Chapter 1

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THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS

AND OTHER POEMS

BY

H.L. GORDON

_I had rather write one word upon the rock Of ages, than ten thousand in the sand._

Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1891 by H.L. GORDON in the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D.C.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Address to the Flag A Million More An Old English Oak Anthem Betzko Beyond Byron and the Angel Change Charge of the "Black-Horse" Charge of Fremont's Body-Guard Charity Chickadee Christmas Eve [Illustrated] Daniel Do They Think of Us? Dust to Dust Fame Fido Gettysburg: Charge of the First Minnesota Heloise Hope Hurrah for the Volunteers! Isabel Lines on the Death of Captain Coats Love will Find Mauley [Illustrated] Men Minnetonka [Illustrated] Mrs. McNair My Dead My Father-Land My Heart's on the Rhine Night Thoughts New Years Address, 1866 [Illustrated] O Let Me Dream the Dreams of Long Ago Only a Private Killed On Reading President Lincoln's Letter Out of the Depths Pat and the Pig Pauline [Illustrated] Poetry Prelude--The Mississippi Sailor Boy's Song Spring [Illustrated] Thanksgiving The Devil and the Monk [Illustrated] The Draft The Dying Veteran The Feast of the Virgins [Illustrated] The Legend of the Falls [Illustrated] The Minstrel The Old Flag The Pioneer [Illustrated] The Reign of Reason The Sea-Gull [Illustrated] The Tariff on Tin [Illustrated] To Mollie To Sylva Twenty Years Ago [Illustrated] Wesselenyi [Illustrated] Winona [Illustrated]

PREFACE

At odd hours during an active and busy life I have dallied with the Muses. I found in them, in earlier years, rest from toil and drudgery and, later, relief from physical suffering.

Broken by over-work and compelled to abandon the practice of my profession--the law, I wrote _Pauline_ after I had been given up to die by my physicians. It proved to be a better 'medicine' for me than all the quackeries of the quacks. It diverted my mind from myself and, perhaps, saved my life. When published, its reception by the best journals of this country and England was so flattering and, at the same time, the criticisms of some were so just, that I have been induced to carefully revise the poem and to publish my re-touched _Pauline_ in this volume. I hope and believe I have greatly improved it. Several of the minor poems have been published heretofore in journals and magazines; others of equal or greater age flap their wings herein for the first time; a few peeped from the shell but yesterday.

I am aware that this volume contains several poems that a certain class of critics will condemn, but they are my "chicks" and I will gather them under my wings.

"None but an author knows an author's cares, Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears."--_Cowper._

Much of my life has been spent in the Northwest--on the frontier of civilization, and I became personally acquainted with many of the chiefs and braves of the Dakota and Ojibway (Chippewa) Indians. I have written of them largely from my own personal knowledge, and endeavored, above all things, to be accurate, and to present them true to the life.

For several years I devoted my leisure hours to the study of the language, history, traditions, customs and superstitions of the Dakotas. These Indians are now commonly called the "_Sioux_"--a name given them by the early French traders and _voyageurs_. "Dakota" signifies _alliance_ or _confederation_. Many separate bands, all having a common origin and speaking a common tongue, were united under this name. See "_Tah-Koo Wah-Kan,_" or "_The Gospel Among the Dakotas,_" by Stephen R. Riggs, pp. 1 to 6 inc.

They were but yesterday the occupants and owners of the fair forests and fertile prairies of Minnesota--a brave, hospitable and generous people--barbarians, indeed, but noble in their barbarism. They may be fitly called the Iroquois of the West. In form and features, in language and traditions, they are distinct from all other Indian tribes. When first visited by white men, and for many years afterwards, the Falls of St. Anthony (by them called the _Ha Ha_) was the center of their country. They cultivated corn and tobacco, and hunted the elk, the beaver and the bison. They were open-hearted, truthful and brave. In their wars with other tribes they seldom slew women or children, and rarely sacrificed the lives of their prisoners.

For many years their chiefs and head men successfully resisted the attempts to introduce spirituous liquors among them. More than a century ago an English trader was killed at Mendota, near the present city of St. Paul, because he persisted, after repeated warnings by the chiefs, in dealing out _mini wakan_ (Devil-water) to the Dakota braves.

