Etoile, and other poems

Front matter

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Preface

The two poems of the following collection which have been most extended, have grown to their present size bj r very slow accretions. Not having been designed for the public eye, they have lain for years, with the exception of infrequent additions, when graver moods of feeling swayed the heart, with little or no thought of their worth ; and I would not now deem them worthy of publication, but for the overruling opinions of a few deeply regarded friends. For them, and not the world at large, I go to print. I can also freely say, that the utterance of poetic thought, if that thought contains the germ of purity, is a more excelling gratification to the soul, than any honor that can flow from its publication.

In justice to some one, to whom, I know not, I am desirous of acknowledging the taking of one or more characters in the poem of Etoile, from a prose story of that name, published some years ago in one of our annuals, and which casually fell into my hands. This is so long since, that its author's name has gone from my memory. I here desire to thank him for the interest it elicited in my mind. Should this poem meet his eye, I think he will hardly accuse me of being a very close copyist of the incidents of his story.

(xi)

XII PREFACE.

There may be objections to the speeches of Masisqua and his brother chiefs, that indian orators do not speak in the style given in the poem. Whilst this must be freely acknowledged, it may be averred, that it is equally doubtful whether the Homeric warriors spoke with the glowing and polished periods of Pope.

I am also fully aware that the poem of Solitude contains

much rambling and inconsequent thought. I care not

very especially for this, however, as the subject is simply

a thread, upon which the stauzas are strung. I can only

say,

"What is writ, is writ,— Would it were worthier ! "

w. w.

Contents

PAGE.

Now 95

Time 110

Part I

Etoile ! thy days are sunny now, Child of the stern Masisqua's vow ! No gentler flower the forest rears, Amid the spring of budding years ; No lighter steps the green sward press, Within the quiet wilderness ; Or where the lone savannas smile, Like some enchanted ocean isle ; No form can grace the verdant wild, So queenly as the warrior's child !

Summer, sweet summer, woos thy cheek, And gently waves thy raven hair,

As o'er the mountain's lonely path, Thy buoyant footsteps softly sweep,

Unmindful of the panther's wrath, Or cougar in his dark retreat ! To thee e'en danger's haunt is fair, If love light up the pathway there ! Sanglant has sentinell'd the way, Well does the fierce wolf know his bay ;

And turn from off his eager chase,

To shun the foe he fears to face. —

No trustier hath the Spirit sent,

To watch the pass or guard the tent ;

Fierce in his wrath, to passion true,

Whether the wolf or man be foe :

Few are the hands that dare caress,

Or on his sterner humor press ;

Yet fawns he on the maiden's hand,

And springs to greet her soft command :

Thus fiercer hearts at love's sweet tone,

Have round them gentler feelings thrown ;

Their darkest purpose leave undone,

By woman's nobler nature won. —

On every path her footsteps tread,

Sanglant, the true, is thither led ;

Swimming the cold lake, or through brakes,

Circling the devious way she takes ;

Listening to every footfall nigh,

And watching far with eager eye,

To mark if dangers round her lie.

But whither leads the path so wild,

Sought by the sachem's gentle child ?

Has early love its first smile given,

And claim'd her 'neath the summer heavpn

And whose the arm that dares to come,

Between her ami her maiden home?

Who dares to sever in the glen,

The queen-flower from its parent stem V

Vv'luii warrior in ins murderous wrath,

Has been upon the foeman's path,

And brought the dripping scalps to show

The prowess of his steel and bow ?

None — for the sage Masisqua's vow,

Breath'd o'er his daughter's infant brow ;

Who to the maiden should aspire,

Must measure daring with the sire !

In every danger win the meed,

Where'er his ill-starr'd pathway lead ;

First in the chase, untiring, true,

Though hunger press, and wary foe

Start from the ambush to surprise,

And mark him for the torture's prize ;

Unblenching should the conquerer's hate,

Surround him at the fiery stake ;

On war's red field no danger shun,

Though horrors throng it fierce and dun ;

In every subtle art that leads

To treachery's malignant deeds,

Be sternly school'd, nor mercy know, When vengeance asks the deadly blow ! Such was Masisqua— such must be The one who from the parent tree, Shall pluck the only scion there, To guard it in a home more fair ! That, when the father's race is run, His years wend to the setting sun ; And sachems from the Spirit land, Call him to leave his loved band ; A heart with pulses like his own, Shall still upon his war-path roam ; One, who the glory of his race, Shall still on daring prowess place ; And with his martial tribe's acclaim, Proudly o'er men's stern emprise reign !

