 | THE ISLE OF THE YELLOW SANDS. Legends of the West |  |
THE ISLE OF THE YELLOW SANDS.
The legends of the northern Indians speak of an
island in Lake Superior, which is called the “Isle
of the Yellow Sands,” and was said to be protected
by spirits. The sands were thought to be of gold;
and whenever a mortal approached the shore, the
vultures and other animals of prey, as they seemed
to human eyes, but which, in fact, were malignant
spirits in those shapes, raised such a dreadful outcry,
as to terrify the traveller, who wandered unwarily
to those shores. It is said that no one who persisted
in landing on the fatal beach, ever escaped. The
following lines describe the fate of an Indian maid
who voluntarily sought the island, induced either by
that curiosity which our first mother is supposed to
have bequeathed to her fair descendants, or by that
love of the “Yellow Sand” which is inherent in
the whole race of Adam.
In the prow of her light canoe she stands,
And the south wind howls, and the billows roar,
As they bear the maid to the magic shore.
She dreads not the wave, nor the lowering cloud,
For her soul is undaunted, and swift is her way,
As she guides her canoe through the foaming spray.
She has left a brave lover—ah! feeble and cold,
Is a young maid's affection when tempted by gold!
She has left the lone wigwam, too lowly for her
Who could follow the chase, or could mingle in war.
“Ah pause, heedless maid! ere to pause is too late,
For see, all around thee, the omens of fate;
And the shore of that terrible isle is nigh,
Where the spirits dwell, and the death birds fly.”
A voice through the tempest, thus kindly essayed,
To arrest the wild course of the Indian maid,
But a sunbeam fell bright on the yellow sand—
And she urges her skiff on the fatal strand.
“Then onward! speed onward! thy story is told,
Thou hast bartered thy innocence, maiden, for gold,
The spirits have warned thee, the elements speak,
Then onward! fly onward! thy destiny seek!”
In vain the monition—“On, on!” cries the maid,
“See the gold how it glitters, let fools be afraid,
Though my mother may weep, and my lover may swear,
Be mine the bright treasure that dries every tear.
She has reached the bright isle of the golden sand,
And she gazes in fear o'er that lone wild land,
For the clouds are low, and the night birds shriek,
And her frail canoe is a shapeless wreck.
“Yet turn thee, dear maiden, while life is thine,
Nor gaze at the gems that deceitfully shine,
And behind thee is peace, and affection, and home.”
She turned—'twas her lover came over the wave,
Through tempest, through danger, that dear one to save,
She paused—and the bold hunter stood by her side:
“I claim thee, I claim thee, Moina, my bride!”
Ah feeble of purpose! what woman can hear,
Unmoved the fond name to her bosom so dear,
Or could balance the wealth of a golden isle,
With a bridal kiss, and a lover's smile?
Her dream is past o'er, and her fault confessed,
She has hidden her face in her warrior's breast,
And she vows if each sand were a golden isle,
She would barter them all for that one loved smile!
Philadelphia:
James Kay, Jun. & Co., Printers,
No. 4, Minor Street.
| THE ISLE OF THE YELLOW SANDS. Legends of the West | |