With open arms and generous hospitality they welcomed the first white men to their land, and were ever faithful in their friendship, till years of wrong and robbery, and want and insult, drove them to desperation and to war. They were barbarians, and their warfare was barbarous, but not more barbarous than the warfare of our Saxon, Celtic and Norman ancestors. They were ignorant and superstitious. Their condition closely resembled the condition of our British forefathers at the beginning of the Christian era. Macaulay says of Britain: "Her inhabitants, when first they became known to the Tyrian mariners, were little superior to the natives of the Sandwich Islands." And again: "While the German princes who reigned at Paris, Toledo, Aries and Ravenna listened with reverence to the instructions of bishops, adored the relics of martyrs, and took part eagerly in disputes touching the Nicene theology, the rulers of Wessex and Mercia were still performing savage rites in the temples of Thor and Woden."

The days of the Dakotas are done. The degenerate remnants of that once powerful and warlike people still linger around the forts and agencies of the Northwest, or chase the caribou and the elk on the banks of the Saskatchewan, but the Dakotas of old are no more. The brilliant defeat of Custer, by Sitting Bull and his braves, was their last grand rally against the resistless march of the sons of the Saxons. The plow-shares of a superior race are fast leveling the sacred mounds of their dead. But yesterday, the shores of our lakes and our rivers were dotted with their _teepees,_ their light canoes glided over our waters, and their hunters chased the deer and the buffalo on the sites of our cities. To-day, they are not. Let us do justice to their memory, for there was much that was noble in their natures.

In the Dakota Legends, I have endeavored to faithfully present many of the customs and superstitions, and some of the traditions, of that people. I have taken very little 'poetic license' with their traditions; none, whatever, with their customs and superstitions. In my studies for these Legends I was greatly aided by the Rev. S.R. Riggs, author of the _"Grammar and Dictionary of the Dakota Language" "Tah-Koo Wah-Kan,"_ &c., and for many years a missionary among the Dakotas. He patiently answered my numerous inquiries and gave me valuable information. I am also indebted to the late Gen. H.H. Sibley, one of the earliest American traders among them, and to Rev. S.W. Pond, of Shakopee, one of the first Protestant missionaries to these people, and himself the author of poetical versions of some of their principal legends; to Mrs. Eastman's _"Dacotah,"_ and last, but not least, to the Rev. E.D. Neill, whose admirable _"History of Minnesota"_ so fully and faithfully presents almost all that is known of the history, traditions, customs, manners and superstitions of the Dakotas.

In _Winona_ I have "tried my hand" on a new hexameter verse. With what success, I leave to those who are better able to judge than I. If I have failed, I have but added another failure to the numerous attempts to naturalize hexameter verse in the English language.

It will be observed that I have slightly changed the length and the rhythm of the old hexameter line; but it is still hexameter, and, I think, improved.

I have not written for profit nor published for fame. Fame is a coy goddess that rarely bestows her favors on him who seeks her--a phantom that many pursue and but few overtake.

She delights to hover for a time, like a ghost, over the graves of dead men who know not and care not: to the living she is a veritable _Ignis Fatuus_. But every man owes something to his fellowmen, and I owe much.

If my friends find half the pleasure in reading these poems that I have found in writing them, I shall have paid my debt and achieved success.

H.L. GORDON.

Minneapolis, November 1, 1891.

PRELUDE

THE MISSISSIPPI

The numerals refer to _Notes_ in appendix.

Onward rolls the Royal River, proudly sweeping to the sea, Dark and deep and grand, forever wrapt in myth and mystery. Lo he laughs along the highlands, leaping o'er the granite walls; Lo he sleeps among the islands, where the loon her lover calls. Still like some huge monster winding downward through the prairied plains, Seeking rest but never finding, till the tropic gulf he gains. In his mighty arms he claspeth now an empire broad and grand; In his left hand lo he graspeth leagues of fen and forest land; In his right the mighty mountains, hoary with eternal snow, Where a thousand foaming fountains singing seek the plains below. Fields of corn and feet of cities lo the mighty river laves, Where the Saxon sings his ditties o'er the swarthy warriors' graves.

