 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
BLACK PLUME.
With their old forests wide and deep.”
Bryant.
That in the distance stretch away:
When elk yon river sought in droves,
And of its pleasant waters drank,
Before the tall, primeval groves
Receded from the bank;
On this commanding swell of ground
That overlooks the scene around,
O'er his red brethren of the wood
Black Plume, a famous sachem, ruled,
And sixty winters had not cooled
The fiery current of his blood.
Moulded was his athletic form
To brave the fight, to breast the storm,
And vied his high heroic deeds
In number with the wampum-beads
Decking a war-belt proudly tied
In knot of crimson at his side.
One arm alone could bend his bow
With sinews of the moose-deer strung;
The gory spoils of many a foe
In his bark cabin hung,
The Senecas constructed wigwams, before the first settlers reared their log-cabins of bark, including the walls as well as roofs. The bark was fastened to poles stuck in the ground. The rafters were made of round poles, and tied together at the top, and crossed again at smaller distances by smaller poles, on which was ingeniously spread the barken roof. Berths, or shelvings, were made on each side of the hut, the lower one about one foot from the earth, on which they lodged, and the other about five feet high, on which they deposited their venison, and household furniture. The fire was built in the centre of the structure, and a hole left in the roof for the escape of smoke.
And tufted scalps of conflict spoke
While drying in the wreathy smoke.
A rose-bud blushing in the wild,
Who well could quench the kindling fire
Of rash resentment in her sire,
The troubled fountains of his heart,
When sad and weary he came back
Without one victim from the chase:
Her brow was shaded by the black,
Long tresses of her race,
And shone her dark eye like the rill
Descending, star-lit, from the hill.
The wildness of her “wood-notes” clear
Consorted with the forest well,
And when their music on the ear
Of haughty Black Plume fell,
His scar-indented brow would wear
Expression unallied to care,
And smiles, like dawn illuming night,
His martial countenance would light.
May is the month designated by the “moon of flowers.” “Before the young moon's horn becomes a circle,” is an expression of time, frequently used by the “red rulers of the shade.” By imagery, derived from natural objects, this primitive people convey their grandest thoughts and emotions. “Who can tell the power of the Great Spirit?” said a native orator; “the strong wind is his breath—the thunder is his voice—the sun is his smile.”
While dew hung twinkling in the bowers,
The chief took down his bow unstrung,
And round his ample shoulders flung
A hunting robe of painted skins—
Then, lacing, on his moccasins
While nodded haughtily his crest
Of sable hue, his child addrest:—
“Beneath a purple banner fold
March the first messengers of day,
And drive with blades of glimmering gold
The spirit of the mist away;
The pleasant winds begin to rouse
From rest the dark commingling boughs,
And by their murmur seem to chide
The hunter for his long delay:
The tangled glen and forest wide
Shall tribute to my woodcraft pay;
The sharp edge of my fatal knife,
Ere night, shall rob the bear of life,
The snarling wolf with hunger fierce,
Or, from his throne of craggy rocks
The lordly bird of conquest bring—
What prouder trophy for thy locks
Than plumage of his wing?”
His trembling daughter answer made:—
“Oh, go not forth in quest of game!
My mother, who hath long been dead,
In visions of the midnight came,
And with a warning gesture said:—
‘Rose of the Senecas, give ear!
The foe—the Chippewa—is near.’
Affrighted by the dream, I woke,
And felt a wild, foreboding thrill,
For warbled on the solemn oak,
That shades our lodge, the whip-po-wil.
I sought, a second time, my bed,
And sleep my pillow visited:
My long-lost mother came once more,
And, her thin hands uplifting, said,
In accents louder than before:—
‘Rose of the Senecas! beware!
The Chippewa hath left his lair!’
I rose with fear opprest:—the east
Was radiant with the march of morn,
And bees were busy at their feast
In blossoms newly born.”
May coward's heart with terror thrill,
But think not, dreamer, to affright
My soul with visions of the night!”
The chieftain scornfully replied,
And sought the wood with rapid stride.
The quiver'd hunter came not back;
And when the day drew near its close
Giving the west a tint of rose,
And grew the landscape round more dim
In mute expectance stood his child
Her wigwam by to welcome him
Emerging from the dreary wild.
With ear intent she waited long
To hear his whistle, or the song
Sung by the people of her race
Returning homeward from the chase;
Many writers, who have made Indian character their theme, have erred in supposing that these sons of nature have “no music in their souls.” The barbarous discord of their rude drum, and turtle-shell rattle, I will admit is horrible; but that auditor must be dull of brain, and can little appreciate the “concord of sweet sounds,” who will sit unmoved while the native choir, at the Tuscarora Mission House, are singing.
Then hurried like a startled fawn
When arrows to the barb are drawn,
And, seeking gray, old men, made known
Her many fears in trembling tone,
And bade them forth fleet runners send
Who lance could wield, and tough bow bend.
Inured to war, and strong of hand,
Went sternly forth for battle drest,
Of their loved sagamore in quest.
The warriors, after searching well
Swamp, coppice lone, and bosky dell,
Back came, with looks down bent in grief,
Bearing the body of their chief.
In his broad bosom stuck the knife,
Red to the handle with his life;
And the long scalp-lock that he wore,
Was stiff with clotted drops of gore.
His bearers felt a mournful pride
To think not vainly had he died;
For even death could not relax
Firm grasp upon his battle-axe,
And near the fatal spot were found
Three foemen lifeless on the ground.
Where stands his dark memorial-stone,
Like some rude watcher of the dead
In robes of green moss habited;
And shaded by two dwarfish trees
That wrestle feebly with the breeze.
Amid their boughs are never heard
The low, wild warbling of the bird,
Or the blithe chirp of squirrel black,
When spring, in green apparel clad,
With airs of purity comes back
To make the broad earth glad:
When summer reigns, with cheek all bloom,
To deck his grave no flower looks up,
Enticing by its fresh perfume
The wild bee to its cup:
A few, misshapen shrubs that bear
The whortleberry rustle there;
But in my youth I thought ill luck
Would fall on him who dared to pluck,
Though, glittering in morning dew,
Hung temptingly their berries blue.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |