Chapter 15

Sear autumn followed the summer with frost and the falling of leaves And red-ripe apples that blushed on the hills in the orchard of peace: Red-ripe apples, alas, with worms writhing down to the core, Apples of ashes and fungus that fell into rot at a touch; Clusters of grapes in the garden blighted and sour on the vines; Wheat-fields that waved in the valley and promised a harvest of gold, Thrashing but chaff and weevil or cockle and shriveled cheat. Fair was the promise of spring-time; the harvest a harvest of lies: Fair was the promise of summer with Fortune clutched by the robe; Fair was the promise of autumn--a hollow harlot in red, A withered rose at her girdle and the thorns of the rose in her hand.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last; Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel, sleeping the dreamless sleep-- Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew? Dead Ashes, what do you care if it storm, if it shine, if it shower? Hail-storm, tornado or tempest, or the blinding blizzard of snow, Or the mid-May showers on the blossoms with the glad sun blinking between, Dead Ashes, what do you care?--they break not the sleep of the dead.

Proud stands the ship to the sea, fair breezes belly her sails; Strong masted, stanch in her shrouds, stanch in her beams and her bones; Bound for Hesperian isles--for the isles of the plantain and palm, Hope walks her deck with a smile and Confidence stands at the helm; Proudly she turns to the sea and walks like a queen on the waves. Caught in the grasp of the tempest, lashed by the fiends of the storm, Torn into shreds are her sails, tumbled her masts to the main; Rudderless, rolling she drives and groans in the grasp of the sea; Harbor or hope there is none; she goes to her grave in the brine: Dead in the fathomless slime lie the bones of the ship and her crew. Such was the promise of life; so is the promise fulfilled.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last; Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,-- Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew? Over your grave the tempest may roar or the zephyr sigh; Over your grave the blue-bells may blink or the snow-drifts whirl,-- Dead Ashes, what do you care?--they break not the sleep of the dead. They that were friends may mourn, they that were friends may praise; They that knew you and yet--knew you never--may cavil and blame; They that were foes in disguise may strike at you down in the grave; Slander, the scavenger-buzzard--may vomit her lies on you there; Dead Ashes, what do you care?--they break not the sleep of the dead.

The hoarse, low voice of the years croaks on forever-and-aye: _Change! Change! Change_! and the winters wax and wane. The old oak dies in the forest; the acorn sprouts at its feet; The sea gnaws on at the land; the continent crowds on the sea. Bound to the Ixion wheel with brazen fetters of fate Man rises up from the dust and falls to the dust again. God washes our eyes with tears, and still they are blinded with dust: We grope in the dark and marvel, and pray to the Power unknown-- Crying for help to the desert: not even an echo replies. Doomed unto death like the moon, like the midget that men call man, Wrinkled with age and agony the old Earth rolls her rounds; Shrinking and shuddering she rolls--an atom in God's great sea-- Only an atom of dust in the infinite ocean of space. What to him are the years who sleeps in her bosom there? What to him is the cry wrung out of the souls of men? _Change, Change, Change_, and the sea gnaws on at the land: Dead Ashes, what do you care?--it breaks not the sleep of the dead.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last; Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,-- Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better if only the dead soul knew?

Up--out of the darkness at last, Daniel,--out of the darkness at last; Into the light of the life eternal--into the sunlight of God, Singing the song of the soul immortal freed from the fetters of flesh: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better than sleeping the dreamless sleep? Hark! from the reel of the spheres eternal the freed soul answereth "_Aye_." Aye--Aye--Aye--it is better, brothers, if it be but the dream of the famished soul.

MINNETONKA[BY]

[BY] The Dakota name for this beautiful lake is _We-ne-a-tan-ka_--Broad Water. By dropping the "a" before "tanka" we have changed the name to _Big Water_.

