Chapter 17

The day of truth is dawning. I behold O'er darksome hills the trailing robes of gold And silent footsteps of the gladsome dawn. The morning breaks by sages long foretold; Truth comes to set upon the world her throne. Men lift their foreheads to the rising sun, And lo the reign of Reason is begun. Fantastic phantasms fly before the light-- Pale, gibbering ghosts and ghouls and goblin fears: Man who hath walked in sleep--what thousands years? Groping among the shadows of the night, Moon-struck and in a weird somnambulism, Mumbling some cunning cant or catechism, Thrilled by the electric magic of the skies-- Sun-touched by Truth--awakes and rubs his eyes.

Old Superstition, mother of cruel creeds, O'er all the earth hath sown her dragon-teeth. Lo centuries on centuries the seeds Grew rank, and from them all the haggard breeds Of Hate and Fear and Hell and cruel Death. And still her sunken eyes glare on mankind; Her livid lips grin horrible; her hands, Shriveled to bone and sinew, clutch all lands And with blind fear lead on or drive the blind. Ah ignorance and fear go hand in hand, Twin-born, and broadcast scatter hate and thorns, They people earth with ghosts and hell with horns, And sear the eyes of truth with burning brand.

Behold, the serried ranks of Truth advance, And stubborn Science shakes her shining lance Full in the face of stolid Ignorance. But Superstition is a monster still-- An Hydra we may scotch but hardly kill; For if with sword of Truth we lop a head, How soon another groweth in its stead! All men are slaves. Yea, some are slave to wine And some to women, some to shining gold, But all to habit and to customs old. Around our stunted souls old tenets twine And it is hard to straighten in the oak The crook that in the sapling had its start: The callous neck is glad to wear the yoke; Nor reason rules the head, but aye the heart: The head is weak, the throbbing heart is strong; But where the heart is right the head is not far wrong.

Men have been learning error age on age, And superstition is their heritage Bequeathed from age to age and sire to son Since the dim history of the world begun. Trust paves the way for treachery to tread; Under the cloak of virtue vices creep; Fools chew the chaff while cunning eats the bread, And wolves become the shepherds of the sheep. The mindless herd are but the cunning's tools; For ages have the learned of the schools Furnished pack-saddles for the backs of fools. Pale Superstition loves the gloom of night; Truth, like a diamond, ever loves the light. But still 'twere wrong to speak but in abuse, For priests and popes have had, and have, their use. Yea, Superstition since the world began Hath been an instrument to govern man: For men were brutes, and brutal fear was given To chain the brute till Reason came from heaven. Aye, men were beasts for lo how many ages! And only fear held them in chains and cages.

Wise men were priests, and gladly I accord They were the priests and prophets of the Lord; For love was lust and o'er all earth's arena Hell-fire alone could tame the wild hyena. All history is the register, we find, Of the crimes and lusts and sufferings of mankind; And there are still dark lands where it is well That Superstition wear the horns of hell, And hold her torches o'er the brutal head, And fright the beast with fire and goblin dread Till Reason come the darkness to dispel.

How hard it is for mortals to unlearn Beliefs bred in the marrow of their bones! How hard it is for mortals to discern The truth that preaches from the silent stones, The silent hills, the silent universe, While Error cries in sanctimonious tones That all the light of life and God is hers! Lo in the midst we stand: we cannot see Either the dark beginning or the end, Or where our tottering footsteps turn or trend In the vast orbit of Eternity. Let Reason be our light--the only light That God hath given unto benighted man, Wherewith to see a glimpse of his vast plan And stars of hope that glimmer on our night. Lo all-pervading Unity is His; Lo all-pervading Unity is He: One mighty heart throbs in the earth and sea, In every star through heaven's immensity, And God in all things breathes, in all things is. God's perfect order rules the vast expanse, And Love is queen and all the realms are hers; But strike one planet from the Universe And all is chaos and unbridled chance.

And is there life beyond this life below? Aye, is death death?--or but a happy change From night to light--on angel wings to range, And sing the songs of seraphs as we go? Alas, the more we know the less we know we know.

