Chapter 4

They settle down to Winter, and their flocks Must furnish sustenance, until the sun Shall break their penance, and embrown the locks Of the o'ergristled seasons; and this won, They counsel further movement. Uri speaks: "Sons of the Summer God, I little thought When we set out from Egypt, that our feet Would be thus bruised and bled; but it is well. We learn the lesson of our latent sin; This trial of our faith will make us whole, If we but draw the diamond out of it. We have not vainly trod the heavy press Of our affliction, if we firmly breast The waters. I have kept faithful watch-- We are but self-styled lords, and forfeit much Of our asserted masterhood; the birds Make many less mistakes--we used to note The flight of waterfowl in Egypt. Why Should we not learn their wisdom in this clime? Before the sun sank low, and Winter came (Led by a providence that makes all things To minister our wants), I watched the birds, And many, turned to East, across the sea. We lose our way sometimes, they never do; They are much closer children to the sun Than we, by their dependence--we need help As much as any feathered wingster does-- And yet we push it back, when we might reach And find a steady hand. Let us go to And make us ships; that when the Spring Shall beckon back to life the dormant earth, And all the birds turn back in countermarch, We fly against their flight, and reach the clime From whence the sun has warned them to return To this cold country of the nether earth.

"Behold! these rugged trees stand stout for us, And ready for our architrave; and we Were better wont to labor than to dole Our time in murmurs at our fate. Up! up! And do! and though we suffer overmuch, Our labor shall not vainly mock at us. Even old Kohen saw a journey South, When he did burn our eyes, as he went up, And he saw fat and plenty in the land Where his prophetic eye did cast our lot; And we will not mistrust what leads to light, Though it be lifted in a demon's hand."

The forests gave to them their virgin palms, And they did rudely shape them into crafts; Made ready for the flood, when the warm sun Should waken nature with enlivening draughts; But Spring wore into Summer, ere the birds Gave the unspoken pledge of their return. The sun, still coy, refused to climb as high As it had done in Egypt; still they burn With new-born hope, as they float down to sea, And, moving counter to their winged friends, Cross to Lopatka, where they only wait Replenishment, which nature always sends, Where faith is instinct as in lower life, (The birds teach providence, without a chance,) And so they wander on, to the Aleutes; Passing and calling, as they still advance, They reach to where Alaska strikes the sea, In severance to meet them. They kept on, Feeding on eggs of seabirds, and the meats That everywhere supplied them. They have gone So far on Nature's very track, and now A narrow river beckons their research, And they pass upward, till a mountain range Confronts their passage, like a royal perch From which the gods might frown their hardihood, For this intrusion of another world. But they have battled with the plague and flood; And though Olympus all his thunders hurled, They had not turned; they saw the earnest need Of pushing forward ere the sun turned back, And so they crossed to where the eastern slope, Feeds the McKenzie. Here an easy track Leads down and cuts the stronger range in two, A little while among its shadows grope, When the broad prospect opened to their view. They follow the receding sun in hope, Still bearing to the east their steady trend, Hoping to win their God to close embrace; And morn and eve around their altars bend In thankfulness, that they still see his face. Through many valleys, virgin to their sight, And many lakes, whose bosoms never stirred To man, the weak pretender of God's might; But nature spreads her happy hearth with beast and flower and bird.

PART SECOND.

AZTLAN.

THE VALLEY OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

Father of Waters! Nilus of the West! Thou holdst thy secrets from the sons of men; A knowledge of the past which none would wrest Or wish to circumscribe with tongue or pen To the weak bonds of history; but rather stand With old De Soto on thy banks, and reverence the hand That drew the fetters from thy limbs, and set thee first at birth, On thy unmuzzled pilgrimage, without a peer on earth.

Better thy unbroke seal, if it would teach The ponderous worm of destiny, called man; How great things may be hidden from his reach, And mighty things be silent, that his span Is but a hand-breadth to the great unknown, A thistle-down, before the breezes blown, That silent and unseen God turns the mighty mill, And on the brow of giant force he writes his words, "Be still."

The possibles of time, are all thine own. Thou hast not reared thy monuments of stone To overtop the pyramids, yet wrought In shapely mounds, thy sculpturehood, and caught From flying Time, the lustre of his wing, Which gives the semblance of perpetual Spring To thy vast lap of luxuries; in thee (Since man first pinioned thee to history) Is found the acme of a world's desire. Thy unknown crucial test, has passed the fire Of many fading centuries; let none inquire The secrets of thy conquest: be thou shut up with God, The master molding of his hand--the jewel of his rod!