Aye, before the birth of Moses--ere the Pyramids were piled-- All his banks were red with roses from the sea to nor'lands wild, And from forest, fen and meadows, in the deserts of the north, Elk and bison stalked like shadows, and the tawny tribes came forth; Deeds of death and deeds of daring on his leafy banks were done, Women loved and men went warring, ere the siege of Troy begun. Where his foaming waters thundered, roaring o'er the rocky walls, Dusky hunters sat and wondered, listening to the spirits' calls. "_Ha-ha!_"[76] cried the warrior greeting from afar the cataract's roar; "_Ha-ha!_" rolled the answer beating down the rock-ribbed leagues of shore. Now, alas, the bow and quiver and the dusky braves have fled, And the sullen, shackled river drives the droning mills instead.

Where the war-whoop rose, and after women wailed their warriors slain, List the Saxon's silvery laughter, and his humming hives of gain. Swiftly sped the tawny runner o'er the pathless prairies then, Now the iron-reindeer sooner carries weal or woe to men. On thy bosom, Royal River, silent sped the birch canoe Bearing brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo; Now with flaunting flags and streamers--mighty monsters of the deep-- Lo the puffing, panting steamers through thy foaming waters sweep; And behold the grain-fields golden, where the bison grazed of eld; See the fanes of forests olden by the ruthless Saxon felled. Plumèd pines that spread their shadows ere Columbus spread his sails, Firs that fringed the mossy meadows ere the Mayflower braved the gales, Iron oaks that nourished bruin while the Vikings roamed the main, Crashing fall in broken ruin for the greedy marts of gain.

Still forever and forever rolls the restless river on, Slumbering oft but ceasing never while the circling centuries run. In his palm the lakelet lingers, in his hair the brooklets hide, Grasped within his thousand fingers lies a continent fair and wide-- Yea, a mighty empire swarming with its millions like the bees, Delving, drudging, striving, storming, all their lives, for golden ease.

Still, methinks, the dusky shadows of the days that are no more, Stalk around the lakes and meadows, haunting oft the wonted shore: Hunters from the land of spirits seek the bison and the deer Where the Saxon now inherits golden field and silver mere; And beside the mound where buried lies the dark-eyed maid he loves, Some tall warrior, wan and wearied, in the misty moonlight moves. See--he stands erect and lingers--stoic still, but loth to go-- Clutching in his tawny fingers feathered shaft and polished bow. Never wail or moan he utters and no tear is on his face, But a warrior's curse he mutters on the crafty Saxon race.

O thou dark, mysterious River, speak and tell thy tales to me; Seal not up thy lips forever--veiled in mist and mystery. I will sit and lowly listen at the phantom-haunted falls Where thy waters foam and glisten o'er the rugged, rocky walls, Till some spirit of the olden, mystic, weird, romantic days Shall emerge and pour her golden tales and legends through my lays.

Then again the elk and bison on thy grassy banks shall feed, And along the low horizon shall the plumed hunter speed; Then again on lake and river shall the silent birch canoe Bear the brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo: Then the beaver on the meadow shall rebuild his broken wall, And the wolf shall chase his shadow and his mate the panther call. From the prairies and the regions where the pine-plumed forest grows Shall arise the tawny legions with their lances and their bows; And again the cries of battle shall resound along the plain, Bows shall twang and quivers rattle, women wail their warriors slain; And by lodge-fire lowly burning shall the mother from afar List her warrior's steps returning from the daring deeds of war.

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS[1]

A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS

In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah",--"e" the sound of "a",--"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo;" sound "ee" as in English. The numerals refer to _Notes_ in appendix.

THE GAME OF BALL[2]

Clear was the sky as a silver shield; The bright sun blazed on the frozen field. On ice-bound river and white-robed prairie The diamonds gleamed in the flame of noon; But cold and keen were the breezes airy _Wa-zi-ya_[3] blew from his icy throne.

