Kachesco

L'Envoy.

T fragile bark whereon the Indian traces Rude tokens of his path for other eyes, Sometimes outlasts the tree on which he places Anew the birchen scroll he thence had peeled, And while he wanders forth to other skies, Some curious Settler, ere his axe he wield, The frail memorial careful bears away:– So I have freely traced a woodland lay, In lines as quaint as chart of forest child, Content, like him, if, passing on my way, I cheer some friendly heart in life's dull wild, A birchen scroll from birchen tree y'cleft, A trail of moccasin in wildering forest left.

Part .–"Camping Out."

. 'Twas in the mellow autumn time, That revel of our masquing clime, When, as the Indian crone believes, The rainbow tints of Nature's prime She in her forest banner weaves; To show, in that bright blazonry, How the young earth did first supply Each gorgeous hue that paints the sky, Or in the sunset billow heaves.

. 'Twas in the mellow autumn time, When, from the spongy, swollen swamp, The lake a darker tide receives; When nights are growing long and damp; And at the dawn a glistering rime Is silver'd o'er the gaudy leaves; When hunters leave their hill-side camp, With fleet hound some, the dun-deer rousing, In "still-hunt" some, to shoot him browsing; And close at night their forest tramp, Where the fat yearling scents their fire, And, new unto their murderous ways, Affrighted, feels his life expire As stupidly he stands at gaze, Where that wild crew sit late carousing.

. 'Twas in the mellow autumn time, When I, an idler from the town, With gun and rod was lured to climb Those peaks where fresh the Hudson takes His tribute from an hundred lakes; Lakes which the sun, though pouring down His mid-day splendors round each isle, At eventide so soon forsakes That you may watch his fading smile For hours around those summits glow When all is gray and chill below; While, in that brief autumnal day Still, varying all in future, they Will yet some wilding beauty show, As through their watery maze you stray.

. For he beholds, whose footfalls press The mosses of that wilderness, Each charm the glorious Hudson boasts Through his far-reaching strand– When, sweeping from these leafy coasts, His mighty march he seaward takes– First pictured in those mountain lakes, All fresh from Nature's hand! Lakes broadly flashing to the sun, Like warrior's shield when first display'd, Lakes, dark, as when, the battle done, That shield oft blackens in the glade. Round one that on the eye will ope With many a winding sunny reach, The rising hills all gently slope From turfy bank and pebbled beach. With rocks and ragged forests bound, Deep set in fir-clad mountain shade, You trace another, where resound The echoes of the hoarse cascade.

. Aweary with a day of toil, And all uncheer'd with hunter spoil, Guiding a wet and sodden boat, With thing, half paddle, half an oar, I chanced, one murky eve, to float Along the grim and ghastly shore Of such wild water; Past trees, some shooting from the bank, With dead boughs dipping in the wave, And some with trunks moss-grown and dank, On which the savage, that here drank A thousand years ago, might grave His tale of slaughter.

. Peering amid these mouldering stems, Through thickets from their ruins starting, To spy a deer-track if I could, I saw the boughs before me parting, Revealing what seemed two bright gems Gleaming from out the dusky wood; And in that moment on the shore, Just where I brush'd it with my oar, An aged Indian stood!

. Nay! shrink not, lady, from my tale, Because, erst moved by border story, Thy thoughtful cheek grew still more pale At images so dire and gory; Nor yet–grown colder since that day– Cry–half disdainful of my lay, "An Indian!–why, in theme so stale, There can be no new interest! can there?– 'Twas but some border vagrant gazing From thicket that your boat was grazing, And you–you took him for a panther!"

. It was just so, and nothing more; The deer-stand that I sought was here, Here too Kachesco came for deer; A civil Indian, seldom drunk, Who dragg'd my leaky skiff ashore, And pointed out a fallen trunk, Where sitting I could spy the brink, Beneath the gently tilting branches, And shoot the buck that came to drink Or wash the black-flies from his haunches. With this he plunged into the wood, Saying he on the "run-way" knew Another stand, and quite as good If but the night breeze fairly blew.