God hath laid down the limits we cannot pass; And it is well he giveth us no glass Wherewith to see beyond the present glance, Else we might die a thousand deaths perchance Before we lay our bones beneath the grass. What is the soul, and whither will it fly? We only know that matter cannot die, But lives and lived through all eternity, And ever turns from hoary age to youth. And is the soul not worthier than the dust? So in His providence we put our trust; And so we humbly hope, for God is just-- Father all-wise, unmoved by wrath or ruth: What then is certain--what eternal? Truth, Almighty God, Time, Space and Cosmic Dust.

LOVE WILL FIND

Seek ye the fairest lily of the field, The fairest lotus that in lakelet lies, The fairest rose that ever morn revealed, And Love will find--from other eyes concealed-- A fairer flower in some fair woman's eyes.

List ye the lark that warbles to the morn, The sweetest note that linnet ever sung, Or trembling lute in tune with silver horn, And Love will list--and laugh your lute to scorn-- A sweeter lute in some fair woman's tongue.

Seek ye the dewy perfume seaward blown From flowering orange-groves to passing ships; Nay, sip the nectared dew of Helicon, And Love will find--and claim it all his own-- A sweeter dew on some fair woman's lips.

Seek ye a couch of softest eider-down, The silken floss that baby birdling warms, Or shaded moss with blushing roses strown, And Love will find--when they are all alone-- A softer couch in some fair woman's arms.

AN OLD ENGLISH OAK

Silence is the voice of mighty things. In silence dropped the acorn in the rain; In silence slept till sun-touched. Wondrous life Peeped from the mold and oped its eyes on morn. Up-grew in silence through a thousand years The Titan-armed, gnarl-jointed, rugged oak, Rock-rooted. Through his beard and shaggy locks Soft breezes sung and tempests roared: the rain A thousand summers trickled down his beard; A thousand winters whitened on his head; Yet spake he not. He, from his coigne of hills, Beheld the rise and fall of empire, saw The pageantry and perjury of kings, The feudal barons and the slavish churls, The peace of peasants; heard the merry song Of mowers singing to the swing of scythes, The solemn-voiced, low-wailing funeral dirge Winding slow-paced with death to humble graves; And heard the requiem sung for coffined kings. Saw castles rise and castles crumble down, Abbeys up-loom and clang their solemn bells, And heard the owl hoot ruin on their walls: Beheld a score of battle fields corpse-strewn-- Blood-fertiled with ten thousand flattered fools Who, but to please the vanity of one, Marched on hurrahing to the doom of death-- And spake not, neither sighed nor made a moan. Saw from the blood of heroes roses spring, And where the clangor of steel-sinewed War Roared o'er embattled rage, heard gentle Peace To bleating hills and vales of rustling gold Flute her glad notes from morn till even-tide. Grim with the grime of a thousand years he stood-- Grand in his silence, mighty in his years. Under his shade the maid and lover wooed; Under his arms their children's children played And lambkins gamboled; at his feet by night The heart-sick wanderer laid him down and died, And he looked on in silence.

Silent hours In ghostly pantomime on tip-toe tripped The stately minuet of the passing years, Until the horologe of Time struck _One_. Black Thunder growled and from his throne of gloom Fire-flashed the night with hissing bolt, and lo, Heart-split, the giant of a thousand years Uttered one voice and like a Titan fell, Crashing one hammer-clang, and passed away.

THE LEGEND OF THE FALLS[CG]

[CG] _An-pe-tu Sa-pa_--Clouded Day--was the name of the Dakota mother who committed suicide, as related in this legend, by plunging over the Falls of St. Anthony. Schoolcraft calls her "_Ampata Sapa_." _Ampata_ is not Dakota. There are several versions of this legend, all agreeing in the main points.

[Read at the Celebration of the Old Settlers of Hennepin County, at the Academy of Music, Minneapolis, July 4, 1879.]

[_The Numerals refer to Notes in Appendix._]

On the Spirit-Island [CH] sitting under midnight's misty moon, Lo I see the spirits flitting o'er the waters one by one! Slumber wraps the silent city, and the droning mills are dumb; One lone whippowil's shrill ditty calls her mate that ne'er will come. Sadly moans the mighty river, foaming down the fettered falls, Where of old he thundered ever o'er abrupt and lofty walls. Great _Unktéhee_--god of waters--lifts no more his mighty head; Fled he with the timid otters?--lies he in the cavern dead? Hark!--the waters hush their sighing and the whippowil her call, Through the moon-lit mists are flying dusky shadows silent all. Lo from out the waters foaming--from the cavern deep and dread-- Through the glamour and the gloaming comes a spirit of the dead. Sad she seems; her tresses raven on her tawny shoulders rest; Sorrow on her brow is graven, in her arms a babe is pressed. Hark!--she chants the solemn story--sings the legend sad and old, And the river wrapt in glory listens while the tale is told. Would you hear the legend olden hearken while I tell the tale-- Shorn, alas, of many a golden, weird Dakota chant and wail.

