Indian Legends and Other Poems Part 1

Indian Legends and Other Poems.

by Mary Gardiner Horsford.

INDIAN LEGENDS.

THE THUNDERBOLT.

There is an artless tradition among the Indians, related by Irving, of a warrior who saw the thunderbolt lying upon the ground, with a beautifully wrought moccasin on each side of it. Thinking he had found a prize, he put on the moccasins, but they bore him away to the land of spirits, whence he never returned.

Loud pealed the thunder From a.r.s.enal high, Bright flashed the lightning Athwart the broad sky; Fast o'er the prairie, Through torrent and shade, Sought the red hunter His hut in the glade.

Deep roared the cannon Whose forge is the sun, And red was the chain The thunderbolt spun; O'er the thick wild wood There quivered a line, Low 'mid the green leaves Lay hunter and pine.

Clear was the suns.h.i.+ne, The hurricane past, And fair flowers smiled in The path of the blast; While in the forest Lay rent the huge tree, Up rose the red man, All unharmed and free.

Bright glittered each leaf With sunlight and spray, And close at his feet The thunder-bolt lay, And moccasins, wrought With the beads that s.h.i.+ne, Where the rainbow hangeth A wampum divine.

Wondered the hunter What spirit was there, Then donned the strange gift With shout and with prayer; But the stout forest That echoed the strain, Heard never the voice of That red man again.

Up o'er the mountain, As torrents roll down, Marched he o'er dark oak And pine's soaring crown; Far in the bright west The sunset grew clear, Crimson and golden The hunting-grounds near:

Light trod the chieftain The tapestried plain, There stood his good horse He'd left with the slain; Gone were the sandals, And broken the spell; A drop of clear dew From either foot fell.

Long the dark maiden Sought, tearful and wide; Never the red man Came back for his bride; With the forked lightning Now hunts he the deer, Where the Great Spirit Smiles ever and near.

THE PHANTOM BRIDE.

During the Revolutionary war, a young American lady was murdered, while dressed in her bridal robe, by a party of Indians, sent by her betrothed to conduct her to the village where he was encamped.

After the deed was done, they carried her long hair to her lover, who, urged by a frantic despair, hurried to the spot to a.s.sure himself of the truth of the tale, and shortly after threw himself, in battle, on the swords of his countrymen. After this event, the Indians were never successful in their warfare, the spectre of their victim presenting itself continually between them and the enemy.

The worn bird of Freedom had furled o'er our land The shattered wings, pierced by the despot's rude hand, And stout hearts were vowing, 'mid havoc and strife, To Liberty, fortune, fame, honor, and life.

The red light of Morning had scarcely betrayed The sweet summer blossoms that slept in the glade, When a horseman rode forth from his camp in the wood, And paused where a cottage in loneliness stood.

The ruthless marauder preceded him there, For the green vines were torn from the trellis-work fair, The flowers in the garden all hoof-trodden lay, And the rafters were black with the smoke of the fray: But the desolate building he heeded not long, Was it echo, the wind, or the notes of a song?

One moment for doubt, and he stood by the side Of the dark-eyed young maiden, his long-promised bride.

Few and short were their words, for the camp of the foe Was but severed from them, by a stream's narrow flow, And her fair cheek grew pale at the forest bird's start, But he said, as he mounted his steed to depart, "Nay, fear not, but trust to the chief for thy guide, And the light of the morrow shall see thee my bride."

Why faltered the words ere the sentence was o'er?

Why trembled each heart like the surf on the sh.o.r.e?

In a marvellous legend of old it is said, That the cross where the Holy One suffered and bled Was built of the aspen, whose pale silver leaf, Has ever more quivered with horror and grief; And e'er since the hour, when thy pinion of light Was sullied in Eden, and doomed, through a night Of Sin and of Sorrow, to struggle above, Hast thou been a trembler, O beautiful Love!

'T was the deep hush of midnight; the stars from the sky Looked down with the glance of a seraph's bright eye, When it cleaveth in vision from Deity's shrine Through infinite s.p.a.ce and creation divine, As the maiden came forth for her bridal arrayed, And was led by the red men through forest and shade, Till they paused where a fountain gushed clear in its play, And the tall pines rose dark and sublime o'er their way.

Alas for the visions that, joyous and pure, Wove a vista of light through the Future's obscure!

Contention waxed fierce 'neath the evergreen boughs, And the braves of the chieftain were false to his vows; In vain knelt the Pale-Face to merciless wrath, The tomahawk gleamed on her desolate path, One prayer for her lover, one look towards the sky, And the dark hand of Death closed the love-speaking eye.

They covered with dry leaves the cold corpse and fair, And bore the long tresses of soft, golden hair, In silence and fear, through the dense forest wide, To the home that the lover had made for his bride.

He knew by their waving those tresses of gold, Now damp with the life-blood that darkened each fold, And, mounting his steed, pausing never for breath Sought the spot where the huge trees stood sentries of Death; Tore wildly the leaves from the loved form away, And kissed the pale lips of inanimate clay.