On the solid ice of the silent river The bounds are marked, and a splendid prize, A robe of black-fox lined with beaver, Is hung in view of the eager eyes; And fifty merry Dakota maidens, The fairest-molded of womankind Are gathered in groups on the level ice. They look on the robe and its beauty gladdens And maddens their hearts for the splendid prize. Lo the rounded ankles and raven hair That floats at will on the wanton wind, And the round, brown arms to the breezes bare, And breasts like the mounds where the waters meet,[4] And feet as fleet as the red deer's feet, And faces that glow like the full, round moon When she laughs in the luminous skies of June.

The leaders are chosen and swiftly divide The opposing parties on either side. Wiwâstè[5] is chief of a nimble band, The star-eyed daughter of Little Crow;[6] And the leader chosen to hold command Of the band adverse is a haughty foe-- The dusky, impetuous Hârpstinà,[7] The queenly cousin of Wâpasà.[8]

_Kapoza's_ chief and his tawny hunters Are gathered to witness the queenly game. The ball is thrown and a net encounters, And away it flies with a loud acclaim. Swift are the maidens that follow after, And swiftly it flies for the farther bound; And long and loud are the peals of laughter, As some fair runner is flung to ground; While backward and forward, and to and fro, The maidens contend on the trampled snow. With loud "_Ihó!--Itó!--Ihó_!"[9] And waving the beautiful prize anon, The dusky warriors cheer them on. And often the limits are almost passed, As the swift ball flies and returns. At last It leaps the line at a single bound From the fair Wiwâstè's sturdy arm Like a fawn that flies from the baying hound. The wild cheers broke like a thunder storm On the beetling bluffs and the hills profound, An echoing, jubilant sea of sound. Wakâwa, the chief, and the loud acclaim Announced the end of the hard-won game, And the fair Wiwâstè was victor crowned.

Dark was the visage of Hârpstinà When the robe was laid at her rival's feet, And merry maidens and warriors saw Her flashing eyes and her look of hate, As she turned to Wakâwa, the chief, and said: "The game was mine were it fairly played. I was stunned by a blow on my bended head, As I snatched the ball from slippery ground Not half a fling from Wiwâstè's bound. The cheat--behold her! for there she stands With the prize that is mine in her treacherous hands. The fawn may fly, but the wolf is fleet; The fox creeps sly on _Magâ's_[10] retreat, And a woman's revenge--it is swift and sweet."

She turned to her lodge, but a roar of laughter And merry mockery followed after. Little they heeded the words she said, Little they cared for her haughty tread, For maidens and warriors and chieftain knew That her lips were false and her charge untrue.

Wiwâstè, the fairest Dakota maiden, The sweet-faced daughter of Little Crow, To her _teepee_[11] turned with her trophy laden, The black robe trailing the virgin snow. Beloved was she by her princely father, Beloved was she by the young and old, By merry maidens and many a mother, And many a warrior bronzed and bold. For her face was as fair as a beautiful dream, And her voice like the song of the mountain stream; And her eyes like the stars when they glow and gleam Through the somber pines of the nor'land wold, When the winds of winter are keen and cold.

Mah-pí-ya Dú-ta[12], the tall Red Cloud, A hunter swift and a warrior proud, With many a scar and many a feather, Was a suitor bold and a lover fond. Long had he courted Wiwâstè's father, Long had he sued for the maiden's hand. Aye, brave and proud was the tall Red Cloud, A peerless son of a giant race, And the eyes of the panther were set in his face: He strode like a stag, and he stood like a pine; Ten feathers he wore of the great _Wanmdeè_;[13] With crimsoned quills of the porcupine His leggins were worked to his brawny knee. The bow he bent was a giant's bow; The swift, red elk could he overtake, And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck Was the polished claws of the great _Mató_[14] He grappled and slew in the northern snow. Wiwâstè looked on the warrior tall; She saw he was brawny and brave and great, But the eyes of the panther she could but hate, And a brave _Hóhè_[15] loved she better than all. Loved was Mahpíya by Hârpstinà But the warrior she never could charm or draw; And bitter indeed was her secret hate For the maiden she reckoned so fortunate.

HEYOKA WACIPEE[16]

THE GIANT'S DANCE.