[CH] The small island of rock a few rods below the Falls, was called by the Dakotas _Wanagee We-ta_--Spirit-Island. They say the spirit of _Anpetu Sapa_ sits upon that island at night and pours forth her sorrow in song. They also say that from time out of mind, war-eagles nested on that island, until the advent of white men frightened them away. This seems to be true. See _Carver's Travels_ (London, 1778), p. 71.

THE LEGEND

Tall was young Wanâta, stronger than _Heyóka's_ [16] giant form,-- Laughed at flood and fire and hunger, faced the fiercest winter storm. When _Wakinyan_ [32] flashed and thundered, when Unktéhee raved and roared, All but brave _Wanâta_ wondered, and the gods with fear implored. When the war-whoop shrill resounded, calling friends to meet the foe, From the _teepee_ swift he bounded, armed with polished lance and bow. In the battle's din and clangor fast his fatal arrows flew, Flashed his fiery eyes with anger,--many a stealthy foe he slew. Hunter swift was he and cunning, caught the beaver, slew the bear, Overtook the roebuck running, dragged the panther from his lair. Loved was he by many a maiden; many a dark eye glanced in vain; Many a heart with sighs was laden for the love it could not gain. So they called the brave "_Ska Câpa_;"[CI] but the fairest of the band-- Moon-faced, meek Anpétu-Sâpa--won the hunter's heart and hand.

[CI] Or _Capa Ska_--White beaver. White beavers are very rare, very cunning and hard to catch.

From the wars with triumph burning, from the chase of bison fleet, To his lodge the brave returning, spread his trophies at her feet. Love and joy sat in the _teepee_; him a black-eyed boy she bore; But alas, she lived to weep a love she lost forevermore. For the warriors chose Wanâta first _Itáncan_[CJ] of the band. At the council-fire he sat a leader brave, a chieftain grand. Proud was fair Anpétu-Sâpa, and her eyes were glad with joy; Proud was she and very happy with her warrior and her boy. But alas, the fatal honor that her brave Wanâta won, Brought a bitter woe upon her,--hid with clouds the summer sun. For among the brave Dakotas wives bring honor to the chief. On the vine-clad Minnesota's banks he met the Scarlet Leaf.

[CJ] _E-tan-can_--Chief.

Young and fair was Apè-dúta[CK]--full of craft and very fair; Proud she walked a queen of beauty with her dark, abundant hair. In her net of hair she caught him--caught Wanâta with her wiles; All in vain his wife besought him--begged in vain his wonted smiles. Apè-dúta ruled the _teepee_--all Wanâta's smiles were hers; When the lodge was wrapped in sleep a star[CL] beheld the mother's tears. Long she strove to do her duty for the black-eyed babe she bore; But the proud, imperious beauty made her sad forevermore. Still she dressed the skins of beaver, bore the burdens, spread the fare; Patient ever, murmuring never, though her cheeks were creased with care. In the moon _Magâ-o kâda_, [71] twice an hundred years ago-- Ere the "Black Robe's"[CM] sacred shadow stalked the prairies' pathless snow-- Down the swollen, rushing river, in the sunset's golden hues, From the hunt of bear and beaver came the band in swift canoes. On the queen of fairy islands, on the _Wita Wâstè's_ [CN] shore Camped Wanâta, on the highlands just above the cataract's roar. Many braves were with Wanâta; Apè-dúta, too, was there, And the sad Anpétu-sâpa spread the lodge with wonted care. Then above the leafless prairie leaped the fat-faced, laughing moon, And the stars--the spirits fairy--walked the welkin one by one. Swift and silent in the gloaming on the waste of waters blue, Speeding downward to the foaming, shot Wanâta's birch canoe. In it stood Anpétu-sâpa--in her arms her sleeping child; Like a wailing Norse-land _drapa_ [CO] rose her death-song weird and wild:

[CK] _A-pe_--leaf,--_duta_--Scarlet,--Scarlet leaf

[CL] Stars, the Dakotas say, are the faces of the departed watching over their friends and relatives on earth.

