Winona's Warning.

'Twas sunrise; the spirits of mist
trailed their white robes on dewy savannas,
And the flowers raised their heads to be kissed
by the first golden beams of the morning.
The breeze was abroad with the breath
of the rose of the Isles of the Summer,
And the humming-bird hummed on the heath
from his home in the land of the rainbow.[AI]
'Twas the morn of departure. DuLuth
stood alone by the roar of the Ha-ha;
Tall and fair in the strength of his youth
stood the blue-eyed and fair-bearded Frenchman.
A rustle of robes on the grass broke his dream
as he mused by the waters,
And, turning, he looked on the face of Winona,
wild-rose of the prairies,
Half hid in her dark, flowing hair,
like the round, golden moon in the pine-tops.
Admiring he gazed she was fair
as his own blooming Flore in her orchards,
With her golden locks loose on the air,
like the gleam of the sun through the olives,
Far away on the vine-covered shore,
in the sun-favored land of his fathers.
"Lists the chief to the cataract's roar
for the mournful lament of the Spirit?"[AJ]
Said Winona, "The wail of the sprite
for her babe and its father unfaithful,
Is heard in the midst of the night,
when the moon wanders dim in the heavens."

"Wild-Rose of the Prairies," he said,
"DuLuth listens not to the Ha-ha,
For the wail of the ghost of the dead
for her babe and its father unfaithful;
But he lists to a voice in his heart
that is heard by the ear of no other,
And to-day will the White Chief depart;
he returns to the land of the sunrise."
"Let Winona depart with the chief,
she will kindle the fire in his teepee;
For long are the days of her grief,
if she stay in the tee of Ta-té-psin,"
She replied, and her cheeks were aflame
with the bloom of the wild prairie lilies.
"Tanke[AK], is the White Chief to blame?"
said DuLuth to the blushing Winona.
"The White Chief is blameless," she said,
"but the heart of Winona will follow
Wherever thy footsteps may lead,
O blue-eyed, brave Chief of the white men.
For her mother sleeps long in the mound,
and a step-mother rules in the teepee,
And her father, once strong and renowned,
is bent with the weight of his winters.
No longer he handles the spear,
no longer his swift, humming arrows
Overtake the fleet feet of the deer,
or the bear of the woods, or the bison;
But he bends as he walks, and the wind
shakes his white hair and hinders his footsteps;
And soon will he leave me behind,
without brother or sister or kindred.
The doe scents the wolf in the wind,
and a wolf walks the path of Winona.
Three times have the gifts for the bride[55]
to the lodge of Ta-té-psin been carried,
But the voice of Winona replied
that she liked not the haughty Tamdóka.
And thrice were the gifts sent away,
but the tongue of the mother protested,
And the were-wolf[52] still follows his prey,
and abides but the death of my father."

"I pity Winona," he said,
"but my path is a pathway of danger,
And long is the trail for the maid
to the far-away land of the sunrise;
And few are the braves of my band,
and the braves of Tamdóka are many;
But soon I return to the land,
and a cloud of my hunters will follow.
When the cold winds of winter return
and toss the white robes of the prairies,
The fire of the White Chief will burn
in his lodge at the Meeting-of-Waters;[AL]
And when from the Sunrise again
comes the chief of the sons of the Morning,
Many moons will his hunters remain
in the land of the friendly Dakotas.
The son of Chief Wází-Kuté guides
the White Chief afar on his journey;
Nor long on the Tânka Medé[AM]
on the breast of the blue, bounding billows
Shall the bark of the Frenchman delay,
but his pathway shall kindle behind him."

She was pale, and her hurried voice
swelled with alarm as she questioned replying
"Tamdóka thy guide? I beheld
thy death in his face at the races.
He covers his heart with a smile,
but revenge never sleeps in his bosom;
His tongue it is soft to beguile;
but beware of the pur of the panther!
For death, like a shadow, will walk
by thy side in the midst of the forest,
Or follow thy path like a hawk
on the trail of a wounded Mastínca.[AN]
A son of Unktéhee is he,
the Chief of the crafty magicians;
They have plotted thy death;
I can see thy trail it is red in the forest;
Beware of Tamdóka, beware.
Slumber not like the grouse of the woodlands,
With head under wing, for the glare
of the eyes that sleep not are upon thee."