She loves !— and that lone mountain way, Roughen 'd by storm, and rocks so gray ; She treads as 'twere enshrin'd in light, And sweetest visions charm'd her sight! For love, young love, has power to bless The waste with eden loveliness ; The spots where fruitless vestures grow, Like radiant emeralds seem to glow ; Creation freshly greets the sight, When all within the heart is light ; And feeling sweet responses finds,

Where'er the sterile pathway winds.— On to the valley's bloom below, With wandering gaze and step more slow ; To pluck the opening flowerets there, And twine them in her flowing hair, The maiden wends, and quicker beat Her heart's young pulses, though her feet, With coy reluctance seem to move, When near the sylvan shrine of love ! Sweet is the green of that lone vale, Unmarr'd by war or indian trail ; The summer's light comes softly down, Its streams with golden dyes to crown. —

Sweet is the valley where lightly tread,

The doe and the gentle fawn ; Where the hunter's spear is never sped,

Or his lithe bow ever drawn !

Where the wind-flower spreads her virgin leaves,

To the music low winds bear ; With lupine and goldthread and heartsease,

And violets sweet and rare !

Where comes the hymn of the wandering bee,

And humming bird's fairy wing ; And the song of thrush and merry jay,

From the tree tops blithely ring !

And over the scene love's hues are thrown,

And over it roams a form, That well may grace such a sylvan home,

'Neath the smiles of early morn !

She loves ! but one from other lands.

Has called the gentle feeling forth ; And by the leaping streamlet stands,

To bless the heart that gave it birth ! From France's sunny land he came, With liueage of a noble name ; And by the Mississippi's tide, Grew up a lonely father's pride. — Companion of the red-man there, In every sport and prowess rare ; St. Pierre could match with daring hand, The bravest of Masisqua's band ;

In boyish sports he shadow'd forth, The virtues of a gentle birth ; He wrestled with the swarthy youth, And won them by his kindly truth ; Swam the bold river by their side, Or trod the mountain's rocky slide, Where danger frown'd and few could keep With footsteps firm, the tortuous steep ; And oft he led the mimic war, The race, the dance, or chase afar ; To every pastime gave a charm, Upon the bold tribe's summer lawn ; And when the winter snows were spread, Along the wilds he lov'd to tread ; He cheered the lonely wigwam's fire, With tales rehears'd him by his sire. — And as the youth to warriors grew, With whom he kept a faith so true ; And to their wild sports passion gave, Its martial pride to win or save ; When war the aspiring spirit wrought, And deeds of fame were sternly sought ; The arm on which they oft did gaze, When bared, with wonder and amaze ; That 'neath such pallor could be strung, Nerves that their proudest goals had won ; Was often sought to point the chase, Or lead to battle's fierce embrace.

Masisqua loved the noble boy,

So mildly brave, whose manly joy

Rang through the greenwood, as he came

The victor in some long priz'd game ;

Surrounded by the panting crowd,

Whose hopes to win, his strength had bow'd ;

And frankly in the chief's stern eye,

With whose bold gaze none dared to vie ;

While the shy throng would stand aloof,

Fearful to meet some cold reproof;

St. Pierre would artlessly relate The daring of each swarthy mate ; And generous deeds their strife award, To win for them their chiefs regard : — And oft his stalwart friend would rest, Upon some bank's enamelled breast ; Beneath a proud oak's sheltering limb, Deeply within the forest dim ; When softer moods came o'er his heart, And kindlier feeling seem'd to start ; Listening to tales the fair youth wove, Of war, of vengeance and of love. — And as he gave some legend's rhyme, Of knights within the olden time ; Their deeds in war or tournament, Or whilst on danger's errand sent ; The sachem from the sward would start, Rous'd by the well recited part ; Intenser feelings sway his breast, Sprung by the ardor of his guest ; Who, buried in the glowing page, Mark'd not the list'ner's rising rage ; The kindled eye, the clenched hand, The gesture mark'd by stern command! 'Twas fearful to behold that chest, So wildly by emotion press'd ; Revenge and pity speaking there, And triumph for some prowess rare ; Sighs for the memory of the brave, Who sought for fame and found a grave And joy, when heroes won a name, His own .wild spirit lov'd to claim !