[CM] The Dakotas called the Jesuit priests "Black Robes," from the color of their vestments.

[CN] _Wee-tah Wah-stay_--Beautiful Island,--the Dakota name for Nicollet Island, just above the Falls.

[CO] _Drapa_, a Norse funeral wail in which the virtues of the deceased are recounted.

_Mihihna_,[CP] _Mihihna_, my heart is stone; The light is gone from my longing eyes; The wounded loon in the lake alone Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, the path is long, The burden is heavy and hard to bear; I sink--I die, and my dying song Is a song of joy to the false one's ear.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, my young heart flew Far away with my brave to the bison-chase; To the battle it went with my warrior true, And never returned till I saw his face.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, my brave was glad When he came from the chase of the roebuck fleet; Sweet were the words that my hunter said As his trophies he laid at Anpétu's feet.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, the boy I bore-- When the robin sang and my brave was true, I can bear to look on his face no more, For he looks, _Mihihna_, so much like you.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, the Scarlet Leaf Has robbed my boy of his father's love; He sleeps in my arms--he will find no grief In the star-lit lodge in the land above.

_Mihihna, Mihihna_, my heart is stone; The light is gone from my longing eyes; The wounded loon in the lake alone Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.

[CP] _Mee-heen-yah_--My husband.

Swiftly down the turbid torrent, as she sung her song she flew; Like a swan upon the current, dancing rode the light canoe. Hunters hurry in the gloaming; all in vain Wanâta calls; Singing through the surges foaming, lo she plunges o'er the Falls.

Long they searched the sullen river--searched for leagues along the shore, Bark or babe or mother never saw the sad Dakotas more; But at night or misty morning oft the hunters heard her song, Oft the maidens heard her warning in their mellow mother-tongue. On the bluffs they sat enchanted till the blush of beamy dawn; Spirit Isle, they say, is haunted, and they call the spot Wakân[CQ] Many summers on the highland in the full moon's golden glow-- In the woods on Fairy Island,[CR] walked a snow-white fawn and doe-- Spirits of the babe and mother sadly seeking evermore For a father's love another turned away with evil power.

Sometimes still when moonbeams shimmer through the maples on the lawn, In the gloaming and the glimmer walk the silent doe and fawn; And on Spirit Isle or near it, under midnight's misty moon, Oft is seen the mother's spirit, oft is heard her mournful tune.

[CQ] Pronounced Walk-on,--Sacred, inhabited by a spirit.

[CR] Fairy Island,--_Wita-Waste_--Nicollet Island.

CHICKADEE

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee! That was the song that he sang to me--Sang from his perch in the willow tree-- Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee. My little brown bird, The song that I heard Was a happier song than the minstrels sing-- A paean of joy and a carol of spring; And my heart leaped throbbing and sang with thee Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

My birdie looked wise With his little black eyes, As he peeked and peered from his perch at me With a throbbing throat and a flutter of glee, As if he would say-- Sing trouble away, Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

Only one note From his silver throat; Only one word From my wise little bird; But a sweeter note or a wiser word From the tongue of mortal I never have heard, Than my little philosopher sang to me From his bending perch in the willow tree-- Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

Come foul or fair, Come trouble and care-- No--never a sigh Or a thought of despair! For my little bird sings in my heart to me, As he sang from his perch in the willow tree-- Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee dee: Chickadee-dee, chickadee-dee; Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

ANTHEM

[APRIL, 1861.]

Spirit of Liberty, Wake in the Land! Sons of our Forefathers, Raise the strong hand! Burn in each heart anew Liberty's fires; Wave the old Flag again, Flag of our sires; Glow all thy stars again, Banner of Light! Wave o'er us forever, Emblem of might; God for our Banner! God for the Right!

Minions of Tyranny, Tremble and kneel! The sons of the Pilgrims Are sharpening their steel. Pledge for our Land again Honor and life; Wave the old Flag again; On to the strife! Shades of our Forefathers, Witness our fright! Wave o'er us forever, Emblem of might; God for our Banner! God for our Right!

HURRAH FOR THE VOLUNTEERS

[May, 1861.]

Come then, brave men, from the Land of Lakes With steady steps and cheers; Our country calls, as the battle breaks, On the Northwest Pioneers. Let the eagle scream, and the bayonet gleam! Hurrah for the Volunteers!

