|
THE lights of a hundred cities are fed by its midnight power.
Their wheels are moved by its thunder. But they, too, have their hour.
The tale of the Indian lovers, a cry from the years that are flown,
While the river of stars is rolling,
Rolling away to the darkness,
Abides with the power in the midnight, where love may find its own.
She watched from the Huron tents, till the first star shook in the air.
The sweet pine scented her fawn-skins, and breathed from her braided hair.
Her crown was of milk-white blood-root, because of the tryst she would keep,
Beyond the river of beauty
That drifted away in the darkness
Drawing the sunset thro’ lilies, with eyes like stars, to the deep.
He watched, like a tall young wood-god, from the red pine that she named;
But not for the peril behind him, where the eyes of the Mohawks flamed.
Eagle-plumed he stood. But his heart was hunting afar,
Where the river of longing whispered ...
And one swift shaft from the darkness
Felled him, her name in his death-cry, his eyes on the sunset star.
.......
She stole from the river and listened. The moon on her wet skin shone.
As a silver birch in a pine-wood, her beauty flashed and was gone.
There was no wave in the forest. The dark arms closed her round.
But the river of life went flowing,
Flowing away to the darkness,
For her breast grew red with his heart’s blood, in a night where the stars are drowned.
Teach me, O my lover, as you taught me of love in a day,
Teach me of death, and for ever, and set my feet on the way,
To the land of the happy shadows, the land where you are flown.
—And the river of death went weeping,
Weeping away to the darkness.—
Is the hunting good, my lover, so good that you hunt alone?
She rose to her feet like a shadow. She sent a cry thro’ the night,
Sa-sa-kuon, the death-whoop, that tells of triumph in fight.
It broke from the bell of her mouth like the cry of a wounded bird,
But the river of agony swelled it
And swept it along to the darkness,
And the Mohawks, couched in the darkness, leapt to their feet as they heard.
Close as the ring of the clouds that menace the moon with death,
At once they circled her round. Her bright breast panted for breath.
With only her own wild glory keeping the wolves at bay,
While the river of parting whispered,
Whispered away to the darkness,
She looked in their eyes for a moment, and strove for a word to say.
Teach me, O my lover!—She set her foot on the dead.
She laughed on the painted faces with their rings of yellow and red,—
I thank you, wolves of the Mohawk, for a woman’s hands might fail.—
—And the river of vengeance chuckled,
Chuckled away to the darkness,—
But ye have killed where I hunted. I have come to the end of my trail.
I thank you, braves of the Mohawk, who laid this thief at my feet.
He tore my heart out living, and tossed it his dogs to eat.
Ye have taught him of death in a moment, as he taught me of love in a day.
—And the river of passion deepened,
Deepened and rushed to the darkness.—
And yet may a woman requite you, and set your feet on the way.
For the woman that spits in my face, and the shaven heads that gibe,
This night shall a woman show you the tents of the Huron tribe.
They are lodged in a deep valley. With all things good it abounds.
Where the red-eyed, green-mooned river
Glides like a snake to the darkness,
I will show you a valley, Mohawks, like the Happy Hunting Grounds.
Follow! They chuckled, and followed like wolves to the glittering stream.
Shadows obeying a shadow, they launched their canoes in a dream.
Alone, in the first, with the blood on her breast, and her milk-white crown,
She stood. She smiled at them, Follow,
Then urged her canoe to the darkness,
And, silently flashing their paddles, the Mohawks followed her down.
.......
And now—-as they slid thro’ the pine-woods with their peaks of midnight blue,
She heard, in the broadening distance, the deep sound that she knew,
A mutter of steady thunder that grew as they glanced along;
But ever she glanced before them
And glanced away to the darkness,
And or ever they heard it rightly, she raised her voice in a song:—
The wind from the Isles of the Blesséd, it blows across the foam.
It sings in the flowing maples of the land that was my home.
Where the moose is a morning’s hunt, and the buffalo feeds from the hand.—
And the river of mockery broadened,
Broadened and rolled to the darkness—
And the green maize lifts its feathers, and laughs the snow from the land.
The river broadened and quickened. There was nought but river and sky.
The shores were lost in the darkness. She laughed and lifted a cry:
Follow me! Sa-sa-kuon! Swifter and swifter they swirled—
And the flood of their doom went flying,
Flying away to the darkness,
Follow me, follow me, Mohawks, ye are shooting the edge of the world.
They struggled like snakes to return. Like straws they were whirled on her track.
For the whole flood swooped to that edge where the unplumbed night dropt black,
The whole flood dropt to a thunder in an unplumbed hell beneath,
And over the gulf of the thunder
A mountain of spray from the darkness
Rose and stood in the heavens, like a shrouded image of death.
She rushed like a star before them. The moon on her glorying shone.
Teach me, O my lover,—her cry flashed out and was gone.
A moment they battled behind her. They lashed with their paddles and lunged;
Then the Mohawks, turning their faces
Like a blood-stained cloud to the darkness,
Over the edge of Niagara swept together and plunged.
And the lights of a hundred cities are fed by the ancient power;
But a cry returns with the midnight; for they, too, have their hour.
Teach me, O my lover, as you taught me of love in a day,
—While the river of stars is rolling,
Rolling away to the darkness,—
Teach me of death, and for ever, and set my feet on the way!
|