The night-sun[17] sails in his gold canoe, The spirits[18] walk in the realms of air With their glowing faces and flaming hair, And the shrill, chill winds o'er the prairies blow. In the _Tee[19] of the Council_ the Virgins light The Virgin-fire[20] for the feast to-night; For the _Sons of Heyóka_ will celebrate The sacred dance to the giant great. The kettle boils on the blazing fire, And the flesh is done to the chief's desire. With his stoic face to the sacred East,[21] He takes his seat at the Giant's Feast.

For the feast of _Heyóka_[22] the braves are dressed With crowns from the bark of the white-birch trees, And new skin leggins that reach the knees; With robes of the bison and swarthy bear, And eagle-plumes in their coal-black hair, And marvelous rings in their tawny ears That were pierced with the points of their shining spears. To honor _Heyóka_ Wakâwa lifts His fuming pipe from the Red-stone Quarry.[23] The warriors follow. The white cloud drifts From the Council-lodge to the welkin starry, Like a fog at morn on the fir-clad hill, When the meadows are damp and the winds are still.

They dance to the tune of their wild "_Há-há_" A warrior's shout and a raven's caw-- Circling the pot and the blazing fire To the tom-tom's bray and the rude bassoon; Round and round to their heart's desire, And ever the same wild chant and tune-- A warrior's shout and a raven's caw-- "_Há-há,--há-há,--há-há,--há!_" They crouch, they leap, and their burning eyes Flash fierce in the light of the flaming fire, As fiercer and fiercer and higher and higher The rude, wild notes of their chant arise. They cease, they sit, and the curling smoke Ascends again from their polished pipes, And upward curls from their swarthy lips To the god whose favor their hearts invoke.

Then tall Wakâwa arose and said: "Brave warriors, listen, and give due heed. Great is _Heyóka_, the magical god; He can walk on the air; he can float on the flood. He's a worker of magic and wonderful wise; He cries when he laughs and he laughs when he cries; He sweats when he's cold, and he shivers when hot, And the water is cold in his boiling pot. He hides in the earth and he walks in disguise, But he loves the brave and their sacrifice. We are sons of _Heyóka_. The Giant commands In the boiling water to thrust our hands; And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire _Heyóka_ will crown with his heart's desire."

They thrust their hands in the boiling pot; They swallow the bison-meat steaming hot; Not a wince on their stoical faces bold, For the meat and the water, they say, are cold: And great is _Heyóka_ and wonderful wise; He floats on the flood and he walks on the skies, And ever appears in a strange disguise; But he loves the brave and their sacrifice, And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyóka will crown with his heart's desire.

Proud was the chief of his warriors proud, The sinewy sons of the Giant's race; But the bravest of all was the tall Red Cloud; The eyes of the panther were set in his face; He strode like a stag and he stood like a pine; Ten feathers he wore of the great _Wanmdeé_,[13] With crimsoned quills of the porcupine His leggins were worked to his brawny knee. Blood-red were the stripes on his swarthy cheek, And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck Was the polished claws of the great Mató[14] He grappled and slew in the northern snow. Proud Red Cloud turned to the braves and said, As he shook the plumes on his haughty head: "Ho! the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire _Heyóka_ will crown with his heart's desire!" He snatched from the embers a red-hot brand, And held it aloft in his naked hand. He stood like a statue in bronze or stone-- Not a muscle moved, and the braves looked on. He turned to the chieftain--"I scorn the fire-- Ten feathers I wear of the great _Wanmdeé_; Then grant me, Wakâwa, my heart's desire; Let the sunlight shine in my lonely tee.[19] I laugh at red death and I laugh at red fire; Brave Red Cloud is only afraid of fear; But Wiwâstè is fair to his heart and dear; Then grant him, Wakâwa, his heart's desire." The warriors applauded with loud "_Ho! Ho!_"[24] And he flung the brand to the drifting snow. Three times Wakâwa puffed forth the smoke From his silent lips; then he slowly spoke: "Mâhpíya is strong as the stout-armed oak That stands on the bluff by the windy plain, And laughs at the roar of the hurricane. He has slain the foe and the great _Mató_ With his hissing arrow and deadly stroke My heart is swift but my tongue is slow. Let the warrior come to my lodge and smoke; He may bring the gifts;[25] but the timid doe May fly from the hunter and say him no."