. So there, like mummied sagamore, I crouch with senses fairly aching, To catch each sound by wood or shore Upon the twilight stillness breaking. I start! that crash of leaves below A light hoof surely rattles?–No! From overhead a dry branch parted. A plash! 'Tis but the wavelet tapping Yon floating log. The partridge drums; With thrilling ears again I've started; The booming sound at distance hums Like rushing herds. I start as though A gang of moose had caught me napping. And now my straining sight grows dim While nearer yet the night-hawks skim; Well, "let the hart ungalled play," I'll think of sweet looks far away– But no! I list and gaze about, My rifle to my shoulder clapping At leap of every rascal trout, Or lotus leaf the water flapping.

. An hour went thus, without a sign Of buck or doe in range appearing; The wind began to crisp the lake, The wolf to howl from out the brake, And I to think that boat of mine Had better soon be campward steering; When near me, through the deepening night, Again I saw those eyes so bright, And as my swarthy friend drew nigher, I heard these words pronounced in tone, Lady, as silken as thine own, "White man, we'd better make a fire."

. Our kindling-stuff lay near at hand– Peelings of bark, some half uncoil'd In flakes, from boughs by age despoil'd, And some in shreds by rude winds torn; Dead vines that round the dead trees clung; Long moss that from their old arms swung, Tatter'd and stain'd–all weather-worn, Like funeral weeds hung out to dry, Or banners drooping mournfully:– These quickly caught the spark we fann'd. Branches, that once waved overhead, Now crisply crackling to our tread, Fed next the greedy flame's demand. Lastly a fallen trunk or two– Which from its weedy lair we drew, And o'er the blazing brushwood threw– For savory broil supplied the brand.

. Of hemlock fir we made our couch, A bed for cramps and colds consoling; I had some biscuit in my pouch, A salmon-trout I'd kill'd in trolling; My comrade had some venison dried, And corn in bear's lard lately fried; And on my word, I will avouch That when we would our stock divide In equal portions, save the last, Apicius could not deride The relish of that night's repast.

. We talk'd that night–I love to talk With these grown children of the wild, When in their native forest walk, Confiding, simple as a child, They lose at times that sullen mood Which marks the wanderer of the wood, And in that pliant hour will show As prodigal and fresh of thought As genius when its feelings flow In words by feeling only taught.

. And much he told of Metai lore; Of Wabenos we call enchanters; Of water sprites called Nebanai– In floating logs oft packed away, As much at home on every shore As other "spirits" in decanters. From him I learned of Nabozhoo, The Harlequin of Indian story (A kind of half Deucalion, too, Who beats the Greek one in his glory); And of the pigmy Weeng, whose tap Upon the forehead, near one's peepers, Will make the liveliest hunter nap As soundly as The Seven Sleepers; And of the huge Weendigo race (The Cyclopes of Red-skin fable), Whose housewives for their breakfast place A whole cooked Indian on the table.

. Much of Pa-puck-wis too he said, The urchin god of fun and trickery, And other godlings by him led, And demons dancing on the head, As supple as a sapling hickory. And looking toward The Milky Way, Which he The Path of Spirits named, He told how half the soul would stay Around its early haunts to play, When God the other half had claimed; And how all living Red men stand With half their shade in shadow land; And how all Life to Red men known Once walked in shapes just like our own; And though doomed now as brutes to walk, How Spirits still to brutes will talk, And whisper blessed words of cheer From bush or tree they're browsing near, Saying that none at last shall go Down to the Fiend Machineto.

. We talk'd–'twas next of fish and game, Of hunter arts to strike the quarry, Of portages and lakes whose name, As utter'd in his native speech, If memory could have hoarded each, A portage-labor 'twere to carry. Yet one whose length–it is a score Of miles perhaps in length, or more– 'Tis glorious to troll, I can recall the name and feature From dull oblivion's scathe, Partly because in trim canoe I since have track'd it through and through, Partly that from this simple creature I heard that night a tale of faith Which moved my very soul.

. Yes, Inca-pach-co! though thy name Has never flow'd in poet's numbers, And all unknown, thy virgin claim To wild and matchless beauty, slumbers; Yet memory's pictures all must fade Ere I forget that sunset view When, issuing first from darksome glade A day of storms had darker made, Thy floating isles and mountains blue, Thy waters sparkling far away Round craggy point and verdant bay– The point with dusky cedars crown'd, The bay with beach of silver bound– Upon my raptured vision grew. Grew every moment, brighter, fairer, As I, at close of that wild day, Emerging from the forest nearer, Saw the red sun his glorious path Cleave through the storm-cloud's dying wrath, And with one broad triumphant ray Upon thy crimson'd waters cast, Sink warrior-like to rest at last.

