Softly breaks the day upon the village,
Darkly curls the smoke above the altar,
Dark with oaths that pledge the warrior's valor,
Heavy with the weight of imprecation.
And the white robes of the seer Mominche
Rest upon the sacred knoll of Natchez;
Rest, as rest the clouds upon the mountain,
Ere the rosy mist upon the river
Rolls and breaks to greet the golden sunburst.
Waits he there, his long arm pointed eastward,
Where the first rays blush and dip and deepen.
All his heart brimmed o'er with lamentation,
All his muscles eager for the warfare,
All his being yearning for the coming
Of the golden god, his chieftain brother.
Slowly wear away the lagging moments,
Slowly wreathes the smoke about the altar,
Slowly wakes the Sun-God from his sleeping.
Then a sudden burst of acclamation
From the deep throat of the warrior Natchez;
Nearer beats the tramping of the horses,
Dark the gathering cloud from out the westward,
And the guiding arrows shot before them,
Gleam and shriek athwart the morning sunlight.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
All the day the carnage poured its crimson,
Filled the air with hail of poisoned arrows,
Glutted field and bog with Creek and Natchez,
Yoked the softest breeze with whoop and death cry,
Till it dropped, in terror of its burden.
All the day, until the Great Chief signalled,
All the twilight host from out the palace
Nodded soft his own august approval,
Dropped the veil upon his golden presence,
Left the bloody battle undecided.
Homeward through the twilight tramp the horses,
Weary, foam-flecked, bloody from the warfare;
And the eager neigh is softly answered,
Mingled with the voices of the women;
And the curling smoke above the wigwams
Bids a happy welcome to the village.
But the heavy heart of Chief Sehbohleh,
Eagle Heart of all the tribe of Natchez,
Thrills not at the chanting of his prowess,
Stirs not at the numbering of trophies,
Studding thick his 'broidery of deerskin.
Sadly treads the lonely Chief among them,
Sadly by the kneeling line of nobles,
Sadly by the bended forms of warriors,
By the wigwams, past the royal temple,
Where the crested eagles keep the vigil, —
Straight before him, where the mystic altar
Feeds undying flame, the Spirit's guerdon;
Kneels he there, in humble adoration,
While the flames leap higher in the darkness —
Kneels he there, and muteness speaks his pleading,
For his woe has sealed his lamentation;
Lays he there the burden of his sorrow, —
Rises with the wave of resolution —
Leaves the sacrifice untouched, untasted, —
Bounds with all the grace of savage grandeur
Out into the darkness, through the silence.
And the mystic, midnight hushes, bending,
Drooping o'er the sleeping Indian village,
Hear a muffled hoof-beat through the darkness.
Like a wave upon the distant seashore
Washing on the sands, now full, — receding, —
Like a roll of drum throbs down the silence
Drifts the echo on hostile border.
Over morass, sinking marsh, and fallow,
Through the hunting-ground so still and sombre,
Ringing now upon the rounded pebbles,
Deadened where the pine-trees sow their needles,
Sweeping like a shadow, like the night wind,
Through the midnight of the gnarled magnolia;
Till their long hands drop the darkened petals,
Like brown bowls filled up with honeyed dew-drops;
Till the gray moss, startled from its slumbers,
Floats and waves adown the mystic passes,
Beckons like the veiled arm of a priestess
From the Way of Souls, — Tchi-pai-mas-ke-nau.
Cease thy midnight 'plaining woodland chorist,
Cease the trill that thrills thy tiny bosom;
Hearest thou the chant of sorrow, mourning
Through the minor music of the marshes,
Mingling with the melody of hoof-beats?
" Hear, Oh! Spirit of the Sunlight, —
Sire of all the golden sunbeams,
Father of thy humble children,
Hear, Oh! Great Chief. Holy Brother!
I have left the feast untasted,
I have kept the fast, unbroken,
High above thy sacred altar
Wreathes the sacrifice of victims.
Hear, Oh! Great Sil, hear my pleading,
Let the morrow sound Baim-wa-wa,
Round the wigwams of Muskogee,
Let Pooloopooloonul, — lightning, —
Blast the hunting-ground and forest,
For the numbers of Muskogee
Give the Natchez sinew, prowess —
Wah-Baim-wa-wa-Wah-Baim-wa-wa! "
Softer floats the chant of young Sehbohleh,
Breathing on the waning midnight watches, —
" Hide thy floating locks, Oh! Kwasip,
Drop the veil upon thine eyelids,
Lay thy head upon the bosom
Of the great Earth-Mother, Darkness;
Feel the muffled pulse of Silence,
Press her finger on the lip-bow,
Rend the dwelling-place of Echo,
That the Earth may sleep in muteness " —
" I am coming through the darkness,
Oh! Wanola! Oh! Wanola!
Hearest thou my horse's hoof-beats,
Nearer, nearer, on the border? —
I am coming, my beloved,
From the wigwams of the Natchez —
Never shall the boon of feasting
Touch the portals of my being —
Never shall the God of Slumber
Lay the Rest Stone on mine eyelids
Till these arms are stretched before thee,
Till thy wounds are healed with loving,
Till I hold thee to my bosom.