In turn, the sachem would rehearse

His own dread deeds— though not in verse

Yet lighted with a poet's fire,

And thoughts that tragic art inspire ;

His language oft the speaking eye,

And arm, to mark the passion high ;

ETOILE.

Around his head his axe would swing, Or wildly in the oak's trunk ring ; The whoop, the spring, the deep halloo, The twanging of the deadly bow, Gave to his tale its truest art, As feeling play'd her changeful part ! Once upon listening, as St. Pierre Read him of deeds he lov'd to hear ; The chief through shades of memory ran, And thus a fearful tale began :—

"The old one's hundred moon's ago,

Look'd down upon Shatara's plain ; As council fires threw round their glow,

Upon five thousand warrior men.— A thousand bows beneath my eye,

Went out upon the war-path there ; And 'neath the midnight's solemn sky,

The song of blood was on the air.— A chief had left his father's graves, To war with twice a score of braves ; Upon our white paths far had come,

And stain'd them with a sachem's blood ; A swift revenge each spirit strung, To smite him in his distant wood. Five suns had died upon our path, The witnesses of brave men's wrath ; When dark Chouisca's village fire, Gave to our hearts a bolder ire ; And every warrior's nerves were true, To strike where dwelt Masisqua's foe. — Beneath the shadow of a wood They paus'd, whilst I with stealthy tread, Went forth to find, 'mid meaner foes, Where the proud sachem's wigwam rose ; I watched on wary tip-toe now,

And now upon the silent earth ; Marking a streamlet's sluggish flow, Impatient for each moment's birth, 'Till the moon died, and all was still, Within the wildly peopled dell. —

Vengeance with bold, instinctive eye, Found where the chief was wont to lie ; One blow — with not a cry to tell How he had fallen, sped so well The silent knife— Chouisca lay, The proudest chief of his proud daj T , Reft of his scalp— and at the morn, A long and piercing wail was borne, That told the great Masisqua's hand, Had crushed the noblest of their band !

Within the forest's deep ravine,

'Till the next eve we lay, and fed Upon the wails of grief, that came

And smooth 'd to joy our rocky bed. — Around the Narragansett's fire, A council sat with gloomy ire ; Near by a noble sycamore, That to the heavens its tall arms bore, Sprang from the earth — at dusk's dim light, Unnoted by the foe's quick sight, I swiftly climb'd to where an arm, Stalwart in supple strength was borne ; And overlook'd, with cold disdain, The stern grief round the council flame. — A treacherous step, howe'er, betrayed The nearness to their fires I'd made ; And many a keen glance search'd the spot, And quickly followed many a shout! A hundred arrows swiftly drawn, Prepar'd me for the coming storm. — Light as a bird I sprang, to where Far pierc'd aloft the dusky air, A tall elm's top— ascending high, To where its leafy canopy Sway'd to the wind, I bent it o'er Like a lithe bow, and as it bore Me to the earth, the wary foe, With fierce whoop circled round below ;

And knife and axe were well prepar'd, To deal the blow I madly dar'd !

Within their midst I dropp'd, and gave Stern glance for glance with many a brave ; Dar'd them with an indignant scorn, To meet me with a single arm !

None mov'd— and as I proudly turn'd, To meet an eye where battle burn'd ; All shrunk, like spirits of the plain, All there had heard Masisqua's fame. — At length Hawantah's spirit burn'd, Hawantah, who had never turn'd From foe or field — and soon the spot Resounded the defiance shout !

But briefly did Hawantah dare This arm — for with my axe and spear, I push'd him toward the gazing throng ; And as together there we clung, With limbs that grappled not in mirth, I dash'd him breathless to the earth ; Whilst stunn'd, my knife its trophy took, And at the wondering braves I shook The redden'd lock— then as the form Of the Great Water 'neath the storm Is lash'd to fury, fiercely then, The fury of those warrior men, Hemm'd me around — on to the stake, Where even mastering spirits quake, They bore me, and, securely bound, I waited for the torturing round.