. And he who stands as then I stood By Inca-pah-co's glorious water, And gazes on the haunted flood Where long ago Kachesco wooed In early youth its Island daughter, And threads that island's solitude, Once witness of his loved one's slaughter, At that same season of the leaf In which I heard him tell his grief, Will own 'mid autumn's wildest glory, The wilder tissue of that story, And feel–while shuddering at the view Which, with each feature stern and true Of his relentless race he drew– Feel not yet wholly waste the mind Where Faith so deep a root could find: Faith which both love and life could save, And keep the first, in age still fond, Yet blossoming this side the grave, In fadeless trust of fruit beyond!

. Long years had passed when I thus gazed, By Inca-pah-co's beauty dazed; Long years and many a distant scene Of tamer life had come between, Since by that nameless mountain tarn I realized, a stripling stout, My first night's fun of "camping out," And listened to the Indian yarn I here am going to tell about; Whose wampum beads, perchance astray, Had idly slipped, unstrung, away– Save now in coasting that bright shore Where INca-pah-co's wavelets chime, The sounds that moved my soul of yore, The scene of our lone bivouac Came, each and all, as freshly back, Beneath the crisp October prime, As springs by matted leaves choked up Which brighten in the hoof-stamped cup, Upon the Caribou's wild track.

. Again Kachesco's face of truth I saw before my fancy move, Fixed as the memory of my youth, And sad as all it knew of love. Again, as chiller blew the blast, When he had ceased to speak that night– While I, still wakeful, pondered o'er His wondrous story more and more– I saw him moving in the light The fire which he was feeding cast; Again his words were in my ear, As I'll repeat them simply here, And tell the tale from first to last.

. "I like Lake Inca-pah-co well," Half mused aloud my wild-wood friend; "Why, white man, I can hardly tell! For fish and deer, at either end, The rifts are good; but run-ways more There are by crooked Killoquore And Racquet at the time of spearing, As well as that for yarding moose, Hath both enough for hunter's use: Amid these hills are lakes appearing More limpid to the Summer's eye; In some at night the stars will twinkle As if they dropp'd there from the sky The pebbled bed below to sprinkle; I ply my paddle in them all– Of all, at times, a home have made– Yet, stranger, when I've thither stray'd I seem'd to hear the ripples fall Each time still sweeter than before On Inca-pah-co's winding shore."

. There was a sadness in his tone His careless words would fain disown; Or rather I would say their touch Of mournfulness betray'd that much, Much more of deep and earnest feeling Was through his wither'd bosom stealing: For now far back in memory So much absorb'd he seem'd to be, I'd not molest his revery; And when–in phrase I now forget– When I at last the silence broke, In the same train of musing yet, Watching awhile the wreathed smoke Curl from his lighted calumet, He thus aloud half pondering spoke:

. "Years, years ago, when life was new, And long before there was a clearing Among these Adirondac Highlands, My sachem kept his best canoe On one of Inca-pah-co's islands– The largest which lies tow'rd the north, As you are through the Narrows veering– And there had reared his wigwam too.

A trapper now, with years o'erladen, He lived there with one only daughter, A gentle but still gamesome maiden, Who, I have heard, would venture forth, Venture upon the darkest night Across the broad and gusty water To climb that cliff upon the main, By some since call'd The Maiden's Rest, That foot save hers hath never press'd, And watch the camp-fire's distant light, Which told that she should see again Her hunter when the dawn was bright."

. He paused–look'd down, then stirr'd the fire, He smiled–I did not like that smile, As leaning on his elbow nigher His bright eyes glared in mine the while, And I was glad that scrutiny o'er, When neither had misgivings more, While he, in earnest now at last, Reveal'd his memories of the past.

