Chapter 2

Then down the daughter's cheek Ran drops like the summer rain, And thus she spoke: "Father, I love the valiant Annawan; Too long have we roam'd o'er the rocky dell, And through the woody hollow, And by the river brink, And o'er the winter snows, To tear him from my heart: Too long have we sat by the summer rill, To watch the buck as he came to drink, And to see the beaver wallow, To live from him apart-- My father hears."

"Thou lov'st the son of my foe, And know'st thou not the wrongs That foe hath heap'd on me? The nation made him chief-- Why made they him a chief? Had his deeds equall'd mine? Three were the scalps on his pole, In my smoke were nine: I had fought with a Cherokee; I had struck a warrior's blow, Where the waves of Ontario roll; I had borne my lance where he dare not go; I had look'd on a stunted pine, In the realms of endless frost, And the path of the Knisteneau, And the Abenaki crost; While the Red Oak planted his land, It was mine to lead the band. Since then we never spoke, Unless to utter reproach, And bandy bitter words; We meet as two hungry eagles meet, When a badger lies dead at their feet-- Each would use a spear on his foe, Each an arrow would put to his bow, And bid its goal be his foeman's breast, But the warriors interpose, And delay the vengeance I owe. Thou hear'st my words--'t is well.

"Then listen to my words-- The soul of a Maqua never cools; His ire can never be assuag'd, But with the smell of gore I thirst for the Red Oak's blood; I live but for revenge; Thou shalt not wed his son; Choose thee a mate elsewhere, And see that ye roam no more By night o'er the rocky dell, And through the woody hollow, But when the sun its eye-lids closes, See that thine own the example follow."

And the father of the youth Spake thus unto his son: "A bird has whispered in my ear, That when the stars have gone to rest, And the moon her eye-lids hath clos'd, Who walk beside the lake Will see glide past their troubled view Two forms as a meteor light, And will note a white canoe Paddled along by two, And will hear the words of a tender song. Stealing like a spring wind along. Tell me, my son, if either be you?"

Then answer'd the valiant son, "Mine is a warrior's soul, And mine is an arm of strength; I scorn to tell a lie; The bird has told thee true. And, father, hear my words: I now have come to man's estate; Who can bend the sprout of the oak, Of which my bow is made? Who can poise my choice of spears, To me but a slender reed? I fain would build myself a lodge, And take to that lodge a wife: And, father, hear thy son-- I love the Red Oak's daughter."

"Thou lov'st the daughter of my foe; And know'st thou not the taunts His tongue hath heap'd on me: The nation made me chief, And thence his ire arose; Thence came foul wrongs and blows, And neither yet aveng'd. He boasted that his fame exceeded mine: Three, he said, were the scalps on my pole, While in his lodge were nine-- He did not tell how many I _struck_, Nor spoke of my constancy, When the Nansemonds tore my flesh, With burning pincers tore; And he said he had fought with a Cherokee, And had struck a warrior's blow, Where the waves of Ontario roll, And had borne his lance where I dare not go, And had look'd on a stunted pine, In the realms of endless frost; And the path of the Knisteneau And the Abenaki crost: While--bitter taunt!--cruel taunt! And for it I'll drink his blood, And eat him broil'd in fire-- The Red Oak planted his land, It was his to lead the band.

"And listen further to my words-- My wrath can never be assuag'd; Thou shalt not wed his daughter, Choose thee a wife elsewhere; Choose thee one any where, Save in the Maqua's lodge. The Nansemonds have maidens fair, With bright black eyes, and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills; The Chippewa girls of the frosty north Have feet like the nimble antelopes' That bound on their native hills; And their voice is like the dove's in spring-- Take one of those doves to thy cage; But see no more, by day or night, The Maqua warrior's daughter." And haughtily he turn'd away.

