Legends of the Northwest | Page 9

in his laughing eyes; But swift were his feet o'er the drifted snow On the trail of the elk or the buffalo; And his heart was stouter than lance or bow, When he heard the whoop of his enemies. Five feathers he wore of the great Wanmdeè, And each for the scalp of a warrior slain, When down on his camp from the northern plain, With their murder cries rode the bloody Cree. [35] But never the stain of an infant slain, Or the blood of a mother that plead in vain, Soiled the honored plumes of the brave Hóhé. A mountain bear to his enemies, To his friends like the red fawn's dappled form; In peace, like the breeze from the summer seas; In war, like the roar of the mountain storm. His fame in the voice of the winds went forth From his hunting grounds in the happy north, And far as the shores of the Great Medè [36] The nations spoke of the brave Chaskè.
Dark was the visage of grim Red Cloud, Fierce were the eyes of the warrior proud, When the chief to his lodge led the brave Chaskè, And Wiwastè smiled on the tall Hóhé. Away he strode with a sullen frown, And alone in his teepee he sat him down. From the gladsome greeting of braves he stole, And wrapped himself in his gloomy soul. But the eagle eyes of the Harpstinà The clouded face of the warrior saw. Softly she spoke to the sullen brave: "Mah-pí-ya Dúta,--his face is sad. And why is the warrior so glum and grave? For the fair Wiwastè is gay and glad. She will sit in the teepee the live-long day, And laugh with her lover--the brave Hóhé. Does the tall Red Cloud for the false one sigh? There are fairer maidens than she, and proud Were their hearts to be loved by the brave Red Cloud. And trust not the chief with the smiling eyes; His tongue is swift, but his words are lies; And the proud Mah-pí-ya will surely find That Wakawa's promise is hollow wind. Last night I stood by his lodge, and lo I heard the voice of the Little Crow; But the fox is sly and his words were low. But I heard her answer her father--"Never! I will stain your knife in my heart's red blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river, Ere I will be wife to the fierce Red Cloud!" Then he spake again, and his voice was low, But I heard the answer of Little Crow: "Let it be as you will, for Wakawa's tongue Has spoken no promise,--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong."
Mah-pí-ya Dúta, they scorn your love, But the false chief covets the warrior's gifts. False to his promise the fox will prove, And fickle as snow in Wo-ka-da-weè, [37] That slips into brooks when the gray cloud lifts, Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts. Mah-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me There are fairer birds in the bush than she, And the fairest would gladly be Red Cloud's wife. Will the warrior sit like a girl bereft, When fairer and truer than she are left That love Red Cloud as they love their life? Mah-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me I love him well,--I have loved him long: A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong, And a lovelorn brave is a scorn to see.
Mah-pí-ya Dúta, O listen to me! Revenge is swift and revenge is strong, And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree. The proud Red Cloud will revenge his wrong Let the brave be patient, it is not long Till the leaves be green on the maple tree, And the Feast of the Virgins is then to be;-- The Feast of the Virgins is then to be!"
Proudly she turned from the silent brave, And went her way; but the warrior's eyes-- They flashed with the flame of a sudden fire, Like the lights that gleam in the Sacred Cave, [38] When the black night covers the autumn skies, And the stars from their welkin watch retire.
Three nights he tarried--the brave Chaskè; Winged were the hours and they flitted away; On the wings of Wakandee [39] they silently flew, For Wiwastè had found her a way to woo. Ah, little he cared for the bison-chase; For the red lilies bloomed on the fair maid's face; Ah, little he cared for the winds that blew, For Wiwastè had found her a way to woo. Brown-bosomed she sat on her fox-robe dark, Her ear to the tales of the brave inclined, Or tripped from the tee like the song of a lark, And gathered her hair from the wanton wind. Ah,