"Winona, fear not," said DuLuth,
"for I carry the fire of Wakínyan[AO]
And strong is the arm of my youth,
and stout are the hearts of my warriors;
But Winona has spoken the truth,
and the heart of the White Chief is thankful.
Hide this in thy bosom, dear maid,
'tis the crucified Christ of the white men.[AP]
Lift thy voice to his spirit in need,
and his spirit will hear thee and answer;
For often he comes to my aid;
he is stronger than all the Dakotas;
And the Spirits of evil, afraid,
hide away when he looks from the heavens."
In her swelling, brown bosom she hid
the crucified Jesus in silver;
"Niwástè,"[AQ] she sadly replied;
in her low voice the rising tears trembled;
Her dewy eyes turned she aside,
and she slowly returned to the teepees.
But still on the swift river's strand,
admiring the graceful Winona,
As she gathered, with brown, dimpled hand,
her hair from the wind, stood the Frenchman.

Hanford Lennox Gordon

Hanford Lennox Gordon

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Hanford Lennox Gordon

English

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Winona And Ta-Te-Psin.

'Tis the moon of the sere, falling leaves.
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Hanford Lennox Gordon

Death Of Winona.

Down the broad Ha-Ha Wák-pa[BS]
the band took their way to the Games at Keóza[8]
While the swift-footed hunters by land
ran the shores for the elk and the bison.
Like magás[BT] ride the birchen canoes
on the breast of the dark, winding river,
By the willow-fringed island they cruise,
by the grassy hills green to their summits;
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that darken the deep with their shadows;
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Hanford Lennox Gordon

The Legend

Tall was young Wanâta, stronger than Heyóka's [16] giant form,
Laughed at flood and fire and hunger, faced the fiercest winter storm.
When Wakinyan [32] flashed and thundered, when Unktéhee raved and roared,
All but brave Wanâta wondered, and the gods with fear implored.
When the war-whoop shrill resounded, calling friends to meet the foe,
From the teepee swift he bounded, armed with polished lance and bow.
In the battle's din and clangor fast his fatal arrows flew,
Flashed his fiery eyes with anger, many a stealthy foe he slew.
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Hanford Lennox Gordon

Famine.

Wazíya came down from the North
from the land of perpetual winter.
From his frost-covered beard issued forth the sharp-biting,
shrill-whistling North-wind;
At the touch of his breath
the wide earth turned to stone, and the lakes and the rivers:
From his nostrils the white vapors rose,
and they covered the sky like a blanket.
Like the down of Magá[BJ] fell the snows,
tossed and whirled into heaps by the North-wind.
Then the blinding storms roared on the plains,
like the simoons on sandy Sahara;
From the fangs of the fierce hurricanes
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Ever colder and colder it grew,
till the frozen ground cracked and split open;
And harder and harder it blew,
till the hillocks were bare as the boulders.
...

Hanford Lennox Gordon

Death Of Ta-Te-Psin.

The long winter wanes. On the wings
of the spring come the geese and the mallards;
On the bare oak the red-robin sings,
and the crocus peeps up on the prairies,
And the bobolink pipes, but he brings
of the blue-eyed, brave White Chief no tidings.
With the waning of winter, alas,
waned the life of the aged Ta-té-psin;
Ere the wild pansies peeped from the grass,
to the Land of the Spirits he journeyed;
Like a babe in its slumber he passed,
or the snow from the hill-tops of April;
And the dark-eyed Winona, at last,
stood alone by the graves of her kindred.
When their myriad mouths opened the trees
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And the April showers fell on the leas,
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Round her drooping form gathered ...

Hanford Lennox Gordon

In Camp.

With sable wings wide o'er the land
night sprinkles the dew of the heavens;
And hard by the dark river's strand,
in the midst of a tall, somber forest,
Two camp fires are lighted and beam
on the trunks and the arms of the pine trees.
In the fitful light darkle and gleam
the swarthy-hued faces around them.
And one is the camp of DuLuth,
and the other the camp of Tamdóka.
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While moody and silent the braves
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And low is the whisper of leaves
and the sough of the wind in the branches;
And low is the long-winding howl
of the lone wolf afar in the forest;
But shrill is the hoot of the owl,
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And t...

Hanford Lennox Gordon