Read Ebook: Winona a Dakota Legend; and Other Poems by Huggins E L Eli Lundy

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WRITTEN FOR A REUNION OF VETERANS IN THE YEAR 1915 148

TWENTY-FIVE SONNETS.

TO ? 153

POESY 154

THE ROSE 155

TO A FAIR SANTA BARBARAN 156

LA DIVA 157

TO A HAPPY LOVER 158

METEMPSYCHOSIS.

THREE SONNETS IN MEMORIAM.

IN MEMORY OF D. G. R. 163

IN MEMORY OF JOHN BROWN OF OSSAWATTOMIE. INSCRIBED TO JOHN J. INGALLS.

OUR LOST ONES 167

THE OCEAN OF THE PAST 168

EVIL DAYS 169

ENVY AND SLANDER. TO N. N. M. 170

TRUE FREEDOM. TO J. F. F. 171

"SOCIETY" 172

THE STAGNANT POOL 173

THE MAN WITH THE MUCK RAKE 174

IMMORTALITY 175

TO A YOUNG ARTIST 176

WINONA: A DAKOTA LEGEND

WINONA: A DAKOTA LEGEND.

PROEM.

Fair Minnetonka, thou art changed, and yet I know not if 'twere matter for regret. Thou wast a maid untried, with yielding heart, With flowing hair, and ample sheltering arms, And unabashed contours, whose rosy charms Were all untrammelled by the hand of art, And eyes of dreamy mystery, wherein E'en then thy triumphs dimly were foreseen; A worldly-wise and queenly woman now, Adorned with spoil of many victories, And flush of further conquest on thy brow; Jewels cannot thy native charms enhance, Nor can thy robes, too tightly laced perchance, The matchless beauty of thy form disguise. Through every change, by every tongue confessed, Peerless amid thy sisters East or West; Like her of whom the master-singer wrote, "Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety." Thus float My wandering thoughts, as on the balcony I sit alone bathed in the moonlight pale, And musing thus the scene changed suddenly: Hotel and cottage vanished; to the shore The prairie sloped a green unbroken floor. Eight lustrums back, through rosy summers fled, Adown a dwindling vista far I sped, A careless youth; again my hoary head Bloomed with the sunny wealth of twenty years. A day came back, a day without compeers, When with a bright companion long since dead, In my canoe I flitted o'er the lake, And our swift paddles scattered pearly tears Upon the smiling ripples in our wake.

She, my companion, was a little maid Of somewhat rustic garb, of English speech, Yet something in her accents quaint and rich, And the warm tinge upon her cheek, betrayed The mingling crimson of a darker shade,-- Her kinship to the remnant lingering still, Whose cone-shaped lodges picturesquely stood, Dotting the hither base of yonder hill, Like late leaves clinging, spite of growing chill, Upon the boughs of a November wood. Changing our mood, we idly drifted there, Two happy children in a cradling shell Poised 'twixt two azure vaults; the mystic spell Of Indian summer brooded in the air, Filling with human love and sympathy E'en things inanimate; the earth and sky Leaned to each other, and the rocks and trees, Like brothers, seemed sharing our reveries.

"Tell me some legend of the lake," I cried, "For in a spot that breathes on every side Such air of poesy, whose influence Subdues with such a charm our every sense, How many loving hearts have loved and died! How many souls as lofty and intense As those whose names throughout the whole world ring, In the high songs the olden minstrels sing! Who hears those voices e'en but for a day, The sound remains a part of him alway: Penelope the constant; Hero sweet; Briseis weeping at Achilles' feet; Andromeda by wing?d Perseus found-- Bright blossom to the sea-girt rock fast bound; The Lesbian queen of song, but passion's slave, Who quenched her burning torch beneath the wave; Helen, whose beauty, like a fatal brand, Lit up the towers of Troy o'er sea and land; And Juliet, swaying at her window's height, What slender lily in the wan moonlight."

"I do not know," the little maid replied, "The names of which you speak, but ere she died My mother told me many stories old, Some joyous and some sad, of warriors bold, And spirits, haunting forest, plain, and stream. Each had its god, and creatures of strange form, Half beast, half human; all these figures seem Mingling away in a fantastic swarm, Dim as the faces of a last year's dream, Or motes that mingle in a slant sunbeam. The legends vanish too; among them all This one alone, distinctly I recall."

The tale she told me then I now rehearse, Set in a frame of rude, unpolished verse.

Winona, first-born daughter, was the name Of a Dakota girl who, long ago, Dwelt with her people here unknown to fame. Sweet word, Winona, how my heart and lips Cling to that name , Cling lovingly, and loth to let it go. All arts that unto savage life belong She knew, made moccasins, and dressed the game. From crippling fashions free, her well-knit frame At fifteen summers was mature and strong. She pitched the tipi, dug the tipsin roots, Gathered wild rice and store of savage fruits. Fearless and self-reliant, she could go Across the prairie on a starless night; She speared the fish while in his wildest flight, And almost like a warrior drew the bow. Yet she was not all hardness: the keen glance, Lighting the darkness of her eyes, perchance Betrayed no softness, but her voice, that rose O'er the weird circle of the midnight dance, Through all the gamut ran of human woes, Passion, and joy. A woman's love she had For ornament; on gala days was clad In garments of the softest doeskin fine, With shells about her neck; moccasins neat Were drawn, like gloves, upon her little feet, Adorned with scarlet quills of porcupine. Innocent of the niceties refined That to the toilet her pale sisters bind, Yet much the same beneath the outer rind, She was, though all unskilled in bookish lore, A sound, sweet woman to the very core.

