Waseca
AN INDIAN LEGEND .
Lost in the forest — three maidens fair —
Lost in the wild woods, dark and deep —
Wandering hopelessly here and there,
Through tangled thickets where shadows sleep.
Is there no refuge? at last they cry —
Mercy or hope in the starlit sky?
They had come from far in that early day,
Ere the plough had opened this Northern land,
And had wandered off and lost their way —
Lost in an hour from their little band.
No answer came to their earnest call —
Silence and darkness over all.
On through the midnight they hold their way,
Praying that angels may be their guide;
Suddenly, gleaming, before them lay
A lake with outlook of beauty wide;
And their hearts grew calm as the waters bright,
Serenely sleeping in soft moonlight.
It seemed more human than forest dark,
This strip of the sky to earth let down.
Again awoke life's glimmering spark
From hope's dead ashes, cold and brown;
And they dreamed of the lake their childhood knew,
The rock-bound Minnewaska blue.
But see! on the ripples a twinkling light,
Steadily gliding along the shore;
Nearer and clearer it grows more bright
With rhythmical swing of sweeping oar;
And there came in accents soft and low
A melody sweet as a brooklet's flow.
What shall they do in their hour of fear?
Is peril or help in that flickering ray?
Strange was the music to Saxon ear
As it gently floated and died away;
But they felt that love, and love alone,
Was the burden of words to them unknown.
Sweetly rose from the wanderers there
" Jesus, lover of my soul, "
Full and deep as a burdened prayer,
" While the nearer waters roll. "
The rower listened, then straightway came,
And in broken English asked their name.
'Twas an Indian maid in birch canoe,
Brought to their rescue that summer night;
Her father a chief of the haughty Sioux,
Who claimed the land as their nation's right.
She said her brothers would guide their way,
And find their band at the break of day.
She gave them then a history strange:
How her mother came from the wooded shore
Of a beautiful lake near the Erie range,
Almost in sound of Niagara's roar.
Chantauqua, she said, was her mother's name —
A prophetess born to enduring fame.
" She taught me the words which I heard you sing
On the moonlit rock by the silent shore;
Her spirit guides me on angel's wing;
She sleepeth, but liveth forevermore;
She learned the truth in her far-off home,
Ere she came with this warlike tribe to roam.
" She told me also a wonderful dream,
But I know some day it will all come true —
That thousands would gather by lake and stream,
Where wisdom's manna should fall like dew.
Her name is to live in the years to be,
Well known in the isles of the farthest sea.
" She said that here was a chosen place —
Waseca! Waseca! Charming name!
From out whose woodland should spring a race
Known to the living voice of fame —
Chautauqua's daughter, and I am she;
" Waseca" my mother christened me. "
Then she guided her charge through the sylvan way
To her father's camp for food and rest,
And her brothers brought them at dawn of day
To their broken band, and all were blest.
This is the legend that I have heard,
True to the letter, and every word.
Where are the wanderers? Who can know?
Or where the dark-haired Indian maid?
Ah! this was forty years ago,
And the drama of life is strangely played.
Whatever their lot, that forest dark
Its prophecy keeps in Maplewood Park.
Lost in the forest — three maidens fair —
Lost in the wild woods, dark and deep —
Wandering hopelessly here and there,
Through tangled thickets where shadows sleep.
Is there no refuge? at last they cry —
Mercy or hope in the starlit sky?
They had come from far in that early day,
Ere the plough had opened this Northern land,
And had wandered off and lost their way —
Lost in an hour from their little band.
No answer came to their earnest call —
Silence and darkness over all.
On through the midnight they hold their way,
Praying that angels may be their guide;
Suddenly, gleaming, before them lay
A lake with outlook of beauty wide;
And their hearts grew calm as the waters bright,
Serenely sleeping in soft moonlight.
It seemed more human than forest dark,
This strip of the sky to earth let down.
Again awoke life's glimmering spark
From hope's dead ashes, cold and brown;
And they dreamed of the lake their childhood knew,
The rock-bound Minnewaska blue.
But see! on the ripples a twinkling light,
Steadily gliding along the shore;
Nearer and clearer it grows more bright
With rhythmical swing of sweeping oar;
And there came in accents soft and low
A melody sweet as a brooklet's flow.
What shall they do in their hour of fear?
Is peril or help in that flickering ray?
Strange was the music to Saxon ear
As it gently floated and died away;
But they felt that love, and love alone,
Was the burden of words to them unknown.
Sweetly rose from the wanderers there
" Jesus, lover of my soul, "
Full and deep as a burdened prayer,
" While the nearer waters roll. "
The rower listened, then straightway came,
And in broken English asked their name.
'Twas an Indian maid in birch canoe,
Brought to their rescue that summer night;
Her father a chief of the haughty Sioux,
Who claimed the land as their nation's right.
She said her brothers would guide their way,
And find their band at the break of day.
She gave them then a history strange:
How her mother came from the wooded shore
Of a beautiful lake near the Erie range,
Almost in sound of Niagara's roar.
Chantauqua, she said, was her mother's name —
A prophetess born to enduring fame.
" She taught me the words which I heard you sing
On the moonlit rock by the silent shore;
Her spirit guides me on angel's wing;
She sleepeth, but liveth forevermore;
She learned the truth in her far-off home,
Ere she came with this warlike tribe to roam.
" She told me also a wonderful dream,
But I know some day it will all come true —
That thousands would gather by lake and stream,
Where wisdom's manna should fall like dew.
Her name is to live in the years to be,
Well known in the isles of the farthest sea.
" She said that here was a chosen place —
Waseca! Waseca! Charming name!
From out whose woodland should spring a race
Known to the living voice of fame —
Chautauqua's daughter, and I am she;
" Waseca" my mother christened me. "
Then she guided her charge through the sylvan way
To her father's camp for food and rest,
And her brothers brought them at dawn of day
To their broken band, and all were blest.
This is the legend that I have heard,
True to the letter, and every word.
Where are the wanderers? Who can know?
Or where the dark-haired Indian maid?
Ah! this was forty years ago,
And the drama of life is strangely played.
Whatever their lot, that forest dark
Its prophecy keeps in Maplewood Park.
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