Night was abroad on the earth; Mists were over the face of the moon, And the stars were like the sparkling flies That twinkle in the prairie glades, In my brother's month of June: And hideous forms had risen; The spirits of the swamp Had come from their caverns dark and deep, Where the slimy currents flow, With the serpent and wolf to romp, And to whisper in the sleeper's ear Of death and danger near.

Then to the margin of the lake A beauteous maiden came; Tall she was as a youthful fir, Upon the river's bank; Her step was the step of the antelope; Her eye was the eye of the doe; Her hair was black as a coal-black horse; Her hand was plump and small; Her foot was slender and small; And her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song. Beautiful lips had she, Ripe red lips, Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips, When its head is bow'd by dew.

She stood beneath the shade Of the dark and lofty trees, That threw their image on the lake, And waited long in silence there. "Why comes he not, my Annawan, My lover, brave and true? He knows his maiden waits for him Beneath the shade of the yew, To paddle the lake in her White Canoe." But Annawan came not: "He has miss'd me sure," the maiden said, "And skims the lake alone; Dark though it be, and the winds are high, I'll seek my warrior there." Then lightly to her white canoe The fair Pequida sprung, And is gone from the shore alone.

Loud blew the mighty winds, The clouds were dense and black, Thunders rolled among the hills, Lightnings flash'd through the shades; The spirits cried aloud Their melancholy cries, Cries which assail the listening ear When danger and death are near: Who is he that stands on the shore, Uttering sounds of grief? 'Tis Annawan, the favour'd youth, Detain'd so long lest envious eyes Should know wherefore at midnight hour He seeks the lake alone. He finds the maiden gone, And anguish fills his soul, And yet, perchance in childish sport, She hides among the groves. Loudly he calls, "My maiden fair, Thy Annawan is here! Where art thou, maid with the coal-black hair? What does thy bosom fear? If thou hast hid in playful mood In the shade of the pine, or the cypress wood, If the little heart that so gently heaves Is lightly pressing a bed of leaves; Tell me, maiden, by thy voice Bid thy lover's heart rejoice; Ope on him thy starry eyes; Let him clasp thee in his arms, Press thy ripe, red lips to his. Come, my fair Pequida, come!"

No answer meets the warrior's ears, But glimmering o'er the lake appears A solitary, twinkling light-- It seems a fire-fly lamp; It moves, with motion quick and strange, Over the broad lake's breast. The lover sprung to his light canoe, And swiftly followed the meteor spark, But the winds were high, and the clouds were dark, He could not find the maid, Nor near the glittering lamp.

He went to his father's lodge, And laid him on the earth, Calmly laid him down. Words he spoke to none, Looks bestow'd on none. They brought him food--he would not eat-- They brought him drink--he would not drink-- They brought him a spear and a bow, And a club, and an arrowy sheaf, And shouted the cry of war, And prais'd him, and nam'd him a Chief, And told how the treacherous Nanticokes Had slain three Braves of the Roanokes; That a man of the tribe who never ran Had vow'd to war on the Red Oak's son-- But he show'd no signs of wrath; His thoughts were abroad in another path.

Sudden he sprung to his feet, Like an arrow impell'd by a vigorous arm. "You have dug her grave," said he, "In a spot too cold and damp, All too cold and damp, For a soul so warm and true. Where, think ye, her soul has gone? Gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where all night long by a fire-fly lamp She paddles her White Canoe. And thither I will go!" And with that he took his quiver and bow, And bade them all adieu.

And the youth returned no more; And the maiden returned no more; Alive none saw them more; But oft their spirits are seen By him who sleeps in that swamp. When the night's dim lamps are veil'd, And the Hunter's Star is hid, And the moon has shut her lid, And the she-wolf stirs the brake, And the bitterns start by tens, And the slender junipers shake With the weight of the nimble bear, And the pool resounds with the cayman's plash, And the owl sings out of the boughs of the ash, Where he sits so calm and cool, And above his head the muckawiss Sings his gloomy song, And croak the frogs in the pool, And he hears at his feet the horn-snake's hiss; Then often flit along The shades of the youth and maid so true, That haunt the Lake of the White Canoe.