The Raven lay one evening in his tent With his accustomed crony at his side; Around their heads a graceful aureole Of smoke curled upward from the scarlet bowl Of Gray Cloud's pipe with willow bark supplied. Winona's thrifty mother came and went, Her form with household cares and burdens bent, Fresh fuel adds, and stirs the boiling pot. Meanwhile the young Winona, half reclined, Plies her swift needle, that resource refined For woman's leisure, whatsoe'er her lot, The kingly palace or the savage cot.

The cronies smoked without a sign or word, Passing the pipe sedately to and fro; Only a distant wail of hopeless woe, A mother mourning for her child, was heard, And Gray Cloud moved, as though the sound had stirred Some dusty memory; still that bitter wail, Rachel's despairing cry without avail, That beats the brazen firmament in vain, Since the first mother wept o'er Abel slain. At length the conjurer's lips the silence broke, Softly at first as to himself he spoke, Till warmed by his own swarming fancies' brood He poured the strain almost in numbers rude.

THE COMBAT BETWEEN THE THUNDER-BIRDS AND THE WATER-DEMONS.

A god might gaze and tremble at the sight Of our array that turned the day to night; With bow and shield and flame-tipped arrows all, Rushing together at our leader's call, Like storm clouds sweeping round a mountain height. The lofty cliffs our warlike muster saw, Hard by the village of great Wabashaw, Where through a lake the Mississippi flows; Far o'er the dwelling of our ancient foes, The hated Water-Demon and his sons, Cold, dark and deep the sluggish current runs.

Up from their caverns swarming, when they heard The rolling signal of the Thunder-Bird, The Water-Demon and his sons arose, And answered back the challenge of their foes. With horns tumultuous clashing like a herd Of warring elks that struggle for the does, They lashed the wave to clouds of spray and foam, Through which their forms uncouth, like buffaloes Seen dimly through a morning mist, did loom, Or isles at twilight rising from the shore.

Though we were thirty, they at least fourscore, We rushed upon them, and a midnight pall Over the seething lake our pinions spread, 'Neath which our gleaming arrows thickly sped, As shooting stars that in the rice-moon fall. Rent by our beating wings the cloud-waves swung In eddies round us, and our leader's roar Smote peal on peal, and from their bases flung The rocks that towered along the trembling shore.

A Thunder-Bird--alas, my chosen friend, But even so a warrior's life should end,-- A Thunder-Bird was stricken; his bright beak, Cleaving the tumult like a lightning streak, Smote with a fiery hiss the watery plain; His upturned breast, where gleamed one fleck of red, His sable wings, one moment wide outspread, Blackened the whirlpool o'er his sinking head.

The combat ceased, the Thunder-Birds had won. The Water-Demon with one favorite son Fled from the carnage and escaped our wrath. The vapors, thinly curling from the shore, Faint musky odors to our nostrils bore. The air was stilled, the silence of the dead; The sun, just starting on his downward path, A rosy mantle o'er the prairie shed, Save where, like vultures, ominous and still, We clustered close, on sullen wings outspread; And sometimes, with a momentary chill, A giant shadow swept o'er plain and hill,-- A Thunder-Bird careering overhead, Seeking the track by which the foe had fled.

While thus we hovered motionless, the sun Adown the west his punctual course had run, When lo, two shining points far up the stream That split the prairie with a silver seam,-- The fleeing Water-Demon and his son; Like icicles they glittered in the beam Still struggling up from the horizon's rim. His sleeping anger kindled at the sight, Our leader's eyes glowed like a flaming brand. Thrilled by one impulse, all our sable band Dove through the gathering shadows of the night On wings outshaken for a headlong flight. Anger, revenge, but more than all the thirst, The glorious emulation to be first, Stung me like fire, and filled each quivering plume. With tenfold speed our sharp beaks cleft the gloom, A swarm of arrows singing to the mark, We hissed to pierce the foe ere yet 'twas dark.

Still up the stream the Water-Demons fled, Their bodies glowed like fox-fire far ahead; But every moment saw the distance close Between our thirsting spear-heads and our foes. Louder the blast our buzzing pinions made Than mighty forest in a whirlwind swayed; The giant cliffs of Redwing speeding back, Like spectres melting from a cloudy wrack, Melted from view in our dissolving track. Kaposia's village, clustered on the shore, With sound of snapping poles and tipis riven, Vanished like swan's-down by a tempest driven. Stung by our flight, the keen air smote us sore As ragged hailstones; on, still on, we strained, And fast and faster on the chase we gained, But neck and neck the fierce pursuit remained, Till close ahead we saw the rocky walls O'er which the mighty river plunging falls, And at their base the Water-Demons lay: The panting chase at last had turned to bay.

Then thrilled my nerves with more than mortal strength; A breath of Deity was in the burst That bore me out a goodly lance's length To meet the Water-Demon's son accurst. His evil horn clanged hollow on my shield Just as my spear transfixed him through and through; A moment towering o'er the foam he reeled, Then sank beneath the roaring falls from view. A dying yell that haunts me yet he gave, And as he fell the crippled water coiled About him like a wounded snake, and boiled, leashing itself to madness o'er his grave.

We knew not where the parent Demon fled; None of our spears might pierce his ancient mail, Welded with skill demoniac scale on scale. Some watery realm he wanders, and 'tis said That he is changed and bears a brighter form, And goodly sons again about him swarm; And peace, 'tis but a hollow truce I know, Now reigns between him and his ancient foe. He hates me still, and fain would do me harm, But neither man nor demon dares offend, Who hath the cruel Thunder-Bird for friend.

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, Chask? 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 , 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 mail?d 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.

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