Yet in the book of Nature there is writ, Without exception, all her energies, As line by line, her page becomes enlit; Yielding to man some new and glad surprise, As Agassiz, together works with her, To make the earth, her own interpreter; And such a giant, must not hope to hide The unfading Sanscrit, written on its side.

Thy brow wast glistered with the frost of years, Ere man's first rapture, at the sight of thee; Yet, were thy banks unswelled, by falling tears Till he tore back thy splendid tapestry-- The bison and the deer unfrighted came To lave upon thy borders, all were tame, In their untoilsome frolics; and the beasts and birds Made rolic at thy feet, in songs not marred with words. But sorrow comes with knowledge; 'tis the tree, That bears the samest fruit in every zone-- The tale of Eden is no mystery, The tree will verify wherever grown. And yet, in God's own providence 'tis best, That Eden be repeated East and West; If knowledge in the first, brought sorrowhood to earth, The power to laugh and cry, were purchased at one birth.

They stand upon thy borders: Mighty Stream! We will not pry thy silent lips apart, To ask thee when, and how, the Prophet's dream Reached its fulfillment; treasured in thy heart, Let it remain as many other things Are left; our language lessens their effect, And makes them small in words,--the very springs Of our existence, are not shown correct, When crowded into verbage,--so we lay Our beys upon thee, and we feel 'tis thine; Thine every secret, of the grand emprise, With only one unlicensed hand, the Hand of the Divine.

It is enough that after waste and want And weariness of spirit they have found A rest upon thy margin, that thy arms Are opened to enclose them, and the sound Of human voices mingle with the notes Of myriad waterfowl. The thousand throats Of thy unmeasured pasture, blend in praise To the All Father for the countless ways That point his providence. The raven's cry Strikes never vainly, thy omniscient ear, No effort, but is answered "here am I," No prayer but finds the parent very near.

The unconscious hallelujahs of the plain, The untaught praises of the lofty trees, The waving upward palms of laden grain, The mellow notes upon the evening breeze, The "reveillies" from off the mountain tops, The nightingale's "tattoo," the many lips Touched only once by God, the faithful drops That wear unceasing at the granite mine, The praise that never sinks to prayer, the finger tips That span the universal zone of life; all, all incline To adoration. If we lose our way (As these poor souls had done) we need but turn To catch the choral of the passing day. Behold on every branch and beam the altars burn! And all things beckon us of God, if we but bend The enquiring ear, and catch the keynote of the mighty song That swells from all the universe; we too may blend In the vast concord, happiest of the throng.

The rhythmal of the angels, is not far From the first prattle of the infant's tongue Both caught the glitter of the Eastern star; The harps were both, by the same Master strung; The glory of the one, glows from the face; The other lifts, to meet its parent's kiss. Not very far, the border land of bliss, From every infant of the human race. The sacred fane of childhood, when first reared, How like a prophecy it should be read-- A thing to be adored, and sometimes feared! So many unseen hands, smooth down the bed Of infancy; we can but jostle with our utmost care Against angelic presences that bend And print their unseen kisses on the brow, And with the infant earth, the Heavenly essence blend.

The wheel that never tires, and ever turns, Crushing the neck of nations in its round, Before whose tread, the star of empire burns, Behind whose trend, the ridged and furrowed ground Gives mute quiescence, to the Master hand; This wheel rolls on; and now upon thy banks Great River of the West the infant's cry Is mingled with the forest din; thy ranks Are opened to admit the "lullaby" Of earth's last entity; thou did'st not groan When buffalo and beaver found thy side, Nor when thy trees, first echoed to the moan Of the despondent turtle, to his bride; And thou did'st smile on this invading race, And open thy broad prairies, as the palm Of some great hearted giant, to embrace The sea-tossed wanderers, the healing balm Of thy great heaving breast, rubbed almost out The wrinkles from the faces of these sires Of early Egypt; they forgot the drought And mildew of their wanderings, and the fires Of their thanksgiving altars, gave a zest They never yet had felt; an empire spread Around them, in the flush of its full growth A bride, inviting the espousal bed.