But there the great Masisqua's heart Was his own still ! No woman's part I bore ! The knife and arrow drew Avenging drops, and swiftly flew The glittering axe, for pastime sped, Skimming the locks around my head. — Grown bold, the coward's eager hand,

My flesh sear'd with the glowing brand ; And many a lip, that pal'd when war Was on their paths, grew daring there, To taunt me in the toils, and beat The limbs they never dar'd to meet. — Whilst pierc'd and torn I told them o'er The deeds of fifty moons or more ; How many trophies from their tribe, Hung round my distant wigwam's side ; And pointed to their warriors' hair, That darkly fring'd my bow and spear. — With passion's stormy music blent, They heard how in his midnight tent, Chouisca died — I wav'd his lock, With proud Hawantah's, and did mock Their wildest rage — yet fiercer came, Upon me then their scathing flame ; And closer still they hemm'd me round, With baleful eye and horrid sound ; As though their sachem's spirit mourn'd, For deeper wounds than hate yet burn'd.

Young Shingawassa, whose fleet steps

Had pierced the forest's distant round ;

Where eagle watch'd or panther crept, Far by the wild Missouri's bound ; Once sought, with venturous arm, to brave The river's broad and furious wave, But sunk beneath the stronger tide ; From the lone shore I'd watch'd him ride The boiling stream, and as it clos'd Around his plume, my arm opposed Proudly its battling fury there, And saved him in his last despair. — I bore him where my wigwam's heat Reviv'd his bosom's feeble beat; He liv'd — and when his heart grew strong, And limbs with freshen 'd vigor sprung ; I led him through the forest dim,

And o'er the far savanna's green ;

'Till from a mount, whose summit broke

The clouds, where oft Eloha spoke !

I pointed to his village plain,

Where he had won, though young, a name ;

And bade him sun Shedea's brow,

Who mourn'd her distant warrior low.

And then, when passion madly threw

Her swift shafts round my head ; As the wild fire to brightness grew,

And life's strong hope was dead ; — 'Twas then, as loud my death-song came, From 'midst the quick and stinging flame ; That Shingawassa rush'd to save The friend that bore him from the wave ! Quick as the leopard's rage, he tore My stiff'ning bonds, and backward bore The torturing braves— whilst thus amaz'd, A heavy brand that fiercely blaz'd, I quickly seiz'd, and swept the way 'Mid circling fire and desperate sway ; And fleet as cougar from his lair, With bounds that none could distance there ; As lance and arrow vainly sped, And every limb for vengeance bled ; In scorching memory of the flame, I joined my waiting band again.

But as the raven wing of night,

Hid from the earth the sun's last light ;

My hot, impatient braves, disdained

Longer in ease to be enchained ;

They sallied from the dusky glen,

As ringing shouts came o'er the plain ;

Returned the swift pursuing cry,

And caught the fire of battle nigh.—

Quick my commands— few greetings mine,

As on I led the stealthy line ;

My band beneath night's dusky veil,

Swept like the unrelenting gale ;

Young Tchongtassabbee, born for war,

And burning like a baleful star ;

Dash'd by my side to seek the fray,

And revel in the wild essay. —

But as the rocks the tempest greet,

The Narragansett stood, to meet

And court with gathered bands the strife,

That came to deal with brand and knife. —

Quorinnah, the Raven, on our path,

Invoked the Great Yohewah's* wrath

Upon the Natchez' midnight raid,

And called his bravest to his aid. —

He was a brave and worthy foe,

Worthy to meet Masisqua's blow ;

His step was firm, his heart was strong,

His blow was true, his cry was on !

And foot to foot, and hand to hand

We met, as forth he led his band !

The moon came up to light the strife,

To tell who there should stay with life ;

And as we struggled well and long,

For they on paths of war were strong,

None asked for mercy, none desired

To leave the spot by battle fired ;

None blench 'd where lay the sped and slain,

One heart was there, though many came ;

And ringing axe and fiery gleam,

No terrors threw around the scene.—

The brave had met, and met to dare,

All that might then betide them there ;

And thus we fought, and many fell,

How many, few were left to tell !

The morning's wings swept o'er the plain,

To mark the Raven's homes aflame ;

* The Indian name of God.

