Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3 | Page 7

those doves to thy cage; But see no more, by day or night, The Maqua warrior's daughter." And haughtily he turn'd away.
Night was abroad on the earth; Mists were over the face of the moon, And the stars were like the sparkling flies That twinkle in the prairie glades, In my brother's month of June: And hideous forms had risen; The spirits of the swamp Had come from their caverns dark and deep, Where the slimy currents flow, With the serpent and wolf to romp, And to whisper in the sleeper's ear Of death and danger near.
Then to the margin of the lake A beauteous maiden came; Tall she was as a youthful fir, Upon the river's bank; Her step was the step of the antelope; Her eye was the eye of the doe; Her hair was black as a coal-black horse; Her hand was plump and small; Her foot was slender and small; And her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song. Beautiful lips had she, Ripe red lips, Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips, When its head is bow'd by dew.
She stood beneath the shade Of the dark and lofty trees, That threw their image on the lake, And waited long in silence there. "Why comes he not, my Annawan, My lover, brave and true? He knows his maiden waits for him Beneath the shade of the yew, To paddle the lake in her White Canoe." But Annawan came not: "He has miss'd me sure," the maiden said, "And skims the lake alone; Dark though it be, and the winds are high, I'll seek my warrior there." Then lightly to her white canoe The fair Pequida sprung, And is gone from the shore alone.
Loud blew the mighty winds, The clouds were dense and black, Thunders rolled among the hills, Lightnings flash'd through the shades; The spirits cried aloud Their melancholy cries, Cries which assail the listening ear When danger and death are near: Who is he that stands on the shore, Uttering sounds of grief? 'Tis Annawan, the favour'd youth, Detain'd so long lest envious eyes Should know wherefore at midnight hour He seeks the lake alone. He finds the maiden gone, And anguish fills his soul, And yet, perchance in childish sport, She hides among the groves. Loudly he calls, "My maiden fair, Thy Annawan is here! Where art thou, maid with the coal-black hair? What does thy bosom fear? If thou hast hid in playful mood In the shade of the pine, or the cypress wood, If the little heart that so gently heaves Is lightly pressing a bed of leaves; Tell me, maiden, by thy voice Bid thy lover's heart rejoice; Ope on him thy starry eyes; Let him clasp thee in his arms, Press thy ripe, red lips to his. Come, my fair Pequida, come!"
No answer meets the warrior's ears, But glimmering o'er the lake appears A solitary, twinkling light-- It seems a fire-fly lamp; It moves, with motion quick and strange, Over the broad lake's breast. The lover sprung to his light canoe, And swiftly followed the meteor spark, But the winds were high, and the clouds were dark, He could not find the maid, Nor near the glittering lamp.
He went to his father's lodge, And laid him on the earth, Calmly laid him down. Words he spoke to none, Looks bestow'd on none. They brought him food--he would not eat-- They brought him drink--he would not drink-- They brought him a spear and a bow, And a club, and an arrowy sheaf, And shouted the cry of war, And prais'd him, and nam'd him a Chief, And told how the treacherous Nanticokes Had slain three Braves of the Roanokes; That a man of the tribe who never ran Had vow'd to war on the Red Oak's son-- But he show'd no signs of wrath; His thoughts were abroad in another path.
Sudden he sprung to his feet, Like an arrow impell'd by a vigorous arm. "You have dug her grave," said he, "In a spot too cold and damp, All too cold and damp, For a soul so warm and true. Where, think ye, her soul has gone? Gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where all night long by a fire-fly lamp She paddles her White Canoe. And thither I will go!" And with that he took his quiver and bow, And bade them all adieu.
And the youth returned no more; And the maiden returned no more; Alive none saw them more; But oft their spirits are seen By him who sleeps in that swamp. When the night's dim lamps are veil'd, And the Hunter's Star is hid, And the moon has shut her lid, And the she-wolf stirs the