I sit once more on breezy shore, at sunset in this glorious June, I hear the dip of gleaming oar, I list the singers' merry tune. Beneath my feet the waters beat, and ripple on the polished stones, The squirrel chatters from his seat; the bag-pipe beetle hums and drones. The pink and gold in blooming wold,--the green hills mirrored in the lake! The deep, blue waters, zephyr-rolled, along the murmuring pebbles break. The maples screen the ferns, and lean the leafy lindens o'er the deep; The sapphire, set in emerald green, lies like an Orient gem asleep. The crimson west glows like the breast of _Rhuddin_[CA] when he pipes in May, As downward droops the sun to rest, and shadows gather on the bay. In amber sky the swallows fly and sail and circle o'er the deep; The light-winged night-hawks whir and cry; the silver pike and salmon leap. The rising moon, o'er isle and dune, looks laughing down on lake and lea; Weird o'er the waters shrills the loon; the high stars twinkle in the sea. From bank and hill the whippowil sends piping forth his flute-like notes, And clear and shrill the answers trill from leafy isles and silver throats. The twinkling light on cape and height; the hum of voices on the shores; The merry laughter on the night; the dip and plash of frolic oars,-- These tell the tale. On hill and dale the cities pour their gay and fair; Along the sapphire lake they sail, and quaff like wine the balmy air. 'Tis well. Of yore from isle and shore the smoke of Indian _teepees_[CB] rose; The hunter plied the silent oar; the forest lay in still repose. The moon-faced maid, in leafy glade, her warrior waited from the chase; The nut-brown, naked children played, and chased the gopher on the grass. The dappled fawn on wooded lawn, peeped out upon the birch canoe, Swift-gliding in the gray of dawn along the silent waters blue. In yonder tree the great Wanm-dee[CC] securely built her spacious nest; The blast that swept the landlocked sea[CD] but rocked her clamorous babes to rest. By grassy mere the elk and deer gazed on the hunter as he came; Nor fled with fear from bow or spear;-- "so wild were they that they were tame." Ah, birch canoe, and hunter, too, have long forsaken lake and shore; He bade his fathers' bones adieu and turned away forevermore. But still, methinks, on dusky brinks the spirit of the warrior moves; At crystal springs the hunter drinks, and nightly haunts the spot he loves. For oft at night I see the light of lodge-fires on the shadowy shores, And hear the wail some maiden's sprite above her slaughtered warrior pours. I hear the sob, on Spirit Knob,[BZ] of Indian mother o'er her child; And on the midnight waters throb her low _yun-he-he's_[CE] weird and wild: And sometimes, too, the light canoe glides like a shadow o'er the deep At midnight when the moon is low, and all the shores are hushed in sleep. Alas,--Alas!--for all things pass; and we shall vanish too, as they; We build our monuments of brass, and granite, but they waste away.

[BZ] Spirit-Knob was a small hill upon a point in the lake in full view from Wayzata. It is now washed away by the waves. The spirit of a Dakota mother, whose only child was drowned in the lake during a storm many years ago, often wailed at midnight (so the Dakotas said), on this hill. So they called it _Wa-na-gee Pa-zo-dan_--Spirit-Knob. (Literally--little hill of the spirit.)

[CA] The Welsh name for the robin.

[CB] Lodges.

[CC] Wanm-dee--the war-eagle of the Dakotas.

[CD] Lake Superior.

[CE] Pronounced _Yoon-hay-hay_--the exclamation used by Dakota women in their lament for the dead, and equivalent to "woe-is-me."

BEYOND

White-haired and hoary-bearded, who art thou That speedest on, albeit bent with age, Even as a youth that followeth after dreams? Whence are thy feet, and whither trends thy way?

Stayed not his hurried steps, but as he passed His low, hoarse answer fell upon the wind: "Go thou and question yonder mountain-peaks; Go thou and ask the hoary-heaving main;-- Nay, if thou wilt, the great, globed, silent stars That sail innumerable the shoreless sea, And let the eldest answer if he may. Lo the unnumbered myriad, myriad worlds Rolling around innumerable suns, Through all the boundless, bottomless abyss, Are but as grains of sand upwhirled and flung By roaring winds and scattered on the sea. I have beheld them and my hand hath sown.

