambled o'er the meadows
With brows and cheeks aglow,
And hearts like God's own angels—
Twenty years ago.
[Illustration: HOW, WE SWUNG UPON THE GRAPE-VINE DOWN BY THE GENESEE, AND I CAUGHT THE SPECKLED TROUT FOR YOU, WHILE YOU GATHERED FLOWERS FOR ME]
How our young hearts grew together
Until they beat as one;
Distrust it could not enter;
Cares and fears were none.
All my love was yours, dear Mary,
'Twas boyish love, I know;
But I ne'er have loved as then I loved—
Twenty years ago.
How we pictured out the future—
The golden coming years,
And saw no cloud in all our sky,
No gloomy mist of tears;
But ah—how vain are human hopes!
The angels came—and O—
They bore my darling up to heaven—
Twenty years ago.
I will not tell—I cannot tell—
What anguish wrung my soul;
But a silent grief is on my heart
Though the years so swiftly roll;
And I cannot shake it off, May,
This lingering sense of woe,
Though I try to drown the memory
Of twenty years ago.
I am fighting life's stern battle, May,
With all my might and main;
But a seat by you and mother there
Is the dearest prize to gain;
And I know you both are near me,
Whatever winds may blow,
For I feel your spirits cheer me
Like twenty years ago.
BETZKO
A HUNGARIAN LEGEND
Stibor had led in many a fight,
And broken a score of swords
In furious frays and bloody raids
Against the Turkish hordes.
And Sigismund, the Polish king,
Who joined the Magyar bands,
Bestowed upon the valiant knight
A broad estate of lands.
Once when the wars were o'er, the knight
Was holding wassail high,
And the valiant men that followed him
Were at the revelry.
Betzko, his Jester, pleased him so
He vowed it his the task
To do whatever in human power
His witty Fool might ask.
"Build on yon cliff," the Jester cried,
In drunken jollity,
"A mighty castle high and wide,
And name it after me."
"Ah, verily a Jester's prayer,"
Exclaimed the knightly crew,
"To ask of such a noble lord
What you know he cannot do."
"Who says I cannot," Stibor cried,
"Do whatsoe'er I will?
Within one year a castle shall stand
On yonder rocky hill—
"A castle built of ponderous stones,
To give me future fame;
In honor of my witty Fool,
Betzko shall be its name."
Now the cliff was high three hundred feet,
And perpendicular;
And the skill that could build a castle there
Must come from lands afar.
And craftsmen came from foreign lands,
Italian, German and Jew—
Apprentices and fellow-craftsmen,
And master-masons, too.
And every traveler journeying
Along the mountain-ways
Was held to pay his toll of toil
On the castle for seven days.
Slowly they raised the massive towers
Upon the steep ascent,
And all around a thousand hands
Built up the battlement.
Three hundred feet above the glen—
(By the steps five hundred feet)—
The castle stood upon the cliff
At the end of the year—complete.
Now throughout all the Magyar land
There's none other half so high,
So massive built, so strong and grand;—
It reaches the very sky.
But from that same high battlement
(Say tales by gypsies told)
The valiant Stibor met his death
When he was cross and old.
I'll tell you the tale as they told it to me,
And I doubt not it is true,
For 'twas handed down from the middle ages
From the lips of knights who knew.
One day when the knight was old and cross,
And a little the worse for grog,
Betzko, the Jester, thoughtlessly
Struck Stibor's favorite dog.
Now the dog was a hound and Stibor's pet,
And as white as Carpathian snow,
And Stibor hurled old Betzko down
From the walls to the rocks below.
And as the Jester headlong fell
From the dizzy, dreadful height,
He muttered a curse with his latest breath
On the head of the cruel knight.
One year from that day old Stibor held
His drunken wassail long,
And spent the hours till the cock crew morn
In jest and wine and song.
Then he sought his garden on the cliff,
And lay down under a vine
To sleep away the lethargy
Of a wassail-bowl of wine.
While sleeping soundly under the shade,
And dreaming of revelries,
An adder crawled upon his breast,
And bit him in both his eyes.
Blinded and mad with pain he ran
Toward the precipice,
Unheeding till he headlong fell
Adown the dread abyss.
Just where old Betzko's blood had dyed
With red the old rocks gray,
Quivering and bleeding and dumb and dead
Old Stibor's body lay.
WESSELENYI
A HUNGARIAN TALE
When madly raged religious war
O'er all the Magyar land
And royal archer and hussar
Met foemen hand to hand,
A princess fair in castle strong
The royal troops defied
And bravely held her fortress long
Though help was all denied.
Princess Maria was her name—
Brave daughter nobly sired;
She caught her father's trusty sword
When bleeding he expired,
And bravely rallied warders all
To meet the storming foe,
And hurled them from the rampart-wall
Upon the crags below.
Prince Casimir—her father—built
Murana high and wide;
It sat among the mountain cliffs—
The Magyars' boast and pride.
