🧚 The Feast of the Virgins., part 1 · page 2

"Wakâwa, Wakâwa, for thee the years Are red with blood and bitter with tears.72 Gone,--brothers, and daughters, and wife,--all gone That are kin to Wakâwa,--but one--but one-- Wakínyan Tanka--undutiful son!73 And he estranged from his fathers tee, Will never return till the chief shall die.74 And what cares he for his father's grief?75 He will smile at my death,--it will make him chief.76 Woe burns in my bosom.77 Ho, Warriors,--Ho!78 Raise the song of red war; for your chief must go To drown his grief in the blood of the foe!79 I shall fall.80 Raise my mound on the sacred hill.81 Let my warriors the wish of their chief fulfill; For my fathers sleep in the sacred ground.82 The Autumn blasts o'er Wakâwa's mound Shall chase the hair of the thistle's head, And the bare armed oak o'er the silent dead.83 When the whirling snows from the north descend, Shall wail and moan in the midnight wind.84 In the famine of winter the wolf shall prowl, And scratch the snow from the heap of stones, And sit in the gathering storm and howl, On the frozen mound, for Wakâwa's bones.85 But the years that are gone shall return again.86 As the robin returns and the whippowil When my warriors stand on the sacred hill And remember the deeds of their brave chief slain."87

Beneath the glow of the Virgin Star They raised the song of the red war dance.88 At the break of dawn with the bow and lance They followed the chief on the path of war.89 To the north--to the forests of fir and pine-- Led their stealthy steps on the winding trail, Till they saw the Lake of the Spirit [55] shine Through somber pines of the dusky dale.90

Then they heard the hoot of the mottled owl; [56] They heard the gray wolf's dismal howl; Then shrill and sudden the war whoop rose From an hundred throats of their swarthy foes, In ambush crouched in the tangled wood.91 Death shrieked in the twang of their deadly bows, And their hissing arrows drank brave men's blood.92 From rock, and thicket, and brush, and brakes, Gleamed the burning eyes of the forest snakes.93 [57] From brake, and thicket, and brush, and stone, The bow string hummed and the arrow hissed, And the lance of a crouching Ojibway shone, Or the scalp-knife gleamed in a swarthy fist.94 Undaunted the braves of Wakâwa's band Jumped into the thicket with lance and knife, And grappled the Chippewas hand to hand; And foe with foe, in the deadly strife, Lay clutching the scalp of his foe and dead, With a tomahawk sunk in his ghastly head, Or his still heart sheathing a bloody blade.95 Like a bear in the battle Wakâwa raves, And cheers the hearts of his falling braves.96 But a panther crouches along his track,-- He springs with a yell on Wakâwa's back!97

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.98 And thus was the life of Wakâwa spilt, And slain and slayer lay side by side.99 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.100

The spirits the words of the brave fulfill,-- Wakâwa sleeps on the sacred hill, And Wakínyan Tânka, his son, is chief.101 Ah, soon shall the lips of men forget Wakâwa's name, and the mound of stone Will speak of the dead to the winds alone, And the winds will whistle their mock-regret.102

The speckled cones of the scarlet berries [58] Lie red and ripe in the prairie grass.103 The Sí-yo [59] clucks on the emerald prairies To her infant brood.104 From the wild morass, On the sapphire lakelet set within it, Magâ [60] sails forth with her wee ones daily.105 They ride on the dimpling waters gaily, Like a fleet of yachts and a man of war.106 The piping plover, the laughing linnet, And the swallow sail in the sunset skies.107 The whippowil from her cover hies, And trills her song on the amber air.108

Anon, to her loitering mate she cries "Flip, O Will!--trip, O Will!--skip, O Will!"109 And her merry mate from afar replies: "Flip I will,--skip I will,--trip I will;" And away on the wings of the wind he flies.110 And bright from her lodge in the skies afar Peeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star.111 The fox pups [60] creep from the mother's lair And leap in the light of the rising moon; And loud on the luminous moonlit lake Shrill the bugle notes of the lover loon; And woods and waters and welkin break Into jubilant song,--it is joyful June.112

But where is Wiwâstè?113 O where is she-- The Virgin avenged--the queenly queen-- The womanly woman--the heroine?114 Has she gone to the spirits and can it be That her beautiful face is the Virgin Star Peeping out from the door of her lodge afar, Or upward sailing the silver sea.115 Star-beaconed and lit like an avenue, In the shining stern of her gold canoe?116 No tidings came--nor the brave Chaskè: O, why did the lover so long delay?117 He promised to come with the robins in May, With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; But the fair May mornings have slipped away, And where is the lover--the brave Chaskè?118

But what of the venomous Hârpstinà-- The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud, And kindled revenge in his savage soul?119 He paid for his crime with his false heart's blood, But his angry spirit has brought her dole; [61] It has entered her breast and her burning head, And she raves and burns on her fevered bed. "120 He is dead!121 He is dead!" is her wailing cry. "122 And the blame is mine,--it was I,--it was I!123 I hated Wiwâstè, for she was fair, And my brave was caught in her net of hair.124 I turned his love to a bitter hate; I nourished revenge, and I pricked his pride; Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait.125 He had his revenge, but he died,--he died!126 And the blame is mine,--it was I,--it was I!127 And his spirit burns me, I die,--I die!"128 Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies, She wails to the winds of the night, and dies.129