"Far-twinkling faint through dim, immeasured depths, Behold Alcyone--a grander sun. Round him thy solar orb with all his brood Glimmering revolves. Lo from yon mightier sphere Light, flying faster than the thoughts of men, Swift as the lightnings cleave the glowering storm, Shot on and on through dim, ethereal space, Ere yet it touched thy little orb of Earth, Five hundred cycles of thy world and more. Round him thy Sun, obedient to his power, Thrice tenfold swifter than the swiftest wing, His æon-orbit, million-yeared and vast, Wheels through the void. Him flaming I beheld When first he flashed from out his central fire-- A mightier orb beyond thine utmost ken. Round upon round innumerable hath swung Thy sun upon his circuit; grander still His vaster orbit far Alcyone Wheels and obeys the mightier orb unseen.

"Seest thou yon star-paved pathway like an arch Athwart thy welkin?--wondrous zone of stars, Dim in the distance circling one huge sun, To whom thy sun is but a spark of fire-- To whom thine Earth is but a grain of dust: Glimmering around him myriad suns revolve And worlds innumerable as sea-beach sands. Ere on yon _Via Lactea_ rolled one star Lo I was there and trode the mighty round; Yea, ere the central orb was fired and hung A lamp to light the chaos. Star on star, System on system, myriad worlds on worlds, Beyond the utmost reach of mortal ken, Beyond the utmost flight of mortal dream, Yet have mine eyes beheld the birth of all. But whence I am I know not. We are three-- Known, yet unknown--unfathomable to man, Time, Space, and Matter pregnant with all life, Immortals older than the oldest orb. We were and are forever: out of us Are all things--suns and satellites, midge and man. Worlds wax and wane, suns flame and glow and die; Through shoreless space their scattered ashes float, Unite, cohere, and wax to worlds again, Changing, yet changless--new, but ever old-- No atom lost and not one atom gained, Though fire to vapor melt the adamant, Or feldspar fall in drops of summer rain. And in the atoms sleep the germs of life, Myriad and multiform and marvelous, Throughout all vast, immeasurable space, In every grain of dust, in every drop Of water, waiting but the thermal touch. Yea, in the womb of nature slumber still Wonders undreamed and forms beyond compare, Minds that will cleave the chaos and unwind The web of fate, and from the atom trace The worlds, the suns, the universal law: And from the law, the Master; yea, and read On yon grand starry scroll the Master's will."

Yea, but what Master? Lift the veil, O Time! Where lie the bounds of Space and whither dwells The Power unseen--the infinite Unknown? Faint from afar the solemn answer fell:

"Æon on æon, cycles myriad-yeared, Swifter than light out-flashing from the suns, My flying feet have sought the bounds of space And found not, nor the infinite Unknown. I see the Master only in his work: I see the Ruler only in his law: Time hath not touched the great All-father's throne, Whose voice unheard the Universe obeys, Who breathes upon the deep and worlds are born. Worlds wax and wane, suns crumble into dust, But matter pregnant with immortal life, Since erst the white-haired centuries wheeled the vast, Hath lost nor gained. Who made it, and who made The Maker? Out of nothing, nothing. Lo The worm that crawls from out the sun-touched sand, What knows he of the huge, round, rolling Earth? Yet more than thou of all the vast Beyond, Or ever wilt. Content thee; let it be: Know only this--there is a Power unknown-- Master of life and Maker of the worlds."

LINES

On the death of Captain Hiram A. Coats, my old schoolmate and friend.

Dead? or is it a dream-- Only the voice of a dream? Dead in the prime of his years, And laid in the lap of the dust; Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust.

Strong and manly was he, Strong and tender and true; Proud in the prime of his years; Strong in the strength of the just: A heart that was half a lion's, And half the heart of a girl; Tender to all that was tender, And true to all that was true; Bold in the battle of life, And bold on the bloody field; First at the call of his country, First in the front of the foe. Hope of the years was his-- The golden and garnered sheaves; Fair on the hills of autumn Reddened the apples of peace.