Their ranks had been depleted; yet a few Still lingered with the Prophet, who had stood At the first altar; when the fervent sun First answered their entreaty, and the blood Was lapped by solar flame; and now, that peace Enshrines their hearts, and plenty spreads their board, They warm towards their leader, and return To their old-fashioned loyalty; his word Is sacred as the smiling of the sun Whose burnished mirror likenesses their forms, And in whose bosom after life is done, The weary find a shelter from all storms. Nor do they want a psalmist for his praise, But he is found with ready harp and voice, To turn the multitude, with rapturous gaze, Upon the god of their unshaken choice. Their morning song is mingled with the mirth, That rolics from the sycamore and oak, The song that swells the green and fruent earth, That needs no trumpet's blare, nor kettle stroke.

THE MORNING SONG OF THE MOUND BUILDERS.

Once more do we turn on thy face our glad eyes, Great god of the Summer! and sing, With the lark and the linnet we gladly arise To welcome the smile of our King.

Our hearts are made glad when we feel thee advance On thy mission of mercy and might, For we know that the stroke of thy conquering lance, Has shattered the bulwarks of night.

We look on thy face, and our doubts are dispelled By the glance of thy mellowing eye; For we feel that the rains by our Master are held, And we fear not to do or to die.

We felt thy embrace, many long weary years, Yet the scales were not torn from our eyes; We sought for a father, with prayers and with tears Till we woke with a welcome surprise.

And beheld from thy face, _all_ the fatherhood shine, And thy great glowing heart _all_ ablaze With the love, that had lingered and grown more divine, In the yearn of our wandering days.

How we leaped to thy arms, when we saw them extend! How we drank of thy fervent embrace! With its love like thyself, glowing on without end, In the gold of thy deified face.

For our eyes were unscaled, and our hearts were unsealed; We were melted to tears at the thought, Of the blessings so near, that had stood unrevealed, Of the Providence waiting unsought.

How could we have lost the firm grasp of thy hand, With its daily improvise of love, With its unsounded depths, like the count of the sand, As an index, to point us above?

And now hover o'er us, great god of the day! Let us never escape from thy wing, For ever and ever, drive famine away, Give wealth to our Summer and Spring.

Give us harvests of fruit, give us Winters of rest-- Let thy Provident hand never cease; Grant the aged a home, on thy great shining breast, When their labors shall purchase release.

Be more than we ask, give us more than our prayer-- All our wants, let thy wisdom disclose, Till our souls shall be ripe with thy fostering care, And made white for our future repose.

EVENING THANKSGIVING AND PRAYER.

Sinking down to thy rest, In the deep crimson West, Great God! thou hast taught us repose; With thy promised return, Without doubting, we learn, To wait for thy further disclose.

In thy tenement high, Blazing over the sky, Are thy sentinels, pledge of the night; And we know by their shine, That thy care is divine, And we rest without fear, till the light

Springs again from the East With its glory increased By the wakening pulse of the day; And we never will doubt, That thy naked arm, stout, Will drive all the shadows away.

Yet we cannot forebear, To lift up our prayer, For we know we are wanton and weak; And if once thou shouldst fail, Or thy face shouldst grow pale, Where else in the world should we seek? For a father so kind, To a people so blind, In our weakness, thy strength we may trace. Then fail not to return, Leave us never to mourn, The wealth of thy daily embrace. O continue, we pray, To bring back the glad day; Give us always, to look on thy face!

The trembling lisp of every human soul, Of names more potent, then their own can be, Breathes the same lesson through, from pole to pole To prove the certitude of Deity. Not every eye turned upward can behold The face that faith alone shapes into form; Not every hand can touch the gates of gold That outward swing in welcome from the storm. Yet is the "Abba Father" pendant from each tongue, And every soul a furnace for its fires; And sacred is each song in earnest sung, When creature to Creator thus aspires. We blindly grope in this, our broad of day, The two eternities to thus unite; The silk of infancy is turned to gray Ere we have learned to tread the path aright. We force our providences out of reach, Throw back the hand our Father doth extend, And shut our ears that he may vainly teach, And all the wealth of heaven may expend To warm us to reliance,--shall we dare To sneer at those who grope? We grapple air When it is all refulgent with our God, And we may touch his garment's hem in prayer.

THE PROPHET'S DEATH.

