Flint and Feather | Page 7

one word "Pauline." There she lies among ferns and wild flowers a short distance from Siwash Rock, the story of which she has recorded in the legends of her race. In time to come a pathway to her grave will be worn by lovers of Canadian poetry who will regard it as one of the most romantic of our literary shrines.
THE WHITE WAMPUM
(The following poems are from the author's first book, "The White Wampum," first published in 1895.)
OJISTOH
I am Ojistoh, I am she, the wife?Of him whose name breathes bravery and life?And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.?I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he?Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me.
Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves,?Him who had flung their warriors into graves,?Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,?Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steel?To all--save me, Ojistoh, chosen wife?Of my great Mohawk, white star of his life.
Ah! but they hated him, and councilled long?With subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong;?How to avenge their dead, and strike him where?His pride was highest, and his fame most fair.?Their hearts grew weak as women at his name:?They dared no war-path since my Mohawk came?With ashen bow, and flinten arrow-head?To pierce their craven bodies; but their dead?Must be avenged. Avenged? They dared not walk?In day and meet his deadly tomahawk;?They dared not face his fearless scalping knife;?So--Niyoh![1]--then they thought of me, his wife.
O! evil, evil face of them they sent?With evil Huron speech: "Would I consent?To take of wealth? be queen of all their tribe??Have wampum ermine?" Back I flung the bribe?Into their teeth, and said, "While I have life?Know this--Ojistoh is the Mohawk's wife."
Wah! how we struggled! But their arms were strong.?They flung me on their pony's back, with thong?Round ankle, wrist, and shoulder. Then upleapt?The one I hated most: his eye he swept?Over my misery, and sneering said,?"Thus, fair Ojistoh, we avenge our dead."
And we two rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,?I, bound with buckskin to his hated waist,?He, sneering, laughing, jeering, while he lashed?The horse to foam, as on and on we dashed.?Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail,?On, on we galloped like a northern gale.?At last, his distant Huron fires aflame?We saw, and nearer, nearer still we came.
I, bound behind him in the captive's place,?Scarcely could see the outline of his face.?I smiled, and laid my cheek against his back:?"Loose thou my hands," I said. "This pace let slack.?Forget we now that thou and I are foes.?I like thee well, and wish to clasp thee close;?I like the courage of thine eye and brow;?I like thee better than my Mohawk now."
He cut the cords; we ceased our maddened haste?I wound my arms about his tawny waist;?My hand crept up the buckskin of his belt;?His knife hilt in my burning palm I felt;?One hand caressed his cheek, the other drew?The weapon softly--"I love you, love you,"?I whispered, "love you as my life."?And--buried in his back his scalping knife.
Ha! how I rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,?Mad with sudden freedom, mad with haste,?Back to my Mohawk and my home. I lashed?That horse to foam, as on and on I dashed.?Plunging thro' creek and river, bush and trail,?On, on I galloped like a northern gale.?And then my distant Mohawk's fires aflame?I saw, as nearer, nearer still I came,?My hands all wet, stained with a life's red dye,?But pure my soul, pure as those stars on high--?"My Mohawk's pure white star, Ojistoh, still am I."
[1] God, in the Mohawk language.
AS RED MEN DIE
Captive! Is there a hell to him like this??A taunt more galling than the Huron's hiss??He--proud and scornful, he--who laughed at law,?He--scion of the deadly Iroquois,?He--the bloodthirsty, he--the Mohawk chief,?He--who despises pain and sneers at grief,?Here in the hated Huron's vicious clutch,?That even captive he disdains to touch!
Captive! But never conquered; Mohawk brave?Stoops not to be to any man a slave;?Least, to the puny tribe his soul abhors,?The tribe whose wigwams sprinkle Simcoe's shores.?With scowling brow he stands and courage high,?Watching with haughty and defiant eye?His captors, as they council o'er his fate,?Or strive his boldness to intimidate.?Then fling they unto him the choice;
"Wilt thou?Walk o'er the bed of fire that waits thee now--?Walk with uncovered feet upon the coals,?Until thou reach the ghostly Land of Souls,?And, with thy Mohawk death-song please our ear??Or wilt thou with the women rest thee here?"?His eyes flash like an eagle's, and his hands?Clench at the insult. Like a god he stands.?"Prepare the fire!" he scornfully demands.
He knoweth not that this same jeering band?Will bite the dust--will lick the Mohawk's hand;?Will kneel and cower at the Mohawk's feet;?Will shrink when Mohawk war drums wildly beat.
His death will be avenged with hideous hate?By Iroquois, swift to annihilate?His vile detested captors, that now flaunt?Their war clubs