Dead? or is it a dream? Dead in the prime of his years, And laid in the lap of the dust.

Aye, it _is_ but a dream; For the life of man is a dream: Dead in the prime of his years And laid in the lap of the dust; Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust.

Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust? Aye, but what of the breath Blown out of the bosom of God? What of the spirit that breathed And burned in the temple of clay? Dust unto dust returns; The dew-drop returns to the sea; The flash from the flint and the steel Returns to its source in the sun. Change cometh forever-and-aye, But forever nothing is lost-- The dew-drop that sinks in the sand, Nor the sunbeam that falls in the sea. Ah, life is only a link In the endless chain of change. Death giveth the dust to the dust And the soul to the infinite soul: For aye since the morning of man--

Since the human rose up from the brute-- Hath Hope, like a beacon of light, Like a star in the rift of the storm, Been writ by the finger of God On the longing hearts of men. O follow no goblin fear; O cringe to no cruel creed; Nor chase the shadow of doubt Till the brain runs mad with despair. Stretch forth thy hand, O man, To the winds and the quaking earth-- To the heaving and falling sea-- To the ultimate stars and feel The throb of the spirit of God-- The pulse of the Universe.

MAULEY

THE BRAVE FERRY-MAN

[NOTE.--The great Sioux massacre in Minnesota commenced at the Agency village, on the Minnesota River, early in the morning of the 16th day of August, 1862, precipitated, doubtless, by the murders at Acton on the day previous. The massacre and the Indian war that followed developed many brave men, but no truer hero than Mauley, an obscure Frenchman, the ferry-man at the Agency. Continually under fire, he resolutely ran his ferry-boat back and forth across the river, affording the terror-stricken people the only chance for escape. He was shot down on his boat just as he had landed on the opposite shore the last of those who fled from the burning village to the ferry-landing. The Indians disemboweled his dead body, cut off the head, hands and feet and thrust them into the cavity. See _Heard's Hist. Sioux War_, p 67.]

Crouching in the early morning, Came the swarth and naked "Sioux;"[CF] On the village, without warning, Fell the sudden, savage blow. Horrid yell and crack of rifle Mingle as the flames arise;-- With the tomahawk they stifle Mothers' wails and children's cries. Men and women to the ferry Fly from many a blazing cot;-- Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Can they cross the ambushed river? 'Tis for life the only chance; Only this may some deliver From the scalping-knife and lance. Through the throng of wailing women Frantic men in terror burst;-- "Back, ye cowards!" thundered Mauley,-- "I will take the women first!" Then with brawny arms and lever Back the craven men he smote. Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

To and fro across the river Plies the little mercy-craft, While from ambushed gun and quiver On it falls the fatal shaft. Trembling from the burning village, Still the terror-stricken fly, For the Indians' love of pillage Stays the bloody tragedy. At the windlass-bar bare-headed-- Bare his brawny arms and throat-- Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Hark!--a sudden burst of war-whoops! They are bent on murder now; Down the ferry-road they rally, Led by furious Little Crow. Frantic mothers clasp their children, And the help of God implore; Frantic men leap in the river Ere the boat can reach the shore. Mauley helps the weak and wounded Till the last soul is afloat;-- Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Speed the craft!--The fierce Dakotas Whoop and hasten to the shore, And a shower of shot and arrows On the crowded boat they pour. Fast it floats across the river, Managed by the master hand, Laden with a freight so precious,-- God be thanked!--it reaches land. Where is Mauley--grim and steady, Shall his brave deed be forgot? Grasping still the windlass-lever, Dead he lies upon the boat.

[CF] Pronounced Soo; a name given to the Dakotas in early days by the French traders.