Groping in undiscovered realms their way, The Prophet and his people give the day To finding safest lodgement, till they press Well down the grand old river, to the mouth Of the great Western confluent--the south Seems to add Summer to the wilderness.

They cross the river, and then settle down To love and labor on its grassy banks; And fortune seems to have forgot its frown. Years of repletion fill their shattered ranks, And youth and vigor take the place of age; The story of their journey is retold By only few in number; and the sage, Who turned their faces on their god of gold, Was bent with the plethoric weight of years, And summoned them to worship 'mid the tears Of many, who misgave his failing strength; He saw their apprehensions and at length Called them together for a final word: "Sons of the Summer God! it is but wise That we look out beyond the brace of years, And question of the future. All the way The shining surface of our god has led Our toilsome footsteps; we must not forget His daily nurture, nor the cloth of gold With which he covers us--wakeful with the day, How has he touched our eyelids with his hands, And warmed us with his hovering! The night Has never failed his promise of the morn. How has his parenthood outwatched the stars; How has the Winter melted at his glance; How has his armor battled with the snows! With what a tenderness he decks the fields, And wooes the grasses from the dormant earth, And clothes the forest with its robes of green, As covert for the bison and the deer, That we may find replenishment of food! His providence has never failed our steps, Our homage cannot cancel his regard.

"Our father! in this failing cup of years, Help us to be re-sanctified to thee-- Thou hast not measured to our helplessness, But with unstinted hand filled up our lives With blessings. Fill thou alike our hearts, That we may have no room to cherish doubt, But answer thy embraces, as the fields Leap up to kiss thy first recumbent rays! Let all our dross become thy burnished gold, Shine through each crevice of our stubbornness, Till in transparent purity, we reach The very essence of thy godliness!

"Brethren of the Sun! This altar is my last: You see the fire Leap as an answer to my late request, And it shall bear my spirit to the sun, And cursed the hand that stays its homeward flight!"

Fresh nerved he reached the altar with a bound, And sank without a murmur in the flame; His followers an instant gather round, But he had passed out almost as he came.

They did not dare to drag him from the pile, His life and effort had together ceased, He passed into the future with a smile-- A smile, that he had been so quick released. Yet, there was one (clear-sighted from the rest), Who said she saw the essence of his form, In brighter effigy, more richly dressed, Fly out into the sunset; and the charm Of her enchanted parable found faith In many of the multitude; his death, So like his life, had challenged all their thought And they were ready to quiesce his fate, and sought Some shadowed miracle to wrap his shade. They gathered up the ashes, and forbade Unsanctioned hands to touch them; and they reared A rugged mound above the garnered dust, And left him (one whom they loved less than feared). To that sole arbiter, whose name is Just, Our common parent, Time, whose busy hands Rear many a sacred fane above our faults, Flings over our excressences his sands, And leaves no human stain to blot the sacred marble of our vaults.

How grand is the economy of time and death! We whet the knife for deep incision on the name Of some misguided leader, but he fails his breath, And all our better angels give him back to fame; Death carries off the husk, we keep the ripened wheat, And Time refines the kernel into choicest flour; The atmosphere of anger is at last made sweet; Our charity immortal glows; our passion, but an hour. God keep us always so! It is the chosen link That binds us to the race, and bids the Christ come in; That holds our hands to near the eternal brink; It saves us from ourselves, and breaks the tooth of sin.

The whitened garments at the eternal gate, Must cover those, who have not stained another, Or there will come that awful sentence: "Wait! "Blood crieth from the ground! where is thy brother?" If thus upon the living God doth set the seal Of condemnation for the false witnessing How will he smite the lips of those who steal His covering from the dead, and fill the sacred spring Of memory, with the debris of their lives; Mixing, what God has kindly torn apart, And making null, the severence he strives, Between the naked soul, and sin encumbered heart!

The gem was melted, and his life went out In unobtrusive secrecy, and all That he brought with him, passed the silent way Into eternity, beyond recall. He chose no sponsor to renew his place But gave them back to Nature, as he found; Yet was his impress fastened on the race, And every morn they gathered at the mound, For many after years, till they had grown A nation strong in numbers, and had thrown The seeds of generation far and wide, And found the latent valleys without guide. The lakes are made a tribute to their spoil, And all the riches of the virgin soil Were tested by those hardy argonauts of old; And though they sought no fleece of shining gold, They penetrated all the wilderness That lay unclaimed before them to possess.