[Footnote A: The Indians could never be brought to believe that paper was any other than a tanned skin invested with the powers of a spirit.]

[Footnote B: See note, vol. i. page 195.]

[Footnote C: Chesapeak bay.]

[Footnote D: Bay of Saganaum, in Lake Huron.]

[Footnote E: Cress or _crease_, a poisoned arrow, seldom used, however, by the tribes east of the Rocky Mountains.]

[Footnote F: Bird of Ages--See the Tradition vol. ii. page 35.]

[Footnote G: Virginia.]

[Footnote H: Scalps are suspended from a pole in the lodge, and usually in the smoke.]

[Footnote I: Alluding to the custom of the Indian of shaving off all the hair except the scalp-lock.]

[Footnote J: _Wekolis_--another name for the whip-poor-will.]

NOTES.

(1) _Trusty memory._--p. 9.

The memory of the Indians is as astonishing as their native sagacity and penetration. They are entirely destitute of those helps which we have invented to ease our memory, or supply the want of it; yet they are never at a loss to recall to their minds any particular circumstance with which they would impress their hearers. On some occasions, they do indeed make use of little sticks to remind them of the different subjects they have to discuss; and with ease they form a kind of local memory, and that so sure and infallible, that they will speak for a great length of time--sometimes for three or four hours together--and display twenty different presents, each of which requires an entire discourse, without forgetting any thing, and even without hesitation.

(2) _Kind Friendship._--p. 14.

Every Indian has a friend nearly of the same age as himself, to whom he attaches himself by the most indissoluble bonds. Two persons, thus united by one common interest, are capable of undertaking and hazarding every thing in order to aid and mutually succour each other; death itself, according to their belief, can only separate them for a time: they are well assured of meeting again in the other world never to part, where they are persuaded they shall have occasion for the same services from one another. Charlevoix tells of an Indian who was a christian, but who did not live according to the maxims of the gospel, and who, being threatened with hell by a Jesuit, asked this missionary whether he thought his friend who was lately departed had gone into that place of torment; the father answered him that he had good grounds to think that the Lord had had mercy upon him, and taken him to heaven. "Then, I won't go to hell, neither?" replied the Indian, and this motive brought him to do every thing that was desired of him; that is to say he would have been full as willing to go to hell as heaven, had he thought to find his companion there.

It is said that these friends, when they happen to be at a distance from each other, reciprocally invoke one another in all dangers. The assistance they promise each other may be surely depended upon.

(3) _A Maqua saved from slaughter._--p. 15.

The following is the practice and ceremony of adoption: A herald is sent round the village or camp, to give notice that such as have lost any relations in the late expedition are desired to attend the distribution which is about to take place. Those women, who have lost their sons or husbands, are generally satisfied in the first place; afterwards, such as have been deprived of friends of a more remote degree of consanguinity, or who choose to adopt some of the youth. The division being made, which is done as in other cases without the least dispute, those who have received any share lead them to their tents or huts, and, having unbound them, wash and dress their wounds if they happen to have received any; they then clothe them, and give them the most comfortable and refreshing food their store will afford.

Whilst their new domestics are feeding, they endeavour to administer consolation to them; they tell them they are redeemed from death, they must now be cheerful and happy; and, if they serve them well without murmuring or repining, nothing shall be wanting to make them such atonement for the loss of their country and friends as circumstances will allow of.

If any men are spared, they are commonly given to the widows that have lost their husbands by the hands of the enemy, should there be any such, to whom, if they happen to prove agreeable, they are soon married. The women are usually distributed to the men, from whom they do not fail of meeting with a favourable reception. The boys and girls are taken into the families of such as have need of them. The lot of their conquerors becomes in all things theirs.

A LEGEND OF THE BOMELMEEKS.

