Hanford Lennox Gordon

“ Spoke the mother to the Raven: "O my son—my brave young hunter, Feed my tender little orphan; Be a father to my orphan; Be a mother to my orphan,— For the Crafty Red Fox robbed us,— Robbed the Sea-Gull of her husband, Robbed the infant of her mother. From this cliff the treacherous woman Headlong into Gitchee Gumee Plunged the mother of my orphan. Then a Nébe-nâw-baig caught me,— Chief of all the Nébe-nâw-baigs— Took me to his shining wigwam, In the cavern of the waters, Deep beneath the might waters. All below is burnished copper, All above is burnished silver Gemmed with amethyst and agates. ”

“ No more shall Winona his face behold, And the robin that sang in her heart is gone. Shall I sit at the feet of the treacherous brave? On his hateful couch shall Winona lie? Shall she kindle his fire like a coward slave? No!—a warrior's daughter can bravely die. My Father's Spirit, look down, look down— From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies; Behold, for the light of my soul is gone,— The light is gone and Winona dies. Swift the strong hunters clomb as she sang, and the foremost of all was Tamdóka; From crag to crag upward he sprang; like a panther he leaped to the summit. ”

“ On the wings of the spring come the geese and the mallards;
On the bare oak the red-robin sings, and the crocus peeps up on the prairies,
And the bobolink pipes, but he brings of the blue-eyed, brave White Chief no tidings.
With the waning of winter, alas, waned the life of the aged Ta-té-psin;
Ere the wild pansies peeped from the grass, to the Land of the Spirits he journeyed;
Like a babe in its slumber he passed, or the snow from the hill-tops of April;
And the dark-eyed Winona, at last, stood alone by the graves of her kindred. ”

“ Through the thicket, the meadow, the wood, dash the pack on the trail of Winona. Swift she speeds with her burden, but swift on her track fly the minions of famine; Now they yell on the view from the drift, in the reeds at the marge of the meadow; Red gleam their wild, ravenous eyes; for they see on the hill-side their supper; The dark forest echoes their cries; but her heart is the heart of a warrior. From its sheath snatched Winona her knife, and a leg from the red doe she severed; With the carcass she ran for her life, —to a low-branching oak ran the maiden ”

“ The earth is but a grain of sand—
An atom in a shoreless sea;
A million worlds lie in God's hand—
Yea, myriad millions—what are we?
O mortal man of bone and blood!
Then is there nothing left but dust?
God made us; He is wise and good,
And we may humbly hope and trust.
WINONA.
When the meadow-lark trilled o'er the leas and the oriole piped in the maples,
From my hammock, all under the trees, by the sweet-scented field of red clover,
I harked to the hum of the bees, as they gathered the mead of the blossoms,
And caught from their low melodies the air of the song of Winona. ”

“ They dance to the tune of their wild "Ha-ha!" A warrior's shout and a raven's caw— Circling the pot and the blaming 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— "Ha-ha,—ha-ha,—ha-ha,—ha!" 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. ”

“ From the distant Thunder-mountain
On the shore of Gitchee Gumee,
On the rugged northern border,
Sent his solemn, final warning,
Sent the white wolves of the Nor'land. [14]
Like the dust of stars in ether—
In the Pathway of the Spirits, [15]
Like the sparkling dust of diamonds,
Fell the frost upon the forest,
On the mountains and the meadows,
On the wilderness of woodland,
On the wilderness of waters.
All the lingering fowls departed—
All that seek the South in winter,
All but Shingebís, the diver; [16]
He defies the Winter-maker,
Sits and laughs at Winter-maker. ”

“ 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 hearts 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 ”

“ 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 [CB] 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. ”

“ A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong, And a lovelorn brave is a scorn to see. Mah-pí-ya Dúta, O listen to me! Revenge is swift and revenge is strong, And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree. The proud Red Cloud will revenge his wrong Let the brave be patient, it is not long Till the leaves be green on the maple tree, And the Feast of the Virgins is then to be;— The Feast of the Virgins is then to be! ”

“ Old and wrinkled was the Sea-Gull,
Good and true, but old and wrinkled.
Twenty winters for the Panther
Had she ruled the humble wigwam,
Borne the burdens on the journey,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red-deer,
Made him moccasins and leggins,
Decked his hood with quills and feathers,
Colored quills of Kaug, the thorny,
Feathers from the great war-eagle;
Ever diligent and faithful,
Ever patient, ne'er complaining.
But like all brave men the Panther
Loved a young and handsome woman ”

