Classic Poem

Whir ! what glad tidings! what delicious din!
Throw up the windows! Let the songtide in!
The mid-May sky is dapple-gray, earth sere,
And the woods leafless, but the birds are here!

So then I sighed for summer. When it came,
With all its rose-fed reveries, and flame
Of honeyed sunflowers, and the scented thorn,
I wandered out into the woods at morn.
A fair young morn, in which a shower had been,
So all the world was in its deepest green,
And every spot whereon the cool rain fell
Breathed soothing odours. Yet it seemed a spell
Inthralled the woods, for not a leaflet stirred,
And, save the murmurs of a piney herd,
Which sighed aloft, although the nether air
Was still as death,—'twas silence everywhere.

'Twas silence save when sudden voices made
A momentary descant in the shade.
The small birds of the forest were unseen,
Yet ofttimes from their lofty coverts green
Would fall a little trickling melody,
Which leapt at intervals from spray to spray
Like rills from rock to rock. And through the bush
There stole the mournful “Faraway!” of the thrush—
The song of songs! Who hearkens unto it
Soon finds a swarm of old-love memories flit
In dreamy guise about his painèd heart,
And, if he ponder long, then tears will start,
Remembering the pageant of the past,
And thinking how the days which fly so fast
Seem thin and naked, and of little girth,
Compared with old, old vanished days and mirth.

And, as I strolled, there came into my mind,
Out of the lost lore of the savage kind,
Out of the wreck of years, a tale oft told
By Indian maidens to their swains of old.
For, here, a lounger in this woodland world,
Thrilled through with song, each dewy bloom unfurled,
Might feed his spirit, roaming on the brink
Of Fairyland, with fantasies, or drink
At memory's fount. So fictions read in youth,
And parables which hide some deathless truth,
And tales and histories of vanished times,
Traditions dim, and half-forgotten rhymes
Stole in and out of mind as steals some brook
From shade to sunshine, and from nook to nook.
And thus it chanced to stray into my thought,
This quaint old legend of the forest, fraught
With love and loss—this story of a man,
Inspired, but built on Nature's savage plan.

A chief hight Wawanosh, of high renown,
But cruel, proud and stern—a man whose frown
Smote all with fear; whose very smile was cold
As winter's sun when ramping clouds unfold,
And let him look a moment through, then close—
Had one fair child, the paragon, the rose
Of all his tribe; a tender creature, born
To sweeten to the world that bitter thorn
Upon a parent stem, his savage heart.
He could not look on her but he would smart
With inner consciousness (quite out of ken
Whene'er he looked on common maids or men)
Of something there—a soul which he misprized,
So pure and good it was, yet recognized
As infinitely finer than his own.
So would he turn from her with inward groan,
And scowl upon his people till they quailed,
In ignorance that his dark spirit failed
At sight of her. Yet they withstood him not,
And bore it meekly, since he had begot
This loving creature who was all men's praise.
For as a wretch sometimes, by wondrous ways,
Wins a true woman's love, and friends demur,
At first, then chance him for the sake of her,
So could no sire have such a child as she,
A maid so infinitely kind, and be
Outlawed from human liking. Hence they shook
Before him, yet endured, nay, even took
A pleasure in his frowns at thought of her;
But, as for him, there was no blasted fir
More bleached in feeling, dry at heart, and dead.

So when the youth, Chileeli, sought to wed,
And asked him for his daughter, he uprose,
And stared, as if the meanest of his foes
Affronted him. “What! wed her to a boy—
An idler ignorant of war's employ!
A coward who has never fleshed a spear,
Not even in the timid jumping deer!
Begone! lest with a puff of manly breath
I blow thee from my sight. Begone! 'tis death
To ask again. Away! my wrath is hot.”
So this young swain, who was a poet, not
A vengeful man by nature, in despair
Fled to the wilds to nurse his passion there.

A mighty promontory, gray and bold,
O'erhung a lonely lake, which lay unrolled
A hill-girt league beneath the summer sun.
Its dreaming waters few e'er looked upon
Save young Chileeli; for dark spirits met,
And whispered round its shores, and so beset
Its pleasant places that his people feared,
And shunned it. Hence upon this height he reared
A bower of living leaves, whereto he stole
To sigh alone, and marvel in his soul
Why he so differed from his fellowmen.
For all were ruthless warriors, and, when
The hatchet was unearthed, all took delight
In the fierce dance, the war-path, and the fight.
And all were keen as eagles in the chase;
Could sight the stealthy fox afar, and trace
The cunning carcajou unto his lair;
Could track the moose, and trap the horrid bear,
And kill sweet birds without a moment's pain,
Or simply wound, nor think of them again.
And all were traders keen, who knew the price
And value of the white man's merchandise;
And, boasting of the gew-gaws they had bought,
Could match him at his very game, they thought.
All fond of gawds, all fond of spoil and blood,
They flew from chase to chase, from feud to feud
A restless tribe, redeemed by one deep trait,
Their love of her—his dream by night and day.