His wives were shrinking with affright, His braves were captive to our might ; And wasting were the fires, and red, Around the spot where I had bled, And callous ears my death-song fed !

Five suns again, with captives bound,

Our steps were on our native ground ;

With songs of joy for foes that fell,

Beneath the arms that struck so well ;

And sorrow for our strong ones gone,

Forever from our loved lawn.—

And there the quivering darts of fate,

Pierc'd the bound warriors at the stake ;

And fires that nightly tortures fed,

Appeas'd the spirits of the dead.

But there was one bold life I spared —

Lone Shingawassa stood prepared

In gloomy silence, to await

The captive warrior's common fate ;

His arms deep scarr'd, his forehead seam'd

With wounds, whence life blood slowly stream'd ;

He stood with calm and noble pride,

In sorrow for his stricken tribe. —

I bound his wounds and cheer'd his heart,

Requited, as a chief, the part

He dar'd, when I could only choose

Defiance for my torturing foes. —

The throng had mark'd him as he stood,

The axe was thirsting for his blood ;

But my stern will could ne'er be foil'd,

For I was monarch of the wild. —

I led him to Yohewa's hill

Again, to roam at his own will ;

And light the council of his race,

Upon his once beloved place."

Part II

As starts to life when studious art, Upon the canvass plays her part ; And uncouth pallor, dimly trac'd, The lovely lineaments ungraced ; From day to day grow bright and warm, To beauteous semblances of form ; So warm'd the lineaments of love, Within the Natchez' quiet grove. Unwitting of the vow possess'd By bold Masisqua's stormy breast ; They met in artlessness and truth, The maiden and the pale fac'd youth ; Together turn'd in spring's sweet age, The leaves of life's unsullied page. The prairie green, the clear blue sky, The deer's light step, the wild flower nigh ; And every haunt that peace could share, Witness'd the budding passion there ! They lov'd— yet knew not what wild charm, Thus seem'd their gentle hearts to warm ; As day by day they roam'd beside, The sparkling stream or river wide ; Or sought, with youth's peculiar grace, The forest's winding paths to trace.

With her the streamlet's music bore A sweeter plaint — the river's shore, Was deck'd with brighter sward and flowers, And softer green and lovelier bowers ; For her he climb' d the treacherous steep, Where swiftly came the cataract's leap ; To pluck the laurel's bloom, or dare Some crag that pierced the stormy air ; And welcom'd, where few footsteps press'd, The lichen to its chilling breast ; At morn's first beam woo'd peril's deed, Upon his fierce Camanche steed ;

And with his quick dart struck the blow,

That brought the roaming bison low ;

Fronted the rough bear's prowling step,

And startled, where the wild grape crept

O'er dark ravine, or hidden gulf,

The lone lair of the bristling wolf!

Yet happier tasks he oft essay 'd,

Beneath the bending greenwood's shade ;

Where nature's lone realm claim'd to charm,

Or ask the vigor of his arm ; —

St. Pierre within the circling love

That guards the hearth of home, to move

The infant heart to virtue there,

And bless it with a parent's prayer ;

Was early school'd in christian lore,

And often in his ramblings bore

Some tale or precept, once with pride

Conn'd by his fairer parent's side. —

The maid in wonder bent to hear

The tales he told, and lov'd to share

The kindling passion of his breast,

As slowly o'er the sward they press'd.—

And there he read her glowing rhyme,

The lays of other lands ; Sung of his native, sunny clime,

By ocean's silvery sands.

In rapture of ancestral pride,

And lineage nobly drawn ; He told her how his fathers died,

In battle or in storm.

Then came the winning lay of love,

With still diviner art ; Sweeter than other tones to move,

And thrill the guileless heart !

Where by its banks a streamlet purl'd, And vines in graceful beauty curl'd ; Thus o'er his harp, as evening fell

Upon the lone and dreamy dell ;

And sighing winds the tendrils sway'd,

He breathed his passion to the maid.—

" Oh love hath roamed the desert waste,

And murmur'd in the winds to me ;

And where the forest paths are trac'd,

Speaks to my heart of thee!

Then welcome be her voices now, The shadowy scene, The moon's young beam ; The realm of flowers, the water's flow, And night with fairy sheen.