. "White man, thy look is open, kind, Thou scornest not a tale of truth! Should I in thee a mocker find, 'Twould shame alike thy blood and youth. I trust thee! well, now look upon This wither'd cheek and shrunken form! Canst think, young man, I was the one For whom that maiden dared the storm? Yes, often, till a tribesman came– It matters not to speak his name– A youth as tall, as straight, as I, As quick his quarry to descry, A hunter bold upon his prey As ever struck the elk at bay. –But thou shalt see him, if thou wilt Gaze on the wreck since made by guilt,– Where glints its crag-drip to the moon, And raves through soaking moss the Scroon, To where Peseco's waters lave Its shining strand and beach-clad hills, From hoarse Ausable's caverned wave To Saranac's most northern rills– These woods around, do they not know That doomed one's guilt, my sleepless woe? Know it in every glen and glade Of Adirondac's haunted shade, Where branches bend or waters flow!

. "Oft in that barren hollow, where Through moss-hung hemlocks blasted, there Whirl the dark rapids of Yowhayle; Oft, too, by Teoratie blue, And where the silent wave that slides Tessuya's cedar islets through, Cahogaronta's cliff divides In foam through deep Kurloonah's vale– Where great Tahawus splits the sky, Where Borrhas greets his melting snows, By those linked lakes that shining lie Where Metauk's whispering forest grows– From Nessingh's sluggish waters, red With alder roots that line their bed, To where, through many a grassy vlie, The winding Atatea flows; And from Oukorla's glistening eye 'To hoary Wahopartenie, As still from spot to spot we fled, How often his despairing sigh, How oft his hoarse, half-muttered cry The very air has thickened On which his fruitless prayer was sped! Where naked Ounowarlah towers; Where Sandanona's shadows float; Where wind-swept Nodoneyo lowers, And in that gorge's quaking throat, Reft by Otneyarii's giant band, Where splinters of the mountain vast, Though lashed by cable roots, aghast, Toppling amid their ruin, stand; Through Reuna's hundred isles of green, By Onegora's pebbly pools; Where Paskungamah's birches lean, And where, through many a dark ravine, The triple crown of crags is seen By which grim Towaloondah rules– By Gwi-endauqua's bristling fall, Through Twen-ungasko's echoing glen, To wild Ouluska's inmost den, Alone–alone with that poor thrall, I wrestled life away in all!"

. Breathless, he paused, while vaguely stirred By theme, as yet, all dark to me, I thrilled beneath each savage word That from his throat came savagely. But now some softer memories make That tawny bosom heave and swell, As, gazing far into the night, He rivets there his aching sight, Nor will again his tale forsake, Till there's no more to tell.

Part .–The Vigil of Faith.

. "Bright Nulkah, doe-eyed forest girl! Oh! still in dreams those evening skies Bend over me as soft as when, Born to a faith first plighted then, We silent sought each other's eyes To read their spirit mysteries: Then watched the lake's low ripples curl, Then sought each other's eyes again, Then looked around on crag and hill, Looked on each shadowy tree so still, Looked on them each and all to see All–all was real, Earth–Love and we.

. "I round her neck the wampum threw, String after string she kissed them each, And parting at the water's edge When I had launched my light canoe, Unwilling yet to leave the beach, But poised upon a fallen tree I long could see the holy pledge, Pressed to her heart or waved to me: Could see it glimmer in the dew Yet–yet again from rocky ledge, When, after the first head-land cast My boat in shadow as I pass'd, Again across the moonlit bay, She saw my glistening paddle play And gave me back one answering ray.

. "Ah! bounding then the broad lake over, What vigor to my arm love gave! What life, fresh life to every wave, That buoy'd up my Nulkah's lover! And sadly as she left me there, How much of sweetness was to spare For her who soon would climb the cliff, To vainly watch my coming skiff, Would toiling gain the rugged height, To suffer all love's sadness where It came unmixed with love's delight And seemed the herald of Despair!

. "I sent to her–I sent a friend, The chosen one of all our band, With whom my heart was wont to blend Like those which mate in spirit land. From Sacandaoa's fountain head Where in our camp I fevered lay, Through Nushiona's vale he sped, And gained her home at close of day. Beside her father's fire he slept– It was too late to speak that night, And when my Nulkah's beauty first Upon him with the morning burst, He had no tongue to speak aright, And still my message from her kept– Kept back love's message day by day Till sullen weeks had worn away, While lonely Nulkah often wept.