Twenty-four men, and twenty-four women, from the twenty-four tribes of the wilderness, were met upon the top of the hill Gerundewagh. There were none upon the earth but those twenty-four tribes, and none upon the hill but these twice twenty-four people. They were all friends, and as brothers. There was no strife in the land; no blood deluged the beautiful vales of the wilderness; no cry of war shook the hills. Bows and arrows, and spears, were used for the destruction of bears, and wolves, and panthers; and the ochre, which now stains the brow of the Indian with the red hue of war, was used for the ornamenting of pipes. There was but one language upon the earth--all the tribes understood each other. If a Bomelmeek said to an Algonquin, "Give me meat or drink," he brought him meat or drink--if he said, "Smoke in my pipe," he smoked in the proffered pledge of peace, or he refused. If an Iroquois youth said to a girl of the Red Hurons, "Give me thy heart, and become the star of my cabin," she gave him her heart, and became the star of his cabin, or she bade him think of her no more. It was not then as it is now, that men fell out, and came to blows, because they mistook the words that were spoken. "Yes" was "yes," and "no" was "no," with all the tribes of the land, and interpreters were a thing unknown. So these twice twenty-four people from the twenty-four tribes of the earth sat down upon the top of the hill Gerundewagh, and smoked their pipes.

Whilst they were puffing out clouds of smoke, and enjoying greatly the pleasure which an Indian so covets, one of them, whose sight was keener than the rest, casting his eye far over the western wilderness, cried out, that he saw two somethings whose heads peered far above the woods. Very soon the rest of the people assembled at the hill Gerundewagh were able to see the same somethings, which resembled much the trunks of trees which have been divested of their branches, and look out in the blush of the morning through the vapours of a damp valley. What they were no human tongue could tell, but it was seen that they were approaching the hill Gerundewagh. As the heads came nearer, people were seen flying before them, and the heads following in quick pursuit. At length the twice twenty-four on the hill were able to see that the heads belonged to two enormous snakes, which were moving in devious paths about the land, devouring the inhabitants as fast as they were able to discover and swallow them. Seeing this, and the danger to which they were exposed of becoming also food for the monsters, they set about fortifying the high hill Gerundewagh, that their lives might be safe from the appalling danger, and within their fortification they collected all sorts of defensive materials. Having made themselves tolerably secure, they had leisure to view the war of extermination, which the snakes waged with the sons of the land who were not thus protected.

In the mean time, the snakes, having discovered by their acute power of smelling distant objects that the hill Gerundewagh contained human bodies, with whose flesh they were now become much in love, they immediately bent their course to it. In coming thither, they were compelled to cross, or rather to come down the river Mohawk, which, upon their thus getting lengthways of it, diverted from its natural course, overflowed its banks, sweeping away every impediment, and forming those beautiful meadows which have remained ever since covered with a robe of green. Having at length reached the hill, around whose base they threw themselves in many coils, they commenced the work of death by poisoning the air with their pernicious breath. Soon the atmosphere, which before had been pure, was changed in its nature; appearances resembling the motions of the waves of the great lake Superior when slightly agitated in the hot mornings of summer were seen in the horizon, and have never left it. Before, the rains descended in soft showers in the pauses of gentle winds, now they fell in torrents, accompanied with howling tempests and cold hurricanes. Lightnings, which before only played across the horizon, as the red light of autumn evenings streaks the northern sky, now rent asunder the flinty rock, and rived the knotty oak. Men, who had before died only of old age, now poisoned by the breath of the monsters, fell sick in the morning of life, with the brightness of youthful hope in their eye, and the down of unripe years on their cheek. The hair now often grew grey ere the knee became feeble; the teeth rotted out while there was enough to put between them; the eye often failed to see the beautiful objects, and the ear to drink in the soft sounds, which the Great Master of all created for the food of each. The heart now grew sometimes to be trembling and irresolute, and the soul to have its visions of infelicity. But I speak of after-time; first let me talk of that which is first.