But hark! through the green wood what sounded afar, 'T was the trumpet's loud peal--the alarum of war!

Again on his charger, through forest, o'er plain, The soldier rode swift to his ranks 'mid the slain: They faltered, they wavered, half turning to fly As their leader dashed frantic and fearlessly by, The damp turf grew crimson wherever he trod, Where his sword was uplifted a soul went to G.o.d.

But that brave arm alone might not conquer in strife, The madness of grief was conflicting with Life; His steed fell beneath him, the death-shot whizzed by, And he rushed on the swords of the victors to die.

'Neath the murmuring pine trees they laid side by side, The gallant young soldier, the fair, murdered bride: And never again from that traitorous night, The red man dared stand in the battle's fierce storm, For ever before him a phantom of light, Rose up in the white maiden's beautiful form; And when he would rush on the foe from his lair, Those locks of pale gold floated past on the air.

THE LAUGHING WATER.

The Indian name for the Falls of St. Anthony signifies "Laughing Water," and here tradition says that a young woman of the Dahcotah tribe, the father of her children having taken another wife, unmoored her canoe above the fall, and placing herself and children in it, sang her death-song as she went over the foaming declivity.

The sun went down the west As a warrior to his grave, And touched with crimson hue The "Laughing Water's" wave; And where the current swept A quick, convulsive flood, Serene upon the brink An Indian mother stood.

With calm and serious gaze She watched the torrent blue And then with skilful hand Unmoored the birch canoe, Seized the light oar, and placed Her infants by her side, And steered the fragile bark On through the rus.h.i.+ng tide.

Then fitfully and wild In thrilling notes of woe Swept down the rapid stream The death-song sad and low; And gathered on the marge, From many a forest glen, With frantic gestures rude, The red Dahcotah men.

But onward sped the bark Until it reached the height, Where mounts the angry spray And raves the water's might And whirling eddies swept Into the gulf below The smiles of infancy And youth's maturer glow; The priestess of the rock And white-robed surges bore The wronged and broken heart To the far off Spirit Sh.o.r.e.

And often when the night Has drawn her shadowy veil, And solemn stars look forth Serenely pure and pale, A spectre bark and form May still be seen to glide, In wondrous silence down The Laughing Water's tide.

And mingling with the breath Of low winds sweeping free, The night-bird's fitful plaint, And moaning forest tree, Amid the lulling chime Of waters falling there, The death-song floats again Upon the laden air.

THE LAST OF THE RED MEN.

Travellers in Mexico have found the form of a serpent invariably pictured over the doorways of the Indian Temples, and on the interior walls, the impression of a red hand.

The superst.i.tions attached to the phenomena of the thunderstorm and Aurora Borealis, alluded to in the poem, are well authenticated.

I saw him in vision,--the last of that race Who were destined to vanish before the Pale-face, As the dews of the evening from mountain and dale, When the thirsty young Morning withdraws her dark veil; Alone with the Past and the Future's chill breath, Like a soul that has entered the valley of Death.

He stood where of old from the Fane of the Sun, While cycles unnumbered their centuries run, Never quenched, never fading, and mocking at Time, Blazed the fire sacerdotal far o'er the fair clime; Where the temples o'ershadowed the Mexican plain, And the hosts of the Aztec were conquered and slain; Where the Red Hand still glows on pilaster and wall, And the serpent keeps watch o'er the desolate hall.

He stood as an oak, on the bleak mountainside, The lightning hath withered and scorched in its pride Most stately in death, and refusing to bend To the blast that ere long must its dry branches rend; With coldness and courage confronting Life's care, But the coldness, the courage, that's born of despair.

I marked him where, winding through harvest-crowned plain, The "Father of Waters" sweeps on to the main, Where the dark mounds in silence and loneliness stand, And the wrecks of the Red-man are strewn o'er the land: The forests were levelled that once were his home, O'er the fields of his sires glittered steeple and dome; The chieftain no longer in greenwood and glade With trophies of fame wooed the dusky-haired maid, And the voice of the hunter had died on the air With the victor's defiance and captive's low prayer; But the winds and the waves and the firmament's scroll, With Divinity still were instinct to his soul; At midnight the war-horse still cleaved the blue sky, As it bore the departed to mansions on high; Still dwelt in the rock and the sh.e.l.l and the tide A tutelar angel, invisible guide; Still heard he the tread of the Deity nigh, When the lightning's wild pinion gleamed bright on the eye, And saw in the Northern-lights, flas.h.i.+ng and red, The shades of his fathers, the dance of the dead.

And scorning the works and abode of his foe, The pilgrim raised far from that valley of woe His dark, eagle gaze, to the sun-gilded west, Where the fair "Land of Shadows" lay viewless and blest.

Again I beheld him where swift on its way Leaped the cataract, foaming, with thunder and spray, To the whirlpool below from the dark ledge on high, While the mist from its waters commixed with the sky.

The dense earth thrilled deep to the voice of its roar, And the "Thunder of Waters" shook forest and sh.o.r.e, As he steered his frail bark to the horrible verge, And, chanting his death-song, went down with the surge.