“ Like a bear in the battle Wakâwa raves, And cheers the hearts of his falling braves. But a panther crouches along his track,— He springs with a yell on Wakâwa's back! The tall Chief, stabbed to the heart, lies low; But his left hand clutches his deadly foe, And his red right clenches the bloody hilt Of his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed. And thus was the life of Wakâwa spilt, And slain and slayer lay side by side. The unscalped corpse of their honored chief His warriors snatched from the yelling pack, And homeward fled on their forest track With their bloody burden and load of grief. ”

“ Met some goblin in the forest?
Has he put a spell upon you—
Filled your heart with bitter waters,
That you sit so sad and sullen,
Sit and smoke, but never answer,
Only when the storm is on you?"
Gruffly then the Panther answered:
"Brave among the brave is Panther
Son of Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior,
And the brave are ever silent;
But a whining dog is woman,
Whining ever like a coward."
Forth into the tangled forest,
Threading through the thorny thickets,
Treading trails on marsh and meadow,
Sullen strode the moody hunter.
Saw he not the bear or beaver,
Saw he not the elk or roebuck ”

“ The winds are asleep in the caves —in the heart of the far-away mountains; And here on the meadows and there, the lazy mists gather and hover; And the lights of the Fen-Spirits 72 flare and dance on the low-lying marshes, As still as the footsteps of death by the bed of the babe and its mother; And hushed are the pines, and beneath lie the weary limbed boatmen in slumber. Walk softly,—walk softly, O Moon, through the gray, broken clouds in thy pathway, For the earth lies asleep, and the boon of repose is bestowed on the weary. Toiling hands have forgotten their care ”

“ Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon, When she peeps o'er the hills of the dewy east, Wiwâstè sings at the Virgins Feast; And bright is the light in her luminous eyes; They glow like the stars in the winter skies; And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heart Their golden blush to her cheeks impart— Her cheeks half hid in her midnight hair. Fair is her form—as the red fawn's fair, And long is the flow of her raven hair ”

“ For the oars of Tamdôka are ten, and but six are the oars of the Frenchmen, And the red warriors' burden of men is matched by the voyageur's luggage. Side by side, neck and neck, for a mile, still they strain their strong arms to the utmost, Till rounding a willowy isle, now ahead creeps the boat of Tamdóka, And the neighboring forests profound, and the far-stretching plain of the meadows To the whoop of the victors resound, while the panting French rest on their paddles. With sable wings wide o'er the land, night sprinkles the dew of the heavens ”

“ Fair was the chief as the morning-star; His eyes were mild and his words were low, But his heart was stouter than lance or bow; And her young heart flew to her love afar O'er his trail long covered with drifted snow. But she heard a warrior's stealthy tread, And the tall Wakâwa appeared, and said— "Is Wiwâstè afraid of the spirit dread That fires the sky in the fatal north? 26 Behold the mysterious lights. Come forth Some evil threatens,—some danger nears, For the skies are pierced with the burning spears." The warriors rally beneath the moon; They shoot their shafts at the evil spirit. ”

“ He walks in a dream mid the blooming of flowers, And never awakes till the blossoms die. Ah, lovers are lovers the wide world over— In the hunter's lodge and the royal palace. Sweet are the lips of his love to the lover,— Sweet as new wine in a golden chalice, From the Tajo's 44 slopes or the hills beyond; And blindly he sips from his loved one's lips, In lodge or palace the wide world over, The maddening honey of Trebizond. 45 O, what are leagues to the loving hunter, Or the blinding drift of the hurricane, When it raves and roars o'er the frozen plain! ”

“ Her will must Winona obey, by the custom and law of Dakotas. The gifts to the teepee were brought —the blankets, and beads of the White men, And Winona, the orphaned, was bought by the crafty relentless Tamdóka. In the Spring-time of life, in the flush of the gladsome mid-May days of Summer, When the bobolink sang and the thrush, and the red robin chirped in the branches, To the tent of the brave must she go; she must kindle the fire in his tepee; She must sit in the lodge of her foe, as a slave at the feet of her master. ”