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)[10]
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 shriveled 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,
Lured 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,
Overlooking 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.