 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
THE BIG OAK, OR THE ENCHANTED BOW.
Shakespeare.
Met often in the days of yore
Beneath this mighty council oak,
Gray giant of the river shore.
Full closely to his aged stem,
And far around he proudly flings
The shadow of his diadem.
Would long detain us in the shade,
Could mossy bough, and trembling leaf
Find tongue, and voluble be made.
And broken is the battle spear,
But nations have been made to bow
Beneath the yoke of conquest here.
That in the lap of beauty lies,
If spell to wake the dead were ours,
What multitudes would 'round us rise.
Sachems in forest war renowned—
The prophet with majestic mien,
And hunter with his crouching hound;
Armed with his bright, enchanted bow,
A dauntless chieftain would upstart,
Buried a thousand years ago.
Fair girl! I will recount to thee,
While sunset changes into gold
The ripples of the Genesee.
Both sexes join promiscuously in the “Corn Dance.” They move round a block of wood in the similitude of a man, painted and adorned with furs, feathers, and ribands. Two men seated near the feet of the image make music by pounding on a skin drawn over the mouth of a kettle, and blowing on a rude flute. Deer's hoofs strung like beads, and fastened about the legs of the dancers, make a sharp, rattling noise. Their stated periods for rendering thanks to the Great Spirit for the favors conferred upon them, are in summer when the corn is fit for roasting—in the beginning of autumn, when their beans and squashes are repening—and at mid-winter when they return home with the produce of the hunt.
A tribe moved briskly in the dance
To sound of drum, and Indian flute
On this broad meadow's green expanse.
The swelling sound of joy arose,
The voice of jubilee was drowned
By the shrill battle cry of foes.
Filled with a wild, contagious fear,
Fled like some scattered covey when
The screaming hawk is hovering near.
Rallied to cover their retreat,
Stayed by a chieftain's stern command
Who loved the conflict-shock to meet.
Throughout the land, our sires were famed—
Now prove we that their children still
Are archers good”—the chief exclaimed:
A steel-barbed arrow to the head—
Three hundred yards the missile flew,
Striking a fierce pursuer dead.
No mortal hand the shaft dismissed—
That with the few in number fought
Some demon-born antagonist.
By the same matchless bowman fell,
Who answered their retreat-halloo
With one long, loud, triumphant yell.
When fled his enemies, to see
In dying state the victor lean
Against the trunk of this old tree.
Unharmed by thrust of hostile lance,
Throbbed with a laboring beat his heart,
While dimmer grew his eagle glance.
While round him met his sorrowing band—
“She-gua-on's foot ere long must tread
The green shore of the Spirit Land.
Indian names are generally significant of something in nature. Occurrences happening at the time of the birth frequently suggest names. She-gua-on anglicized is (Rattle Snake)—Su-ah-dis, mentioned in the legend of Silver Lake, (Black Snake)— Chu-gah-gos (Young Hickory), and Con-yok-way-oo (Daughter of the Lake). Also, Te-yos-yu, in the legend of the Big Hill, is the Seneca word for (Bright Eye)—Ge-met-e-gah (Raccoon).
Curiosity prompted me to inquire of a squaw the name of her pappoose; “On-yit-hah!” was her reply; soon after meeting with my mother, who converses fluently in the Seneca, I learned from her the definition, which was “Bird of the starry wing.” Though somewhat familiar with ornothology, I could not think of a feathered minstrel in our latitude answering the description, and I inquired if the name was any thing more than a fanciful appellation—with a smile my mother answered that the night hawk was referred to—and that the white spots upon its wings were likened, by this imaginative people, to stars.
Names are now and then changed in consequence of remarkable circumstances taking place, or of particular employments, or acts of individuals.
Was warned of danger to beware—
I woke, and near a glittering sheaf
Of arrows found the bow I bear.
Its wood is not of earthly grain,
But grew where winds blow soft and warm,
Forever o'er the ‘Dead Man's Plain.’
In needful hour were also given
Those tapering shafts so true and far
By this elastic weapon driven.
That heads their feather'd shafts, in fight;
And medicine can never heal
Wound made by them, however slight.
Beneath this mighty council oak—
Here, pall the dropping leaves will spread,
And dirge the forest raven croak.”
On meadow fair, and river side,
Then, while his limbs with coldness shook,
Low death-song breathed, and calmly died.
Three days the painted corse was throned,
When a distinguished person died, sometimes the Senecas erected a scaffold, on which they placed the departed, in the attitude and habiliments of life. For a full description of the ceremony, I refer the reader to the concluding chapter of Stone's Life of Red Jacket, entitled “Black Chief's Daughter,” and the facts of which were related to the lamented writer by my mother, while on a western tour gathering material for his work.
In a rich robe of fur arrayed,
With bead-inwoven baldrick zoned.
Pillowed on trophies of the foe,
With groans and tears the tribe inhumed
Still grasping his enchanted bow.
Who wished the trail of war to tread,
Broke the green roofing of his grave
To rob, of weapon charmed, the dead.
The night dew clinging to his hair—
No stain of blood was on the clay,
No mark of desperate combat there.
The red man placed the turf again,
Assured that by his place of rest,
Armed spirits did a watch maintain.
When moonlight falls upon the river—
Within his shadowy hand a bow,
And at his back a gleaming quiver.
To wound his funeral-oak with steel!
Oh, never will he see gray hairs,
Or peace in brain, or bosom feel!
Beneath its old, protecting bough,
With hollow groans, and rending sighs,
The wretch, at midnight hour, will rouse.
Flesh from his bones will melt away,
And, in a dark, dishonored tomb,
Unquiet will his ashes lay.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |