 | THE INDIAN WIFE'S LAMENT. Legends of the West |  |
105
THE INDIAN WIFE'S LAMENT.
The Indian tribes who reside near the falls of Saint
Anthony, have a tradition of one of their females,
who drowned herself in a fit of jealousy. Her husband,
to whom she was tenderly attached, had, after
their fashion, which permits a plurality of wives,
introduced a second female into his wigwam, which
so mortified the heroic woman, who had prided herself
in being the sole possessor of his affections, that
she calmly placed herself and her children in a canoe,
and floated over the cataract, singing her death
song.
She launched her frail bark in the swift rolling stream,
And sang her death song with a maniac scream,
That pierced the lone caves of that desolate shore,
And rose o'er the din of the cataract's roar.
The bald eagle sprang from his perch at the sound,
And, poised high in air, circled watchfully round;
The panther crouched low in his brush-covered bed,
The timid deer rushed from her thicket, and fled.
She saw not the eagle, she marked not the deer,
The echo that scared them was mute to her ear,
And sang her death song with a maniac scream,
That pierced the lone caves of that desolate shore,
And rose o'er the din of the cataract's roar.
The bald eagle sprang from his perch at the sound,
And, poised high in air, circled watchfully round;
The panther crouched low in his brush-covered bed,
The timid deer rushed from her thicket, and fled.
She saw not the eagle, she marked not the deer,
The echo that scared them was mute to her ear,
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So wild was her sorrow, so wretched her doom,
She seemed a lone spirit escaped from the tomb.
Her babes clung around her with timorous cry,
Alarmed by the glance of her fierce rolling eye,
And still o'er those dear ones impassioned she hung,
And madly she kissed them, as wildly she sung:
“Oh, children forsaken! wife, mother forlorn!
The heart that should cherish has spurned ye in scorn;
Expelled from his bosom, and banished his door,
The father, the husband, shall clasp us no more.
“How blest were the days of my youth, when in pride
I climbed yonder mountain, or bathed in this tide;
When I chased the young fawn to its woodland retreat,
And snatched a rich plume from the gay paroquet.
“But happier far when I roamed through the shade,
Companion of him whom with pride I obeyed;
His quiver I carried, his game I secured,
I shared all his triumphs, his toils I endured.
“He was strong as the oak, he was straight as the reed,
No warrior could match him in courage or speed,
So true was his arrow, so sharp was his spear,
The Otto and Pawnee-Loupe met him in fear.
“How faithful, how fond, how enduring my love,
These tears and the pangs of a broken heart prove;
Do I dream? no, these pledges too dearly proclaim,
How happy I was, and how wretched I am.
“Had he died, I had mourned him with many a tear,
His son should have wielded his bow and his spear,
His daughter in songs should have honoured his name,
Every vale, every mountain, had rung with his fame.
She seemed a lone spirit escaped from the tomb.
Her babes clung around her with timorous cry,
Alarmed by the glance of her fierce rolling eye,
And still o'er those dear ones impassioned she hung,
And madly she kissed them, as wildly she sung:
“Oh, children forsaken! wife, mother forlorn!
The heart that should cherish has spurned ye in scorn;
Expelled from his bosom, and banished his door,
The father, the husband, shall clasp us no more.
“How blest were the days of my youth, when in pride
I climbed yonder mountain, or bathed in this tide;
When I chased the young fawn to its woodland retreat,
And snatched a rich plume from the gay paroquet.
“But happier far when I roamed through the shade,
Companion of him whom with pride I obeyed;
His quiver I carried, his game I secured,
I shared all his triumphs, his toils I endured.
“He was strong as the oak, he was straight as the reed,
No warrior could match him in courage or speed,
So true was his arrow, so sharp was his spear,
The Otto and Pawnee-Loupe met him in fear.
“How faithful, how fond, how enduring my love,
These tears and the pangs of a broken heart prove;
Do I dream? no, these pledges too dearly proclaim,
How happy I was, and how wretched I am.
“Had he died, I had mourned him with many a tear,
His son should have wielded his bow and his spear,
His daughter in songs should have honoured his name,
Every vale, every mountain, had rung with his fame.
107
“Ah subtle destroyer! he charmed as the snake,
Who basks on the mountain, or lurks in the brake;
He stung like the reptile; the poison is sure,
No herb can relieve me, no sorcery cure.
“False traitor! who won and caressed to destroy,
Oh could I but hate thee, I still could know joy,
But spurned and degraded, this heart is so frail,
Love remains where deep hate and revenge should prevail.
“One spirit we worship, one chief we obey,
One bright sun gives lustre and warmth to our day,
One mate has the eagle, the turtle one love,
I am proud as the eagle, and true as the dove.
“Oh think not to tread in your pride o'er my grave!
I will sleep with my babes buried deep in the wave,
Where thou canst not follow—unworthy to be
A husband, a father, to them or to me.
“If stung with remorse, thou shalt seek for my tomb,
To mock at my weakness, or mourn o'er my doom,
Thy voice shall be drowned in the cataract's roar,
And my spirit be vexed with thy false vows no more!”
As she sung, the sad strain came prolonged o'er the cliff—
Every cave, as in sympathy, echoed her grief,
So deep each response, as it murmured along,
No mortal e'er heard so terrific a song.
And onward the bark swiftly glides o'er the spray,
No hand gave the motion, or guided the way,
But headlong through breakers, it swept as the wind,
No pathway before it, no trace left behind.
A moment it paused on the cataract's brow,
Then sunk into fathomless caverns below,
And the bark, and the song, and the singer no more,
Were seen on the wild wave, or heard on the shore!
Who basks on the mountain, or lurks in the brake;
He stung like the reptile; the poison is sure,
No herb can relieve me, no sorcery cure.
“False traitor! who won and caressed to destroy,
Oh could I but hate thee, I still could know joy,
But spurned and degraded, this heart is so frail,
Love remains where deep hate and revenge should prevail.
“One spirit we worship, one chief we obey,
One bright sun gives lustre and warmth to our day,
One mate has the eagle, the turtle one love,
I am proud as the eagle, and true as the dove.
“Oh think not to tread in your pride o'er my grave!
I will sleep with my babes buried deep in the wave,
Where thou canst not follow—unworthy to be
A husband, a father, to them or to me.
“If stung with remorse, thou shalt seek for my tomb,
To mock at my weakness, or mourn o'er my doom,
Thy voice shall be drowned in the cataract's roar,
And my spirit be vexed with thy false vows no more!”
As she sung, the sad strain came prolonged o'er the cliff—
Every cave, as in sympathy, echoed her grief,
So deep each response, as it murmured along,
No mortal e'er heard so terrific a song.
And onward the bark swiftly glides o'er the spray,
No hand gave the motion, or guided the way,
But headlong through breakers, it swept as the wind,
No pathway before it, no trace left behind.
A moment it paused on the cataract's brow,
Then sunk into fathomless caverns below,
And the bark, and the song, and the singer no more,
Were seen on the wild wave, or heard on the shore!
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