" Love is the daughter of the night, Her walk is in the twilight vale ; Beneath the stars' diviner light,

She breathes her trembling tale ; I hear her steps amid the flowers, Her voice is thine, Her lay is mine ; And sweetly for the listening hours, She weaves her magic rhyme.

" As bees from fruits we sip the sweets,

Of morning life upon the wing ;

We cannot wait, for time retreats,

And years their sadness bring; Oh let us love while yet we may, For youth can claim, But once to reign ; Like buds that waste upon the way, But never bloom again."

But peaceful passion bloom'd not long, Beneath the witchery of song ; Ere danger on their pathway came, To share in love's serener reign ; And darker purpose rose to shade, The hope in youthful guise array'd. Masisqua heard the trembling sigh, And coldly marked the speaking eye, That told of mutual feeling — How ! Should any but his own race bow, And seek to win the lovely child- Aught, but a warrior of the wild !

ETOILE.

His vow, the Spirit once had heard, A sachem ne'er forgets his word ; Then wo to him who dares aspire, To mate the blood of such a sire ; If of another clime he come, Polluted by successful wrong- Accursed— thrice accursed, be The race that wing'd across the sea ; And grasp'd with many a treacherous art, The land. familiar to his heart ! Thus often did the chief reveal The thoughts that through his breast would steal ; When by the sweeping river's side, He mus'd upon its rushing tide ; And mark'd the ploughshare rive the plain, And heard the songs of toiling men.

His was the indian's common wrong, The theme of plaint and battle song ; As pallid faces throng'd the shore, Whose forest heard no foot before, But of his tribe— not even men Of his own race dare tread his glen, And brave him as the stranger there, Regardless of his strong despair! 11 Whence came they, where shall stay their feet, What power their numbers backward sweep ? And why upon this strange shore press, To claim the uncultur'd wilderness? Has not the Spirit to my race, The forest given ! as face to face He spoke my fathers, o'er whose graves, The battle's proudest memory waves !" Thus was Masisqua's bosom wrought Against St. Pierre— encroachments taught Him hate, where first regard was given- Hate for a might no blow had riven ; Though oft was plann'd the dark surprise, Beneath the midnight's gloomy skies ;— Long had he prized the.noble youth

For his own sake— so much of truth, And manly grace, and prowess, shone In all the indian meeds he won. — Had he come there and stood alone, A stranger, all his race unknown, Unheard of, and their grasping will, St. Pierre had been regarded still ; And all his feats would yet retain, The favor of Masisqua's name ; But the fond youth that came a guest, And in the sports was oft caress'd ; Was the lone scion of a name, That to a ruler's place had claim ; And sway'd the destiny of those, That rank'd the sachem's strongest foes.

There was a feeling deeper still, Govern'd the proud Masisqua's will ; One that must spring in such a soul, And give to hatred firm control ; 'Twas sense of a superior might, In the strange foes that cross'd him— right Might be his, and bravery face Unblench'd, the false, intruding race; But in the conflict they had shown, A skill that could not be o'erthrown ; And triumph'd o'er the feebler art, Of those who owned but strength of heart. O'er his own race his triumphs were A common theme, and he could bear A hundred scalp-locks, fiercely wrung, In the lone combats he had won ; And when he led his chosen band, What war-path could his foe command ! What stern privation could prevail, Whilst hanging on the Osage trail ! None dare dispute the ground he claim'd, Where nature and his daring reign'd ; But the pale man possessed a charm, That foil'd the Natchez' strongest arm ;

Knowledge the woodland warrior spurn'd,

Howe'er to thwart its power he burn'd. —

The stratagem, the silent blow,

Avail'd not 'gainst so wise a foe ;

No bow could match, though boldly strung,

Or axe, the deadly musqueton ;

And nerveless had the spear become,

When gather'd to the signal drum

The soldier in his serried file,

Regardless of an indian wile.

And when the cannon's booming stave,

Signall'd the crushing blow it gave,

It seem'd to an untutored faith,

The thunder of the Spirit's wrath !

Masisqua's warriors fear'd the foes,

That thus in strength superior rose *

And what they fear'd they hated— this,

Elsewhere than in the wilderness,

Is man's philosophy, a guest,

Not strange then in a wilder breast!