🧚 Heyóka Wacípee [16]--the Giant's Dance. · page 2

"Ta-tânka!74 Ta-tânka!"75 [33] the hunters cried, With a joyous shout at the break of dawn; And darkly lined on the white hill-side, A herd of bison went marching on Through the drifted snow like a caravan.76 Swift to their ponies the hunters sped, And dashed away on the hurried chase.77 The wild steeds scented the game ahead, And sprang like hounds to the eager race.78 But the brawny bulls in the swarthy van Turned their polished horns to the charging foes, And reckless rider and fleet foot-man Were held at bay in the drifted snows, While the bellowing herd o'er the hill-tops ran, Like the frightened beasts of a caravan On the Sahara's sands when the simoon blows.79 Sharp were the twangs of the hunters' bows, And swift and humming the arrows sped, Till ten huge bulls on the bloody snows Lay pierced with arrows and dumb and dead.80 But the chief with the flankers had gained the rear, And flew on the trail of the flying herd.81 The shouts of the riders rang loud and clear, As their frothing steeds to the chase they spurred.82 And now like the roar of an avalanche Rolls the sullen wrath of the maddened bulls.83 They charge on the riders and runners stanch, And a dying steed in the snow-drift rolls, While the rider, flung to the frozen ground Escapes the horns by a panther's bound.84 But the raging monsters are held at bay, While the flankers dash on the swarthy rout.85 With lance and arrow they slay and slay; And the welkin rings to the gladsome shout-- To the loud Inâs and the wild Ihós, [34]-- And dark and dead, on the bloody snows, Lie the swarthy heaps of the buffaloes.86

All snug in the teepee Wiwâstè lay, All wrapped in her robe, at the dawn of day,-- All snug and warm from the wind and snow, While the hunters followed the buffalo.87 Her dreams and her slumber their wild shouts broke; The chase was afoot when the maid awoke; She heard the twangs of the hunter's bows, And the bellowing bulls and the loud Ihós, And she murmured--"My hunter is far away In the happy land of the tall Hóhé-- My beautiful hunter, my brave Chaskè; But the robins will come and my warrior too, And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo."88

And long she lay in a reverie, And dreamed, wide-awake, of her brave Chaskè, Till a trampling of feet on the crispy snow She heard, and the murmur of voices low;-- Then the hunters' greeting--Ihó!89 Ihó!90 And behold, in the blaze of the risen day, With the hunters that followed the buffalo,-- Came her beautiful hunter--her brave Chaskè.91 Far south has he followed the bison-trail With his band of warriors so brave and true.92 Right glad is Wakâwa his friend to hail, And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo.93

Tall and straight as the larch tree stood The manly form of the brave young chief, And fair as the larch in its vernal leaf, When the red fawn bleats in the feathering wood.94 Mild was his face as the morning skies, And friendship shone in his laughing eyes; But swift were his feet o'er the drifted snow On the trail of the elk or the buffalo; And his heart was stouter than lance or bow, When he heard the whoop of his enemies.95 Five feathers he wore of the great Wanmdeè, And each for the scalp of a warrior slain, When down on his camp from the northern plain, With their murder cries rode the bloody Cree.96 [35] But never the stain of an infant slain, Or the blood of a mother that plead in vain, Soiled the honored plumes of the brave Hóhé.97 A mountain bear to his enemies, To his friends like the red fawn's dappled form; In peace, like the breeze from the summer seas; In war, like the roar of the mountain storm.98 His fame in the voice of the winds went forth From his hunting grounds in the happy north, And far as the shores of the Great Medè [36] The nations spoke of the brave Chaskè.99

Dark was the visage of grim Red Cloud, Fierce were the eyes of the warrior proud, When the chief to his lodge led the brave Chaskè, And Wiwâstè smiled on the tall Hóhé.100 Away he strode with a sullen frown, And alone in his teepee he sat him down.101 From the gladsome greeting of braves he stole, And wrapped himself in his gloomy soul.102 But the eagle eyes of the Hârpstinà The clouded face of the warrior saw.103 Softly she spoke to the sullen brave: "Mah-pí-ya Dúta,--his face is sad.104 And why is the warrior so glum and grave?105 For the fair Wiwâstè is gay and glad.106 She will sit in the teepee the live-long day, And laugh with her lover--the brave Hóhé.107 Does the tall Red Cloud for the false one sigh?108 There are fairer maidens than she, and proud Were their hearts to be loved by the brave Red Cloud.109 And trust not the chief with the smiling eyes; His tongue is swift, but his words are lies; And the proud Mah-pí-ya will surely find That Wakâwa's promise is hollow wind.110 Last night I stood by his lodge, and lo I heard the voice of the Little Crow; But the fox is sly and his words were low.111 But I heard her answer her father--"Never!112 I will stain your knife in my heart's red blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river, Ere I will be wife to the fierce Red Cloud!"113 Then he spake again, and his voice was low, But I heard the answer of Little Crow: "Let it be as you will, for Wakâwa's tongue Has spoken no promise,--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong."114