. "Nay, more, when she would cross the wave At midnight in the wildest weather, While tempests round the peak would rave From which she watch'd for nights together, He told–that tribesman whom I loved, Yes, loved as if he were my brother– He told her that the woods I roved To feed the lodge where dwelt another: Another who now cherish'd there The child that claim'd a hunter's care; Claim'd it upon some distant shore, From which I would return no more.

. "All this in her had wrought no change, No anxious doubt, no jealous fear, But he, meanwhile, had words most strange Breathed in my gentle Nulkah's ear, Which made her wish that I were near: Words strange to her, who, simple, true, And only love as prosperous knew, Shrank from the fitful fantasy, Which, seeming less like love than hate, Would cloud his moody brow when he, Gazing on her, arraigned the fate Which could such loveliness create Only to work him misery. And when she heard that lying tale, Her woman's heart could soon discover Some double treachery might assail, Through him, her unsuspecting lover; And Love in fear, still fearless, brought her On errand Love in hope first taught her.

. "I came at last. She ask'd me naught– It was enough to see me there; But of the friend who thus had wrought, Though he now streams far distant sought, She bade me in the wood beware. A wound my coming had delay'd, And still too weak to use my gun, I set the nets the old chief made; Baited his traps in forest glade; And sweetly after woo'd the maid, At evening when my toils were done.

. Twas then I chose a grassy swale, In which my wigwam frame to make; Shelter'd by crags from northern gale, Shaded by boughs, save toward the lake. The Red-bird's nest above it swung; There often the Ma-ma-twa sung; And Moning-gwuna's quills of gold Through leaves like flickering sunshine told; There, too, when Spring was backward, first, Her shrinking blossoms safely burst; And there, when autumn leaf was sere, Some flowers still stay'd the loitering year.

. "She learn'd full soon to love the spot, For who could see and love it not? Why, Morning there had newer splendor, There, Twilight seemed to grow more tender, And Moonbeams first would thither stray, To light Puckwudjees to their play. And there, when I the isle would leave, And sometimes now my guu resume, She'd shyly steal the mats to weave Which were to line our bridal room. Happy we were! what love like ours, Blossoming thus as fresh and free, As unrestrain'd as wild-wood flowers, Yet keeping all their purity!

. Happy we were! my secret foe, How dread a foe, I knew not then, Remain'd to fish the streams below That into Cadaraqui flow, Returning to us only when Some kinsmen on our bridal morn, Impell'd by a mysterious doom Which with that fateful man was born, Brought him to shroud the day in gloom And blast our joys about to bloom.

. "Just Manitou! Oh may the boat That bears him to the spirit land For ages on those black waves float Which catch no light from off its strand, Float blindly there, still laboring on Toward shores 'tis never doom'd to reach; Float there till time itself is gone, And when again 'twould seek the beach From which with that lone soul it started, Baffling let that before it flee, Till hope of rest hath all departed, And still when that last hope is gone, A guideless thing, float on, float on!

. "The birds of song had sunk to rest; The eagle's tireless wing was furl'd; On Inca-pah-co's darkening breast The last few golden ripples curl'd: The distant mountains, bright before, Now seen'd to darken more and more Against the eastern sky; Until a white pine's slender cone, Tapering above the hill-top, shone, And show'd the moon was nigh. Our friends, they all stood gravely round, Waiting until that moon should rise, The bridal moon whose aspect crown'd, For good or ill, our destinies: The signal too, the hour had come, When I could claim my bride and home.

. "Blushing at that fast-brightening sky, When on her father's lodge it shone, How did she shrink within, when I Would lead that loved one to my own! Forth stepp'd e'en then that dismal guest Who grimly stood amid the rest, And, while his knife he drew, With cry that made us all aghast, And frantic gesture, hurrying past, He sprang the threshold through.

. "A shriek! and I with soul of flame Devour'd the fearful space between: Another and another came E'en while my grip was on his throat, Where, writhing in the dark unseen, His victim in her gore did float! And life was oozing through each wound That gash'd her lovely form about, When, hurling him upon the ground, I bore her to the light without,

. "Aided by that untimely beam, Which harbinger'd such bridal woes, I watch'd its ebbing current gleam, And, watching, would not, could not, deem That blessed life's too precious stream Growing each moment darker, colder, E'en while I to my heart did fold her, Already at its close. She tried to speak–then press'd my hand, And look'd–oh, look'd into my eyes As if through them the spirit-land Would first upon her vision rise: As if her soul, that could not stay, Through mine might only pass away.