Bold Wesselenyi—stalwart knight,
Young, famed and wondrous fair,
With a thousand men besieged the height,
And led the bravest there.
And long he tried the arts of war
To take that castle-hold,
Till many a proud and plumed hussar
Was lying stiff and cold;
And still the frowning castle stood
A grim, unbroken wall,
Like some lone rock in stormy seas
That braves the billows all.
Bold Wesselenyi's cheeks grew thin;
A solemn oath he sware
That if he failed the prize to win
His bones should molder there.
Two toilsome months had worn away,
Two hundred men were slain,
His bold assaults were baffled still,
And all his arts were vain.
But love is mightier than the sword,
He clad him in disguise—
In the dress of an inferior lord—
To win the noble prize.
He bade his armed men to wait,
To cease the battle-blare
And sought alone the castle-gate
To hold a parley there.
Aloft a flag of truce he bore:
Her warders bade him pass;
Within he met the princess fair
All clad in steel and brass.
Her bright, black eyes and queenly art,
Sweet lips and raven hair,
Smote bold young Wesselenyi's heart
While he held parley there.
Cunning he talked of great reward
And royal favor, too,
If she would yield her father's sword;
She sternly answered "No."
But even while they parleyed there
Maria's lustrous eyes
Looked tenderly and lovingly
On the chieftain in disguise.
"Go tell your gallant chief," she said,
"To keep his paltry pelf;
The knight who would my castle win,
Must dare to come himself."
And forth she sternly bade him go,
But followed with her eyes.
I ween she knew the brave knight well
Through all his fair disguise.
But when had dawned another morn,
He bade his bugleman
To sound again the parley-horn
Ere yet the fray began.
And forth he sent a trusty knight
To seek the castle-gate
And to the princess privately
His message to relate;—
That he it was who in disguise
Her warders bade to pass,
And while he parleyed there her eyes
Had pierced his plates of brass.
His heart he offered and his hand,
And pledged a signet-ring
If she would yield her brave command
Unto his gracious king.
"Go tell your chief," Maria cried—
"Audacious as he is—
If he be worthy such a bride
My castle and hand are his.
But he should know that lady fair
By faint heart ne'er was won;
So let your gallant chieftain, sir,
Come undisguised alone.
"And he may see in the northern tower,
Over yonder precipice,
A lone, dim light at the midnight hour
Shine down the dark abyss.
And over the chasm's dungeon-gloom
Shall a slender ladder hang;
And if alone he dare to come,—
Unarmed—without a clang,
"More of his suit your chief shall hear
Perhaps may win the prize;
Tell him the way is hedged with fear,—
One misstep and he dies.
Nor will I pledge him safe retreat
From out yon guarded tower;
My watchful warders all to cheat
May be beyond my power."
At midnight's dark and silent hour
The tall and gallant knight
Sought on the cliff the northern tower,
And saw the promised light.
With toil he climbed the cragged cliff,
And there the ladder found;
And o'er the yawning gulf he clomb
The ladder round by round.
And as he climbed the ladder bent
Above the yawning deep,
But bravely to the port he went
And entered at a leap
Full twenty warders thronged the hall
Each with his blade in hand;
They caught the brave knight like a thrall
And bound him foot and hand.
They tied him fast to an iron ring,
At Maria's stern command,
And then they jeered—"God save the king
And all his knightly band!"
They bound a bandage o'er his eyes,
Then the haughty princess said:
"Audacious knight, I hold a prize,—
My castle or your head!
"Now, mark!—desert the king's command,
And join your sword with mine,
And thine shall be my heart and hand,
This castle shall be thine.
I grant one hour for thee to choose,
My bold and gallant lord;
And if my offer you refuse
You perish by the sword!"
He spoke not a word, but his face was pale
And he prayed a silent prayer;
But his heart was oak and it could not quail,
And a secret oath he sware.
And grim stood the warders armed all,
In the torches' flicker and flare,
As they watch for an hour in the gloomy hall
The brave knight pinioned there.
The short—the flying hour is past,
The warders have bared his breast;
The bugler bugles a doleful blast;
Will the pale knight stand the test?
He has made his choice—he will do his part,
He has sworn and he cannot lie,
And he cries with the sword at his beating heart,—
"Betray?—nay—better to die!"
Suddenly fell from his blue eyes
The silken, blinding bands,
And while he looked in sheer surprise
They freed his feet and hands.
"I give thee my castle," Maria cried,
"And I give thee my heart and hand,
And Maria will be the proudest bride
In all this Magyar land.
"Grant heaven that thou be true to me
As thou art to the king,
And I'll bless the day I gave to thee
My castle for a ring."
The red blood flushed to the brave knight's face
As he looked on the lady fair;
He sprang to her arms in a fond embrace,
And he married her then and there.
So the little blind elf with his feathered shaft
Did more than the sword could do,
For he conquered and took with his magical craft
Her heart and her castle, too.
[Illustration: WESSELENYI]