Mâh-pí-ya Dúta, they scorn your love, But the false chief covets the warrior's gifts.115 False to his promise the fox will prove, And fickle as snow in Wo-kâ-da-weè, [37] That slips into brooks when the gray cloud lifts, Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts.116 Mah-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me There are fairer birds in the bush than she, And the fairest would gladly be Red Cloud's wife.117 Will the warrior sit like a girl bereft, When fairer and truer than she are left That love Red Cloud as they love their life?118 Mah-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me I love him well,--I have loved him long: A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong, And a lovelorn brave is a scorn to see.119

Mah-pí-ya Dúta, O listen to me!120 Revenge is swift and revenge is strong, And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree.121 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!"122

Proudly she turned from the silent brave, And went her way; but the warrior's eyes-- They flashed with the flame of a sudden fire, Like the lights that gleam in the Sacred Cave, [38] When the black night covers the autumn skies, And the stars from their welkin watch retire.123

Three nights he tarried--the brave Chaskè; Winged were the hours and they flitted away; On the wings of Wakândee [39] they silently flew, For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo.124 Ah, little he cared for the bison-chase; For the red lilies bloomed on the fair maid's face; Ah, little he cared for the winds that blew, For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo.125 Brown-bosomed she sat on her fox-robe dark, Her ear to the tales of the brave inclined, Or tripped from the tee like the song of a lark, And gathered her hair from the wanton wind.126 Ah, little he thought of the leagues of snow He trode on the trail of the buffalo; And little he recked of the hurricanes That swept the snow from the frozen plains And piled the banks of the Bloody River.127 [40] His bow unstrung and forgotten hung With his beaver hood and his otter quiver; He sat spell-bound by the artless grace Of her star-lit eyes and her moon-lit face.128 Ah, little he cared for the storms that blew, For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo.129 When he spoke with Wakâwa her sidelong eyes Sought the handsome chief in his hunter-guise.130 Wakâwa marked, and the lilies fair On her round cheeks spread to her raven hair.131 They feasted on rib of the bison fat, On the tongue of the Ta [41] that the hunters prize, On the savory flesh of the red Hogân, [42] On sweet tipsânna [43] and pemmican, And the dun-brown cakes of the golden maize; And hour after hour the young chief sat, And feasted his soul on the maiden's eyes.132

The sweeter the moments the swifter they fly; Love takes no account of the fleeting hours; He walks in a dream mid the blooming of flowers, And never awakes till the blossoms die.133 Ah, lovers are lovers the wide world over-- In the hunter's lodge and the royal palace.134 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.135 [45]136

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!137 He would face the storm,--he would death encounter The darling prize of his heart to gain.138 But his hunters chafed at the long delay, For the swarthy bison were far away, And the brave young chief from the lodge departed.139 He promised to come with the robin in May, With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; And the fair Wiwâstè was happy-hearted, For Wakâwa promised the brave Chaskè.140

Birds of a feather will flock together.141 The robin sings to his ruddy mate, And the chattering jays, in the winter weather, To prate and gossip will congregate; And the cawing crows on the autumn heather, Like evil omens, will flock together, In extra-session, for high debate; And the lass will slip from a doting mother To hang with her lad on the garden gate.142 Birds of a feather will flock together,-- 'Tis an adage old,--it is nature's law, And sure as the pole will the needle draw, The fierce Red Cloud with the flaunting feather, Will follow the finger of Hârpstinà.143

The winter wanes and the south-wind blows From the Summer Islands legendary.144 The skéskas [46] fly and the melted snows In lakelets lie on the dimpled prairie.145 The frost-flowers [47] peep from their winter sleep Under the snow-drifts cold and deep.146

To the April sun and the April showers, In field and forest, the baby flowers Lift their golden faces and azure eyes; And wet with the tears of the winter-fairies, Soon bloom and blossom the emerald prairies, Like the fabled Garden of Paradise.147

The plum-trees, white with their bloom in May, Their sweet perfume on the vernal breeze Wide strew like the isles of the tropic seas, Where the paroquet chatters the livelong day.148 But the May-days pass and the brave Chaskè-- O, why does the lover so long delay?149 Wiwâstè waits in the lonely tee, Has her fair face fled from his memory?150 For the robin cherups his mate to please, The blue bird pipes in the poplar trees, The meadow lark warbles his jubilees, Shrilling his song in the azure seas, Till the welkin throbs to his melodies; And low is the hum of the humble bees, And the Feast of the Virgins is now to be.151