. I know not when that look did fade, Nor when did fail that dying grasp, Nor how they loosed the lifeless maid, Stiffening within love's desperate clasp. The sod upon her grave was green, The leaflet greening on the oak, The autumn and the winter o'er, When I once more to sense awoke,– Awoke to know some joys had been Which now to me could be no more; Awoke to know that life to me Was henceforth but a girdled tree Whose tough limbs still must bide the blast Until the trunk to earth be cast, Though fruit nor blossom ne'er can smile Upon those wrestling limbs the while.

. "He still was there, that youth accurst, Who thus through blood his end had sought, He who, with frenzied love athirst, Such wreck of loveliness had wrought. He still was there, for while I breathed, With sense and feeling almost gone– The aged father, thus bereaved, Raving the wretch should still live on– Of all our friends there was not one Would deal the vengeance they believed 'Twas mine on him to wreak alone.

. "He still was there. 'Twas he that kept A nurse's watch while thus I slept: Ever and ever by my side, With anxious eye and noiseless tread, Hanging about my fever'd bed, With none he would his task divide: Trembling, with jealous fear afraid, When near the grave I seem'd to hover, Lest that bright land which claim'd the maid Was opening too upon her lover.

. "And now, when, no more languishing, My mind and strength became renew'd, Amid the balmy airs of spring, And I once more could take the wood; Think you he fear'd the bloody fate Which blood will alway expiate? Oh no! he look'd too far before– Look'd far beyond this fleeting shore, Where bliss will die as soon as born! He hoped, he blindly trusted, he, That on the instant that I woke Revenge would be so fierce in me, I'd madly deal some deathful stroke, Would send his soul where hers was gone!

. "But I–I knew too well his guile, 'Twas whisper'd me in dreams the while, I saw a form about my bed, That alway shrunk from him with dread: 'Twould come by night, 'twould come by day, But clearest in the moonbeam show, Then ever, as it nearer drew Ere melting from my wistful view, With palm reversed, it seem'd to say, 'If yet thou wilt not with me go, Keep him–oh keep but him away!’

. "And did I not? ay, while the knell Of youth and hope yet echo'd by, Did I not then allay thy fears, Perturbed soul, that his was nigh? And o'er the waste of dreary years, On which, heart-wither'd, doom'd to dwell, I look with weary vision back– Have I not on that desert track, Sweet spirit, kept love's vigil well? Oh have I not? Yes–though no more I see at night those moon-touch'd fingers, Still beckoning as they did of yore; And though the features of my love, As near me still in dreams she lingers, Look bright, as yon bright star above, And peaceful, as in that blest time, When our young loves were in their prime– I know that from the land of shades, When wandering thus to haunt these glades, The vigil to her soul is dear I kept, and still am keeping here! –Enough of this, thou still wouldst know How dealt I with my mortal foe.

. "The stag that snuffs the breeze of morn Where first it lifts the birchen spray, Gazing on lakes all newly born From valley mists that roll away, Treads not the upland fern more free, Looks not with eye more bright below, Than moved and look'd that man, when he Strode forth and stood beneath the tree To bide my avenging hatchet's blow: The crestless doe, whose faint limbs sink Beside the rill to which they bore her– Life-stricken on its very brink That instant when she'd gasping drink From the bright wave that leaps before her– Lies not more lowly and forlorn, All stretch'd upon the forest leaves, Than near the tree that Outcast lay, When, by my gleaming hatchet shorn, His warrior-tuft is cleft away, And he the living doom receives To wander thus where'er he may– Of woman and of man the scorn!

. "A month went by; the wigwam-smoke No more from that cold hearth ascended, Where the old chief no longer woke To woes that with his life were ended: A month, and that deserted isle Was left alone to me and her! The summer had begun to smile, The winds of June the leaves to stir; And flowers that budded late the while, To bloom above her sepulchre; Meek, pallid things, grave-nursed below, That feebly there as yet would grow, Brighter in coming years to blow– And where was he whose fell despair The Flower of Love laid bleeding there?