MEN

Man is a creature of a thousand whims; The slave of hope and fear and circumstance. Through toil and martyrdom a million years Struggling and groping upward from the brute, And ever dragging still the brutish chains, And ever slipping backward to the brute. Shall he not break the galling, brazen bonds That bind him writhing on the wheel of fate? Long ages groveling with his brother brutes, He plucked the tree of knowledge and uprose And walked erect--a god; but died the death: For knowledge brings but sadness and unrest Forever, insatiate longing and regret. Behold the brute's unerring instinct guides True as the pole-star, while man's reason leads How oft to quicksands and the hidden reefs! Contented brute, his daily wants how few! And these by Nature's mother-hand supplied. Man's wants unnumbered and unsatisfied, And multiplied at every onward step-- Insatiate as the cavernous maw of time. His real wants how simple and how few! Behold the kine in yonder pasture-field Cropping the clover, or in rest reclined, Chewing meek-eyed the cud of sweet content. Ambition plagues them not, nor hope, nor fear; No demons fright them and no cruel creeds; No pangs of disappointment or remorse. See man the picture of perpetual want, The prototype of all disquietude; Full of trouble, yet ever seeking more; Between the upper and the nether stone Ground and forever in the mill of fate. Nature and art combine to clothe his form, To feed his fancy and to fill his maw; And yet the more they give the more he craves. Give him the gold of Ophir, still he delves; Give him the land, and he demands the sea; Give him the earth--he reaches for the stars. Doomed by his fate to scorn the good he has And grasp at fancied good beyond his reach, He seeks for silver in the distant hills While in the sand gold glitters at his feet.

O man, thy wisdom is but folly still; Wiser the brute and full of sweet content. The wit and wisdom of five thousand years--What are they but the husks we feed upon, While beast and bird devour the golden grain? Lo for the brutes dame Nature sows and tills; For them the Tuba-tree of Paradise Bends with its bounties free and manifold; For them the fabled fountain Salsabil, Gushes pure wine that sparkles as it runs, And fair Al Cawthar flows with creamy milk. But man, forever doomed to toil and sweat, Digs the hard earth and casts his seeds therein, And hopes the harvest;--how oft he hopes in vain! Weeds choke, winds blast, and myriad pests devour, The hot sun withers and the floods destroy. Unceasing labor, vigilance and care Reward him here and there with bounteous store. Had man the blessed wisdom of content, Happy were he--as wise Horatius sung-- To whom God gives enough with sparing hand. Of all the crops by sighing mortals sown, And watered with man's sweat and woman's tears, There is but only one that never fails In drouth or flood, on fat or flinty soil, On Nilus' banks or Scandia's stony hills-- The plenteous, never-stinted crop of fools. So hath it been since erst aspiring man Broke from the brute and plucked the fatal tree, And will be till eternity grows gray.

Princes and parasites comprise mankind: To one wise prince a million parasites; The most uncommon thing is common-sense; A truly wise man is a freak of nature. The herd are parasites of parasites That blindly follow priest or demagogue, Himself blind leader of the blind. The wise Weigh words, but by the yard fools measure them. The wise beginneth at the end; the fool Ends at the beginning, or begins anew: Aye, every ditch is full of after-wit. Folly sows broad cast; Wisdom gathers in, And so the wise man fattens on the fool, And from the follies of the foolish learns Wisdom to guide himself and bridle them. "To-morrow I made my fortune," cries the fool, "To-day I'll spend it." Thus will Folly eat His chicken ere the hen hath laid the egg. So Folly blossoms with promises all the year-- Promises that bud and blossom but to blast. "All men are fools," said Socrates, the wise, And in the broader sense I grant it true, For even Socrates had his Xanthipp'. Whose head is wise oft hath a foolish heart; The wisest has more follies than he needs; Wisdom and madness, too, are near akin. The marrow-maddening canker-worm of love Feeds on the brains of wise men as on fools'.

The wise man gathers wisdom from all men As bees their honey hive from plant and weed. Yea, from the varied history of the world, From the experience of all times, all men, The wise man learneth wisdom. Folly learns From his own bruises if he learns at all. The fool--born wise--what need hath he to learn? He needs but gabble wisdom to the world: Grill him on a gridiron and he gabbles still.