Started from his bed of branches From the twilight of his wigwam, Forth into the flush of sunset
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin; At his touch he felt new courage Throbbing in his brain and bosom, Felt new life and hope and vigor Run through every nerve and fibre. So they wrestled there together In the glory of the sunset;
And the more they strove and struggled, Stronger still grew Hiawatha.
Round about him spun the landscape, Sky and forest reeled together,
And his strong heart leaped within him, As the sturgeon leaps and struggles In a net to break its meshes; Like a ring of fire around him Blazed and flared the red horizon, And a hundred suns seemed looking At the combat of the wrestlers.
Suddenly upon the greensward All alone stood Hiawatha, Panting with his wild exertion, Palpitating with the struggle; And before him, breathless, lifeless, Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, Plumage torn, and garments tattered, Dead he lay there in the sunset. And victorious Hiawatha Made the grave as he commanded, Stripped the garments from Mondamin, Stripped his tattered plumage from him, Laid him in the earth, and made it Soft and loose and light above him. Homeward then went Hiawatha To the lodge of old Nokomis, And the seven days of his fasting Were accomplished and completed. But the place was not forgotten Where he wrestled with Mondamin; Nor forgotten nor neglected
Was the grave where lay Mondamin, Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, Where his scattered plumes and garments Faded in the rain and sunshine.
Day by day did Hiawatha Go to wait and watch beside it; Kept the dark mould soft above it, Kept it clean from weeds and insects, Drove away with scoffs and shoutings, Kahgahgee, the king of ravens.
Till at length a small green feather From the earth shot slowly upward, Then another and another,
And before the summer ended Stood the maize in all its beauty, With its shining robes about it, And its long soft yellow tresses; And in rapture Hiawatha Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin ! Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin!"
And still later, when the autumn
Changed the long, green leaves to yellow, And the soft and juicy kernels
Grew like wampum hard and yellow, Then the ripened ears he gathered,
Stripped the withered husks from off them, As he once had stripped the wrestler,— Gave the first feast of Mondamin, And made known unto the people This new gift of the Great Spirit.
WHENCE Come those shrieks so wild and shrill,
That cut, like blades of steel, the air,
Causing the creeping blood to chill
With the sharp cadence of despair?
Again they come, as if a heart
Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,
And every string had voice apart
To utter its peculiar woe.
Whence came they? from yon temple, where
An altar, raised for private prayer,
Now forms the warrior's marble bed, Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.
The dim funereal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by.
What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp; It is the hand of her whose cry Ran wildly late upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there.
With pallid lip and stony brow, She murmurs forth her anguish now. But hark! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street! Nearer and nearer yet they come, With clanking arms and noiseless drum. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep ;— The gate is burst! a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain!
The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child; Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, Shouted, with fearful energy,
"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead!
Nor touch the living boy; I stand
Between him and your lawless band!
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,
With Russia's heaviest iron bands,
And drag me to Siberia's wild,
To perish, if 'twill save my child!"
Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side,
And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door.
"One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one ! Will land or gold redeem my son? Take heritage, take name, take all,
But leave him free from Russian thrall! Take these!" and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there. Her cross of blazing rubies, last
Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store;- Up springing from the marble floor The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy! But no! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell with one long cry Of more than mortal agony.
But the brave child is roused at length, And, breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit fierce and bold! Proudly he towers; his flashing eye So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light.
His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks With a full voice of proud command He turns upon the wondering band; "Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can! This hour has made the boy a man. I knelt beside my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child; but now— My noble mother on her knee Has done the work of years for me!"
He drew aside his broidered vest
And there, like slumbering serpents crest,
The jeweled haft of poignard bright
Glittered a moment on the sight.
"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!
Think ye my noble father's glaive
Would drink the life-blood of a slave?
The pearls that on the handle flame Would blush to rubies in their shame, The blade would quiver in thy breast, Ashamed of such ignoble rest.
No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain!" A moment, and the funeral light Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood! Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang :- Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! The choice was death or slavery! Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! His freedom is forever won!
And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss. One last embrace, one blessing-one! To prove thou knowest, approvest, thy son. What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head? What! silent still? Then art thou dead! Great God! I thank thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee-and thus—to die!" One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom,-dead!
Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, abridged.
DISSOLVE THE UNION.
"DISSOLVE the Union!" Who would part The chain that binds us heart to heart? Each link was forged by sainted sires, Amid the Revolution fires;
And cooled-oh! where so rich a flood?— In Warren's and in Sumter's blood.
"Dissolve the Union!" Be like France, When Terror reared her bloody lance, And man became destruction's child, And woman, in her passions wild, Danced in the life-blood of her queen, Before the dreadful guillotine!
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