Oh! Wanola! Oh! Wanola!
Dead the glow without the wigwam, —
Oh! Wanola! Oh! Wanola!
And the lonely ghost of Sorrow
Peereth from our empty dwelling.
Would that I had died to save thee
Ere the touch of Creek profaned thee,
Bathed in blood the heart I gave thee.
Oh! Wanola! Oh! Wanola!
I am coming through the darkness,
Oh! Wanola! Oh! Wanola!
I am coming, my beloved,
From the wigwams of the Natchez! "
Darkly glow the embers round the village, —
Round the sleeping village of Muskogee;
And the rustling leaves upon the branches
Fold and clasp their tiny hands in silence;
All the flowing, silvery locks of Kwasip
Hide behind the sombre, clouded veiling,
And the twinkling Tookul, softly blinking,
Floats, and drops adown the misty darkness.
Through the shade, within a land of shadows,
Glide the stealthy footsteps of Sehbohleh —
Laying now his eager ear to earthward,
But to hear the breathing of the silence —
Turning now to soothe the foaming Kodic,
Tethered in the darkness of the live oak;
Stealing down the tented line of dwellings,
Weaving in and out the Indian village —
Waiting not, nor pausing, lest his footstep
Leave its image in the clay behind him, —
Halting not until the mystic circle
Round the royal wigwam lay before him.
Fleet, as springs the deer, from out the covert,
Fleetly through the doorway bounds Sehbohleh,
All his sinews tightened as his bowstring,
All his muscles flinted as the arrows,
Newly pointed, waiting in his quiver;
Seeks he there the form of his beloved,
Creeping low upon the couch of deerskin,
Hears he there her wailing moan of sorrow
Breaking through the thin, drawn lips, in slumber;
Feels the thongs upon the slender ankles,
Where the proud flesh swelled to hide profaning,
And the scars upon the naked bosom,
Where her veins had wept their ruddy tear-drops.
Swooping, like an eagle from his eerie,
Beating back the horror-cry that rends him, —
Stifling with his lips her moan of anguish,
Speeds Sehbohleh with his precious burden.
Not a twig breaks 'neath his flying footstep,
Not a pebble rolls to stay his fleeing,
Not a sound falls on the breathing stillness;
Till the ancient grove of mighty live oak
Like a lowering cloud rolls up before him,
Till the restless Kodic, watching, waiting,
Sniffing comradeship within the darkness,
Neighs a welcome to the coming footsteps;
Breaks the mystic spell that lay around them, —
Wakes the savage watch-dogs of Muskogee.
Then a single yell from out the village
Echoes and re-echoes to the border,
And the lagging daybreak shows the archers,
Pricked like ink spots on the gray horizon,
Pouring out from wigwam and from covert,
Like an upheaved colony of ant hills.
Onward, onward, speeds the startled Kodic,
'Neath the lashing arm of young Sehbohlen,
Skimming like a swallow o'er his courses,
Scarcely conscious of his double burden.
Gaining now the Muskogee upon him,
Full the misty air with horrid clamor,
And the whizzing heads of poisoned arrows
Press like sleuth hounds close upon his fetlocks.
Bends Sehbohleh o'er the prize before him,
Shielding with his form the bride Wanola,
Breathing in her ear some sweet assurance,
Rising now to spur his flying charger,
With the ringing, " Onward! onward, Kodic!
Thou and I can never die as captives! "
Plunges on, and on, the wary Kodic,
Veering not, until the stinging arrows
Cut the flank, and bend the straining sinew,
Fling him back upon his trembling haunches.
Soothing with caress the anguished Kodic,
Turns the lissome form of brave Sehbohleh,
Gazing on the savage horde advancing,
As the horrid yell breaks high above him,
Turns, but as he turns the dusky bosom
Feeds the sharp points of the whizzing volley.
Twangs his bending bow of lithe acacia,
Speeds his arrows with an aim unerring,
Arrows hot and ruddy with his life blood,
And the foremost archers, grinning, yelling,
Leap before the storm of single combat, —
Leaping, but to bite the dusty bosom
Of the grim, Earth-Mother, tread the pathway
Down the Way of Souls, — Tchi-pai-mas-ke-nau.
Backward falls the broken line of archers,
Onward beat the faltering hoofs of Kodic,
Blood of horse and rider darkly mingling
In a ruddy trail stretched far behind them.
Till the glazing eye of Chief Sehbohleh
Looks upon the fainting form before him,
Then upon the regal eastern radiance, —
On the white robes of the old Mominche,
Cut against the opal-tinted splendor.
Sees with swimming ball his trusted Natchez,
Hears with deadened ear the shout proclaiming
Loyal welcome to the Royal Rising,
As the voice — the voice that had betrayed him —
Neighs a plaintive farewell to the Chieftain,
And the faithful Kodic sinks beneath him, —

To the ending of his mission — faithful.
Never shall the sleek neck, proudly arching,
Eager bend to sniff the coming battle;
Never shall the fleet hoofs, swift, unerring,
Bear again the prowess of the Natchez —
Sealed the flaming fire of his irids —
Dead — but Kodic might not die, a captive!