CHARGE OF "THE BLACK-HORSE"

[First battle of Bull Run.]

Our columns are broken, defeated, and fled; We are gathered, a few from the flying and dead, Where the green flag is up and our wounded remain Imploring for water and groaning in pain. Lo the blood-spattered bosom, the shot-shattered limb, The hand-clutch of fear as the vision grows dim, The half-uttered prayer and the blood-fettered breath, The cold marble brow and the calm face of death. O proud were these forms at the dawning of morn, When they sprang to the call of the shrill bugle-horn: There are mothers and wives that await them afar; God help them!--Is this then the glory of war? But hark!--hear the cries from the field of despair; "The Black-Horse" are charging the fugitives there; They gallop the field o'er the dying and dead, And their blades with the blood of their victims are red. The cries of the fallen and flying are vain; They saber the wounded and trample the slain; And the plumes of the riders wave red in the sun, As they stoop for the stroke and the murder goes on. They halt for a moment--they form and they stand; Then with sabers aloft they ride down on our band Like the samiel that sweeps o'er Arabia's sand. "Halt!--down with your sabers!--the dying are here! Let the foeman respect while the friend sheds a tear." Nay; the merciless butchers were thirsting for blood, And mad for the murder still onward they rode. "_Stand firm and be ready_!"--Our brave, gallant few Have faced to the foe, and our rifles are true; Fire!--a score of grim riders go down in a breath At the flash of our guns--in the tempest of death! They wheel, and they clutch in despair at the mane! They reel in their saddles and fall to the plain!

The riderless steeds, wild with wounds and with fear, Dash away o'er the field in unbridled career; Their stirrups swing loose and their manes are all gore From the mad cavaliers that shall ride them no more. Of the hundred so bold that rode down on us there But few rode away with the tale of despair; Their proud, plumèd comrades so reckless, alas, Slept their long, dreamless sleep on the blood-spattered grass.

ONLY A PRIVATE KILLED

[The soldier was Louis Mitchell, of Co. 1, 1st Minn. Vols., killed in a skirmish, near Ball's Bluff, October 22, 1861.]

"We've had a brush," the Captain said, "And Rebel blood we've spilled; We came off victors with the loss Of only a _private_ killed." "Ah," said the orderly--"it was hot,"-- Then he breathed a heavy breath-- "Poor fellow!--he was badly shot, Then bayoneted to death."

And now was hushed the martial din; The saucy foe had fled; They brought the private's body in; I went to see the dead; For I could not think our Rebel foes-- So valiant in the van-- So boastful of their chivalry-- Could kill a wounded man.

A musket ball had pierced his thigh-- A frightful, crushing wound-- And then with savage bayonets They pinned him to the ground. One deadly thrust drove through the heart, Another through the head; Three times they stabbed his pulseless breast When he lay cold and dead.

His hair was matted with his gore, His hands were clinched with might, As if he still his musket bore So firmly in the fight. He had grasped the foemen's bayonets Their murderous thrusts to fend: They raised the coat-cape from his face, And lo--it was my friend!

Think what a shudder chilled my heart! 'Twas but the day before We laughed together merrily, As we talked of days of yore. "How happy we shall be," he said, "When the war is o'er, and when With victory's song and victory's tread We all march home again."

Ah little he dreamed--that soldier brave So near his journey's goal-- How soon a heavenly messenger Would claim his Christian soul. But he fell like a hero--fighting, And hearts with grief are filled; And honor is his,--tho' the Captain says "Only a _private_ killed."

I knew him well,--he was my friend; He loved our land and laws, And he fell a blessed martyr To our Country's holy cause; And I know a cottage in the West Where eyes with tears are filled As they read the careless telegram-- "Only a _private_ killed."

Comrades, bury him under the oak, Wrapped in his army-blue; He is done with the battle's din and smoke, With drill and the proud review. And the time will come ere long, perchance, When our blood will thus be spilled, And what care we if the Captain say-- "Only a _private_ killed."

For the glorious Old Flag beckons. We have pledged her heart and hand, And we'll brave even death to rescue Our dear old Fatherland. We ask not praise--nor honors, Then--as each grave is filled-- What care we if the Captain say-- "Only a _private_ killed."

DO THEY THINK OF US?

[October, 1861, after the Battle of Ball's Bluff.]