So he bewailed his fate, for that his life
Jarred, and was out of keeping with the rife,
Rude manhood round him. Why had he been born,
And forced by Nature to endure the scorn
Of Wawanosh and every common brave?
To feel there was no heart this side the grave
Which beat for him? No heart! Ah, there was one,
The sweetest and the fondest 'neath the sun!
One soul who loved, whoever else might jibe
And jeer at this lone poet of his tribe.
Blest thought! Again the flowers looked, as of old,
Companionable, and the woods less cold.
Again those wards of Nature, summer-bright,
Seemed sentient creatures lapt in self-delight.
And o'er the lake some fairy hand had drawn
An amethystine glory, like the dawn
Of some far morn in heaven; a haze which blent
The solemn waters with the firmament
In charmed suffusion, rifted by the day
With dreamy lights, which faded far away
In infinite perspective. Long he gazed
On this entrancing scene, his soul upraised,
Each intuition keener than the last,
Till consciousness into his being passed
Of Nature, and of Nature's final cause:
How the Great Spirit, working through his laws,
Sheds beauty from him as the endless need
Of his supernal essence; hence the breed
Of artist minds, wherein reflected lie
The emanations of his deity.

But what of these? and wherein served they now
The needs of present love? His chieftain's brow.
Frowned on his suit because he hated war,
And haunted spirit-lakes and cliffs afar,
And shunned the common looks of common men.
These understood him not, laughed long, and then
Grew cold as death. There was no comfort nigh;
Earth seemed to gloom again, its grace to fly,
And his large heart grow empty as the air.
There seemed no edge, no end, to his despair;
No promise, save in dreams by love distilled,
And longings which might never be fulfilled.

There seemed, in truth, one only way to win;
But to put out the inner light, to sin
Against his better self, to warp, and bend
His nature, even for so great an end,
Cut conscience to the core. He pondered long,
But reason kicks the beam where love is strong;
Nay, turns love's advocate, and smooths away
Its own misgivings and perplexity.
So, step by step, our lover reached resolve:
He, too, would seek the nearest way, and solve
Love's problem with the axe; by paths untried
Win savage Wawanosh unto his side,
Or bear his fate alone.


There is a goal,
In the horizon of each living soul,
By noble toil attained, or cunning plan;
The starting place is naught—all's in the man.
But woe betide the love, the fame, or pelf,
Grasped by a soul unfaithful to itself.
Such love, when won, is dust, such fame a dream,
Such wealth unstable as a desert stream.
So runs the rede Time's ancient tomes unfold;
So runs the sequel of this legend old.

Chileeli's nature seemed to change outright.
He who had shunned the chase, and scorned the fight,
Now craved permission to be made a brave.
This gained, with ceremony due, he gave
Three days to fasting; neither ate nor slept,
Nor moved one muscle of his frame, but kept
The self-same posture all that time alone.
Then came the torture, borne without a groan,
In presence of his tribe; the sacred dance,
The profuse feast, the dreaming-lodge, the trance,
And the awaking to new life, renamed,
Armed like his fellows, and already famed.

Armed, and notorious! For in very truth
A thousand tongues were busy with the youth,
A thousand heads shook gravely. Was not this
The Solitary who thought war amiss,
And all the customs of his people wrong?
Yet now they heard this stripling's double-tongue
Urging them on to strife! What warrior keen
Could trust the changer? Yet, with haughty mien,
This whilom butt of every urchin's jibe
Now dared the foremost hunters of his tribe
To fetch their spoils upon a certain day
And match them with his own. These lounged away,
Smiling askance, and dreaming not of shame,
Till the appointed morn. Their trophies came—
But his! alack, what slaughter! Ears and paws
And tails of panther, wolf, and fox, the claws
Of monstrous bears, mouffles of moose, and wings
Of owls and eagles—in his wanderings
Nothing escaped him. From the innocent wren
To the poor moldwarp in its sinuous den,
All fared alike; the bittern from the brake,
Earth's primal brood, toad, lizard, turtle, snake—
All things that fly, or walk, or crawl, or creep
Were there, in whole or part, in this vast heap,
So that the hunters stared in blank surprise,
And all the people rent the air with cries—
“This is the Slayer!” and made loud acclaim.

This strange exploit so swelled Chileeli's fame
That, when he sought to raise a band for war,
The choicest spirits rallied from afar;
Experienced braves, and youngsters of his clan,
With, here and there, some wizened, wild old man
Who smelt the fray, and would not be denied.
Nay, even Wawanosh unbent his pride,
Coughed, eyed the sun, and sneezed, and then
Cried, “Good! Yet fools oft end where better men
Begin. Still you have chosen wisely. Go!
The way to love's delight lies through the foe.”

Enough! Chileeli's soul was all on fire
With eagerness and unfulfilled desire!
He needed not his chief's ungracious praise,
Or any pressure from without to raise
His spirit to its height. At his behest
The braves were painted, and each scalp-lock drest
All in a trice. The sacred war-song rose,
And swelled upon the night, but, at its close,
He grasped the instant purpose, bade each man.
Fall into file, and so the march began.