. "Shooting from out the leafy land, Right opposite our island home, There was a narrow neck of sand, O'er which the wave on either hand Would fling at times its crest of foam. And here–as I one morning stood Upon a rock which faced that beach– I saw, wild rushing from the wood, Within my loaded rifle's reach, A figure that distracted ran Until it gain'd the frothy marge, And there an unarm'd, kneeling man Bared his broad bosom to my charge!

"I stood, but did not raise the gun– Although it rattled in my grasp– I stood and coldly look'd upon The suppliant, who still lower bent, His hands in agony did clasp, As if the soul within him pent Would rend its penal tenement. At last, with low half smother'd cry And quivering frame, he gain'd his feet, And to the woods began to fly, Growing at every step more fleet: But from that hour, where er he fled, There too my shadow darkened!

. "One moment was enough to bind Firmly my weapons on my head, The strait was swum, and far behind The crested waves effaced my tread Upon the beach, o'er which I sped So swiftly that the forest glade At once the wanderer's trail betray'd; And though it led o'er rocky ledge, Led oft within the pool's black edge, 'Twas soon reveal'd anew– The springy moss just crisping back I saw upon his recent track, Nor paused to trace it in the brook, Whose alders still behind him shook Where he had bounded through.

. "And–when again the stream he cross'd, Where, in its forks, awhile I lost His trail amid the maze Of severing rills, and run-ways wound About the deer lick's trampled ground– The very living things around, Which in these forest-depths abound, The sable darting from the fern, The gliding ermine, each in turn, His whereabout betrays; From plunging beaver's warning stroke, From wood-duck whirring from the oak, And screaming loon, alike I learn Where lead the wanderer's ways.

. At length within a broken dell, Where a gnarl'd beech the tempest shock Had parted from the leaning rock, Among its cable roots, he fell; Where, panting, soon I saw him lie, Shrivelling against the blasted trunk, With knees drawn up and cowering eye, As if my avenging tread had shrunk The miscreant there as I drew nigh. I spoke not–but I gazed upon That wolf with fangs and courage gone, Gazed on his quailing features till Their furtive glance was fix'd by mine, And I could see his writhing will Her feeble throne to me resign.

. "He rose, an abject, broken man, He dared not fight–he dared not fly; His very life in my veins ran, Who would not let him cast it by! And still he is the thing that then He wilted to within that glen: Living–if life be drawing breath– But dead in all that last should die, For him there is no further death Till from the earth he withereth.

. "I hunt for him–I dress his food, I guide his footsteps in the wood, Or, when alone for game I'd beat, Direct where we at night shall meet. He cleans my arms–my snow-shoes makes; He bales my shallop on the lakes; And when with fishing spear I glide At midnight o'er the silent tide, 'Tis he who holds the pine-knot torch, That seems her blazing path to scorch Where waves o'er reddening shoals divide.

. "With me he now is alway meek, But sometimes, chafing in his thrall, He to my dog will sharply speak, Who comes, or comes not at his call. They both are in my camp below, From which I now in hunting weather For days can often safely go, Leaving the two alone together. But in those years my watch began His limbs were agile as my own, And sometimes then the tortured man For weeks beyond my search hath flown, In shades more deep to breathe alone.

. "But ever when he thus would flee, Flee from himself as well as me, Some hollow trunk or swampy lair Betrayed his howlings of despair, As near the she-wolf ceased her moan To listen to his dreaming groan, Or, scared from perch on dead branch by, The fish-hawk caught his sharper cry, When light that waked from seeming pain Brought back the living sense again. And sometimes then with strange dismay, Flinging a frantic look around, He from the "windfall's" ghastly fray Of uptorn trunks would shrieking bound, As if from their convulsion grew Some shape to his distracted view, Some hideous shape his soul first caught From havoc there by Nature wrought! Then shivering in each limb with dread, As o'er the quaking bog he fled, And, flying toward it, still afraid To reach again the forest shade, He joyed that even I was near To soothe him in his mortal fear.

. "Again, when in his wildest mood, He would some mystic power obey, Which from that island's haunted wood Ne'er let him wander far away, And alway soon or late I could Steal on him in his solitude: While oft, as weaker grew his brain, And he forgot God's law of blood, I've track'd the poor bewilder'd thing, Wherever he was famishing; And snatched him o'er and o'er again From death he sought by fell and flood.

