Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3 | Page 6

forms as a meteor light, And will note a white canoe, Paddled along by two, And will bear the words of a tender song, Stealing like a spring-wind along; Tell me, my daughter, if either be you?"
Then down the daughter's cheek Ran drops like the summer rain, And thus she spoke: "Father, I love the valiant Annawan; Too long have we roam'd o'er the rocky dell, And through the woody hollow, And by the river brink, And o'er the winter snows, To tear him from my heart: Too long have we sat by the summer rill, To watch the buck as he came to drink, And to see the beaver wallow, To live from him apart-- My father hears."
"Thou lov'st the son of my foe, And know'st thou not the wrongs That foe hath heap'd on me? The nation made him chief-- Why made they him a chief? Had his deeds equall'd mine? Three were the scalps on his pole, In my smoke were nine: I had fought with a Cherokee; I had struck a warrior's blow, Where the waves of Ontario roll; I had borne my lance where he dare not go; I had look'd on a stunted pine, In the realms of endless frost, And the path of the Knisteneau, And the Abenaki crost; While the Red Oak planted his land, It was mine to lead the band. Since then we never spoke, Unless to utter reproach, And bandy bitter words; We meet as two hungry eagles meet, When a badger lies dead at their feet-- Each would use a spear on his foe, Each an arrow would put to his bow, And bid its goal be his foeman's breast, But the warriors interpose, And delay the vengeance I owe. Thou hear'st my words--'t is well.
"Then listen to my words-- The soul of a Maqua never cools; His ire can never be assuag'd, But with the smell of gore I thirst for the Red Oak's blood; I live but for revenge; Thou shalt not wed his son; Choose thee a mate elsewhere, And see that ye roam no more By night o'er the rocky dell, And through the woody hollow, But when the sun its eye-lids closes, See that thine own the example follow."
And the father of the youth Spake thus unto his son: "A bird has whispered in my ear, That when the stars have gone to rest, And the moon her eye-lids hath clos'd, Who walk beside the lake Will see glide past their troubled view Two forms as a meteor light, And will note a white canoe Paddled along by two, And will hear the words of a tender song. Stealing like a spring wind along. Tell me, my son, if either be you?"
Then answer'd the valiant son, "Mine is a warrior's soul, And mine is an arm of strength; I scorn to tell a lie; The bird has told thee true. And, father, hear my words: I now have come to man's estate; Who can bend the sprout of the oak, Of which my bow is made? Who can poise my choice of spears, To me but a slender reed? I fain would build myself a lodge, And take to that lodge a wife: And, father, hear thy son-- I love the Red Oak's daughter."
"Thou lov'st the daughter of my foe; And know'st thou not the taunts His tongue hath heap'd on me: The nation made me chief, And thence his ire arose; Thence came foul wrongs and blows, And neither yet aveng'd. He boasted that his fame exceeded mine: Three, he said, were the scalps on my pole, While in his lodge were nine-- He did not tell how many I struck, Nor spoke of my constancy, When the Nansemonds tore my flesh, With burning pincers tore; And he said he had fought with a Cherokee, And had struck a warrior's blow, Where the waves of Ontario roll, And had borne his lance where I dare not go, And had look'd on a stunted pine, In the realms of endless frost; And the path of the Knisteneau And the Abenaki crost: While--bitter taunt!--cruel taunt! And for it I'll drink his blood, And eat him broil'd in fire-- The Red Oak planted his land, It was his to lead the band.
"And listen further to my words-- My wrath can never be assuag'd; Thou shalt not wed his daughter, Choose thee a wife elsewhere; Choose thee one any where, Save in the Maqua's lodge. The Nansemonds have maidens fair, With bright black eyes, and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills; The Chippewa girls of the frosty north Have feet like the nimble antelopes' That bound on their native hills; And their voice is like the dove's in spring-- Take one of