His scheme was dangerous, the path unknown,
The enemy a race renowned, and blown
With countless triumphs. If he routed them
His purpose was attained—what chief could stem
His claim, or keep him longer from his love?
So, on he hasted in pursuit thereof,
His braves estranged, yet faithful; for an awe
Seemed to inspire their spirits when they saw
The unimaginable light that burned
In his impetuous eyes. Their course now turned
Eastward along a clamouring stream, which played
Its organ-tune amongst the hills, and made
Immortal music. Flowers of precious dye,
And birds of song, appealed as he passed by,
But all in vain. He saw but felt not; heard,
But no responsive sense of beauty stirred
Within his mind distraught. On, day by day,
He and his painted warriors made way.
By stream and hill, by slimy swamp and swale,
Through forests deep and many a sunless vale,
Silent as shadows, stealthily they passed,
And reached, unseen, their enemy at last.

The pathway ended where a tongue of land
O'erlookt the foeman's village. On each hand
The hamlet lay half hid by fruited trees,
And corn and vines and summer's greeneries.
And, nestling where a flower-fringed streamlet run,
Red with the radiance of the setting sun,
Each cabin in the dying lustre stood
Transfigured by romance and solitude.
And life was there, the savage life of old,
Of fine-limbed women and of warriors bold.
Unarmed they gambled by their evening fires,
Or listened to the legends of their sires.
And through the vale the tender echoes spread
Of soft sweet Indian laughter—maidenhead
And youth in dalliance sweet—the joyous cry
Of boys at play—the mother's lullaby.
And young Chileeli in his ambush knelt,
And looked on this, and, for an instant, felt
A spirit rise—his former self—which gave
One parting pang, then vanished in the wave
Of his intense resolve.


The sun went down,
Night's shadows fell upon the little town;
And when each cabin lay in slumber deep—
As still as death—the very dogs asleep—
Then rose Chileeli from his hiding-place
With all his warriors, and stole apace,
Like phantoms in the darkness, to their ground.
This reached, they listened, but no cabined sound
Of waking life was there; naught met the ear
Save Sleep's deep breathing, like the moaning drear.
Of desert wind. Then rose the awful cry,
The war-whoop wild resounding to the sky!
Each cabin door upon its hinges spun,
And in a trice the savage fight begun!

Chileeli triumphed. Morn had come again
Ere the strife ceased and every foe was slain.
That summer sun showed heaven the direst sight—
Men, women, children, all had perished quite!
Nothing survived; the very vines were killed,
The corn uprooted, and the fruit trees pilled.
So, when the ruin was complete, and fate
Had filled its measure to the brim; when hate
Had nothing left to wreak itself upon,
When the hot fever of revenge was gone,
And the fell lust for blood no longer burned,
Chileeli and his warriors homeward turned.
That bourne regained, our lover quickly spread
His monstrous spoils before his nation's head—
Grim Wawanosh—who looked, at first, askance
At the array, then took a straiter glance,
And cried, “Why, this is strange! The youth has brought
Outlandish spoils, unheard of, out of thought!
Not scalps alone, but breasts of maidens fair,
And infants' arms wound in their mothers' hair,
And warriors' string-fingers, ears and toes,
And see! among the rest, this giant nose—
I know it well—'tis Honka's! he who thrust
His knife here once; he too has bit the dust!
Enough! This youth has won his choice of wives—
Go, bring my daughter here! Whoso contrives
A rarer wedding feast than ours to-day
Must range afar!”


Chileeli dared not stay
The messenger, for all things, life and death,
Were in the chieftain's hands, who, with a breath,
Could make or mar his fate. But, now, a thing—
A strange delay which set all wondering—
Took place. The messenger returned, and said
That he had sought, but could not find, the maid.
Then other, and still other men were sent,
But each came back in like bewilderment.
And soon the tribe was all astir, the ground
Ransacked for leagues, and yet she was not found;
Nor by her tribe, in forest or on plain,
Was that chief's daughter ever seen again.

The people mourned for her, by day and night,
But young Chileeli was distracted quite.
Once more he shunned his fellowmen, and now
Haunted the dreamy promontory's brow
Where stood his bower, and brooded there alone.
But all was changed; the mystic charm had flown,
The beauty perished. He had wrenched his heart,
And wrested to vain ends its better part;
Earth's grace had vanished, for his soul was blind.
One aim remained, one bootless aim, to find—
What seemed irrevocably lost—his love!
But how, or where? What spirit from above,
Or from earth's shadows under, good or ill,
Could waft her to his side, or work his will?
Haggard and spent with searching, here and there
His eye turned restlessly—the gloomy stare
Of one half-mad, who looks from this to that
By turns, as if mere longing had begat
The thing desired. Then all at last grew blank—
A dull, dead space wherein his spirit sank,
As sinks some drowned thing in the desolate wave.

For hours