. "Sometimes, when wintry snows were deep, And game was scarce within our range, When near our camp 'twere death to keep, Yet lacked we strength our camp to change: Compell'd, in search of food, to creep Through smothering drift and snowy surge, We'd starving sink in snow to sleep, Through sleet the morrow to emerge– My arms around him I would bind, To shield him from the wintry wind, And still his hand close clutching, hold When through the morrow's whirling blast Our languid steps were tottering told, Where ice some dizzy ledge had glass'd, And reeling 'neath the tempest's breath, Our pinch'd-up limbs trod near to death. Then, lest his soul should slip away That night from his half-torpid clay, I'd warm against my breast his feet, And constant wake to feel if heat Of life still in his pulses beat.

. "And when spring thaws dissolved the snow, And, loosened from their ancient stay, In mass, dissevered at a blow, Old trees and root-inwoven ground With rocks and ice together bound, Would plunging crash their headlong way, And scatter waste and ruin wide Far down the mountain's riven side– As then our wild-wood track would go Across the swollen torrent's flow, Often, ere this, my frail canoe Upon the freshet's foam has toss'd, Where splintered ice would thunder through The roaring gulf which I have crossed To bridge for him the tide below. And ever then my voice has lent Fresh vigor to his trembling knee, As shrinking he before me went, Appalled to hear the surges hiss So close beneath the slippery tree, That tottering spanned the dread abyss.

. "When summer drought has parched the ground, And crisped the dusty leaves around, Encircled by the forest fire, And gasping in its blinding smoke, My bleeding way through walls of brier, Half stifled, I have desperate broke, And dragged him to some lonely peak, Where o'er his prostrate form I stood, And watched the Flaming Spirit wreak His wrath each moment nigher–nigher– Have watched him whirling through the wood, Resistless in each angry coil, Now scorching up the brush beneath, Shrivelling alike both root and soil, Now fastening on some hoary pine, And vomiting his burning breath On writhing limbs through which he'd twine– Darting aloft his crimson tongue The sharply crackling boughs among, Until the crag round which he swept, The crag where our last hold we kept, One blazing pyre of light became, An islet in a sea of flame. There, bending oft that faint wretch over– His body with my own to cover– There, while the moss whereon he lay In blistered flakes would peel away, Between him and the flames I cast My form, until the peril passed.

. "And thus as crowding seasons changed, When many a year was dead and gone, I round these lakes in manhood ranged, Where yet in age I wander on, And still o'er that poor slave I've kept A vigil that hath never slept; And while upon this earth I stay, From her I'll still keep him away– From her whom I at last shall see My own, my own eternally!

. "White man! I say not that they lie Who preach a faith so dark and drear That wedded hearts in yon cold sky Meet not as they were mated here. But scorning not thy faith, thou must, Stranger, in mine have equal trust: The Red man's faith by Him implanted, Who souls to both our races granted. Thou know'st in life we mingle not, Death cannot change our different lot! He who hath placed the White man's heaven Where hymns on vapory clouds are chanted, To harps by angel fingers play'd; Not less on his Red children smiles To whom a land of souls is given, Where in the ruddy west array'd Brighten our blessed hunting isles.

. "There souls again to youth are born, A youth that knows no withering! There, blithe and bland, the breeze of morn Fresheneth an eternal Spring 'Mid trees, and flowers, and waterfalls, And fountains bubbling from the moss, And leaves that quiver with delight, As from their shade the warbler calls, Or choiring, glances to the light On wings which never lose their gloss: There brooks that bear their buds away, From branches that will bend above them, So closely they could not but love them, To the same bowers again will stray From which at first they murmuring sever, Still floating back their blossoms to them, Still with the same sweet music ever, Returning yet once more to woo them; There love, like bird and brook and blossom, Is young for ever in each bosom!

. "Those blissful Islands of the West: I've seen, myself, at sunset time, The golden lake in which they rest; Seen too, the barks that bear The Blest Floating toward that fadeless clime: First dark, just as they leave our shore, Their sides then brightening more and more, Till in a flood of crimson light They melted from my straining sight. And she, who climb'd the storm-swept steep, She who the foaming wave would dare, So oft love's vigil here to keep, Stranger, albeit thou think'st I dote, I know, I know she watches there! Watches upon that radiant strand, Watches to see her lover's boat Approach The Spirit-Land."