Winona, a Dakota Legend and Other Poems

Winona, a Dakota Legend; and Other Poems

Title: Winona, a Dakota Legend; and Other Poems Author: E. L. Huggins Release Date: August 9, 2017 [EBook #55303] Language: English Credits: Produced by Emmy, MFR, K Nordquist and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) How changed, fair Minnetonka, is thy face Since first I saw thee in thy pristine grace. Electric lights fantastically glow, Swarming like fire-flies on the shores where long, Through countless summer nights a vanished throng, Only the Indian camp-fire flickered low. The odor of the baleful cigarette Assails us now, where the mild calumet Around the circle like a censer swung. The notes of Strauss intoxicate the air, And dainty feet in cadence twinkle there, Where in rude strains the warriors deeds were sung, And where the Indian lovers plaintive flute Lured to the trysting-place the dusky maid.[4] Discreetly hidden in the sylvan shade, The Anglomaniac comes to press his suit, And Patrick, too, out for a holiday, Strolls with his Bridget here en dimanch, And softly whispers in his charmers ear The same old tale, to lovers ever dear. The rustling leaves, the waves, the mating bird, Sing the same songs the Indian maiden heard. Save a few stately names, the vanished race Whose dust we daily trample leave no trace Or monument. None who that race have known Ere poisoned by the vices of our own, Deem it ignoble; but the white mans breath, To him a besom of consuming death, Sweeps him like ashes from his natal hearth, Een as one day some race of stronger birth Will sweep our childrens children from the earth. More noxious than the fabled upas tree, We blight his virtues first, and then with scorn Repel the hands extended once to save Our exiled fathers, fleeing oer the wave. Yet in his deepest fall, the warrior, born Of warrior lineage fetterless and free, Retains unquenched in his unyielding soul A secret flame in spite of all control. He brooks no slavish, ignominious toil, By scourger driven to till the white mans soil. Chained in Plutonian caverns far from day,[5] His spirit swiftly chafes its bars away; Or by his own impatient hand released, With rapture bounds as to a marriage feast. Wealth, pomp, and power neer his soul affect; Still unabashed he stands, unmoved, erect, His blanket draped, albeit not too clean, About him with a Roman consuls mien, And in the white light of a throne his eye Would meet, nor quail, the eye of majesty. His own war-eagle to the sun that soared, Gave back with eye undimmed its fiery glare, And sported with the speaking lightnings where The Thunder-Birds[1] along the tempest roared; Or swept the plain, but saw no Indian slave From the Pacific to Atlantic wave. Fair Minnetonka, thou art changed, and yet I know not if twere matter for regret. Thou wast a maid untried, with yielding heart, With flowing hair, and ample sheltering arms, And unabashed contours, whose rosy charms Were all untrammelled by the hand of art, And eyes of dreamy mystery, wherein Een then thy triumphs dimly were foreseen; A worldly-wise and queenly woman now, Adorned with spoil of many victories,[6] And flush of further conquest on thy brow; Jewels cannot thy native charms enhance, Nor can thy robes, too tightly laced perchance, The matchless beauty of thy form disguise. Through every change, by every tongue confessed, Peerless amid thy sisters East or West; Like her of whom the master-singer wrote, Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety. Thus float My wandering thoughts, as on the balcony I sit alone bathed in the moonlight pale, And musing thus the scene changed suddenly: Hotel and cottage vanished; to the shore The prairie sloped a green unbroken floor. Eight lustrums back, through rosy summers fled, Adown a dwindling vista far I sped, A careless youth; again my hoary head Bloomed with the sunny wealth of twenty years. A day came back, a day without compeers, When with a bright companion long since dead, In my canoe I flitted oer the lake, And our swift paddles scattered pearly tears Upon the smiling ripples in our wake. She, my companion, was a little maid Of somewhat rustic garb, of English speech, Yet something in her accents quaint and rich, And the warm tinge upon her cheek, betrayed[7] The mingling crimson of a darker shade, Her kinship to the remnant lingering still, Whose cone-shaped lodges picturesquely stood, Dotting the hither base of yonder hill, Like late leaves clinging, spite of growing chill, Upon the boughs of a November wood. Changing our mood, we idly drifted there, Two happy children in a cradling shell Poised twixt two azure vaults; the mystic spell Of Indian summer brooded in the air, Filling with human love and sympathy Een things inanimate; the earth and sky Leaned to each other, and the rocks and trees, Like brothers, seemed sharing our reveries. Tell me some legend of the lake, I cried, For in a spot that breathes on every side Such air of poesy, whose influence Subdues with such a charm our every sense, How many loving hearts have loved and died! How many souls as lofty and intense As those whose names throughout the whole world ring, In the high songs the olden minstrels sing! Who hears those voices een but for a day, The sound remains a part of him alway: Penelope the constant; Hero sweet; Briseis weeping at Achilles feet; Andromeda by wingd Perseus found[8] Bright blossom to the sea-girt rock fast bound; The Lesbian queen of song, but passions slave, Who quenched her burning torch beneath the wave; Helen, whose beauty, like a fatal brand, Lit up the towers of Troy oer sea and land; And Juliet, swaying at her windows height, What slender lily in the wan moonlight. I do not know, the little maid replied, The names of which you speak, but ere she died My mother told me many stories old, Some joyous and some sad, of warriors bold, And spirits, haunting forest, plain, and stream. Each had its god, and creatures of strange form, Half beast, half human; all these figures seem Mingling away in a fantastic swarm, Dim as the faces of a last years dream, Or motes that mingle in a slant sunbeam. The legends vanish too; among them all This one alone, distinctly I recall. The tale she told me then I now rehearse, Set in a frame of rude, unpolished verse. ......Buy Now (To Read More)

Product details

Ebook Number: 55303
Author: Huggins, E. L. (Eli Lundy)
Release Date: Aug 9, 2017
Format: eBook
Language: English