The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems | Page 9

lie on the dimpled prairie.?The frost-flowers[47] peep from their winter sleep?Under the snow-drifts cold and deep.?To the April sun and the April showers,?In field and forest, the baby flowers?Lift their blushing faces and dewy eyes;?And wet with the tears of the winter-fairies,?Soon bloom and blossom the emerald prairies,?Like the fabled Garden of Paradise.
The plum-trees, white with their bloom in May,?Their sweet perfume on the vernal breeze?Wide strew like the isles of the tropic seas?Where the paroquet chatters the livelong day.?But the May-days pass and the brave Chaskè [17]?O why does the lover so long delay??Wiwastè waits in the lonely tee.?Has her fair face fled from his memory??For the robin cherups his mate to please,?The blue-bird pipes in the poplar-trees,?The meadow lark warbles his jubilees,?Shrilling his song in the azure seas?Till the welkin throbs to his melodies,?And low is the hum of the humble-bees,?And the Feast of the Virgins is now to be.
THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS
The sun sails high in his azure realms;?Beneath the arch of the breezy elms?The feast is spread by the murmuring river.?With his battle-spear and his bow and quiver,?And eagle-plumes in his ebon hair,?The chief Wakawa himself is there;?And round the feast, in the Sacred Ring,[48]?Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing.?Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tasted?For three long days ere the holy feast;?They sat in their teepee alone and fasted,?Their faces turned to the Sacred East.[21]?In the polished bowls lies the golden maize,?And the flesh of fawn on the polished trays.?For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide--?The blushing pink and the meek blue-bell,?The purple plumes of the prairie's pride,[49]?The wild, uncultured asphodel,?And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet?That the Virgins call "Let-me-not forget,"?In gay festoons and garlands twine?With the cedar sprigs[50] and the wildwood vine.?So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed,?And none but a virgin may enter there;?And clad is each in a scarlet vest,?And a fawn-skin frock to the brown calves bare.?Wild rose-buds peep from their flowing hair,?And a rose half blown on the budding breast;?And bright with the quills of the porcupine?The moccasined feet of the maidens shine.
Hand in hand round the feast they dance,?And sing to the notes of a rude bassoon,?And never a pause or a dissonance?In the merry dance or the merry tune.?Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon,?When she peeps o'er the hills of the dewy east,?Wiwastè sings at the Virgins' Feast;?And bright is the light in her luminous eyes;?They glow like the stars in the winter skies;?And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heart?Their golden blush to her cheeks impart--?Her cheeks half-hid in her midnight hair.?Fair is her form--as the red fawn's fair--?And long is the flow of her raven hair;?It falls to her knees and it streams on the breeze?Like the path of a storm on the swelling seas.
Proud of their rites are the Virgins fair,?For none but a virgin may enter there.?'Tis a custom of old and a sacred thing;?Nor rank nor beauty the warriors spare,?If a tarnished maiden should enter there.?And her that enters the Sacred Ring?With a blot that is known or a secret stain?The warrior who knows is bound to expose,?And lead her forth from the ring again.?And the word of a brave is the fiat of law;?For the Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing.?Aside with the mothers sat Harpstinà;?She durst not enter the Virgins' ring.
Round and round to the merry song?The maidens dance in their gay attire,?While the loud Ho-Ho's of the tawny throng?Their flying feet and their song inspire.?They have finished the song and the sacred dance,?And hand in hand to the feast advance--?To the polished bowls of the golden maize,?And the sweet fawn-meat in the polished trays.
Then up from his seat in the silent crowd?Rose the frowning, fierce-eyed, tall Red Cloud;?Swift was his stride as the panther's spring,?When he leaps on the fawn from his cavern lair;?Wiwastè he caught by her flowing hair,?And dragged her forth from the Sacred Ring.?She turned on the warrior, her eyes flashed fire;?Her proud lips quivered with queenly ire;?And her sun-browned cheeks were aflame with red.?Her hand to the spirits she raised and said:?"I am pure!--I am pure as the falling snow!?Great _Taku-skán-skán_[51] will testify!?And dares the tall coward to say me no?"?But the sullen warrior made no reply.?She turned to the chief with her frantic cries:?"Wakawa,--my Father! he lies,--he lies!?Wiwastè is pure as the fawn unborn;?Lead me back to the feast or Wiwastè dies!"?But the warriors uttered a cry of scorn,?And he turned his face from her pleading eyes.
Then the sullen warrior, the tall Red Cloud,?Looked up and spoke and his voice was loud;?But he held his wrath and he spoke with care:?"Wiwastè is young; she is proud and fair,?But she may not boast of the virgin snows.?The Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing;?How durst she enter the Virgins' ring??The warrior