The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme :: :: University of Virginia Library

And such was she, the witch who hurried
Our knight across the desert plain;
Her cheek was wan, her glance a-worried,
Her body faint, her soul in pain.
She fled on drooping plumes of sorrow,

On wings of fright she journeyed west,
And often prayed to see no morrow,
If death might bring her any rest.
To God—the god of chiefs and sages—
The Mighty Soul of painted braves—
Who ruled our land in olden ages,
Before the paleface crossed the waves—
To him, the Sire of Earth and Water,
The Sagamore of Winds and Skies,
She pleaded, “Father, help thy daughter!
Thy weary daughter, ere she dies!”

But gods of faint and fading races
Are gods deposed, and gods no more.
No more they throne in lofty places,
No longer wield the bolts of yore.
No more they levin through the mountain,
No longer storm along the deep;
Their light has died on brook and fountain,
Their oracles have sunk to sleep.
They are but fiends and spirits fallen,
But brownies, loreleis, elves and fays;
They cannot help the souls who call on
Their names, or help in feeble ways.

So chanced it now with her who needed
Such aid as nothing might withstand;
The deity to whom she pleaded
Had lost the thunder from his hand.
The Master of the Indian Aidenn,
Bereft of half his ancient might,
Could do no more to save his maiden
Than send a beast to shield her flight.