IV THE RED APOCALYPSE

Great Shields brunting the plain, motionless: The red Warriors peer over them stonily. The lances of Morning are flung aloft! The Plains rise up with a fierce cry—— The Tribes of the Dawn are exultant! Great Shields brunting the plain, purple after the day: The dark Warriors peer over them grimly.

In the time of the First Race, In the time of the Giants, In the time of the Earth-Shapers,—— Their axes were flakes of cliffs, Their mallets were the knobs of mountains, The great rocks roared with the sound of their handiwork,—— He was a Chieftain among them, He was their First Counsellor, He was the Master Builder when they upreared mighty hills and clave the deep valleys.... For the place of his Mummy they hewed the crested Earth, For the sarcophagus of his Mummy they established a Mountain, In the days when his work was completed, he, the First Counsellor! Above the changing clouds they raised him high; They set his face to the eternal blue; His eyes they set to the westering Sun.... What is it that thou dost behold, O Chieftain of the Earth-Shapers? What is it that thou dost look upon within the mirror of the skies? With thy stony eyes, what is it that thou dost see—forever? Men are, and they are not; Tribes are, and they are not; Nations are, and they are not,—— Beyond the cycles of the years, Beyond the portals of time, What is it that thou dost behold, with stony eyes, with unchanging heart? Immutable, thou gazest into the blue—— Maker to Maker! Imperturbable, thou facest the westering Sun—— Chieftain to Chieftain!

Immutable, thou gazest into the blue— Maker to Maker! Imperturbable, thou facest the Westering Sun— Chieftain to Chieftain!

Holy, holy, holy! The high hills, the Great Mystery!... The procession of the mountains is eternal, The great mountains, each in his station abiding.... The crests of the mountains are exalted, In the glories of the heavens they are transfigured! Holy, holy, holy! The high hills, the Great Mystery!... The mountains lift up their heads—— Into the azure they lift them up; Their bodies are swathed in silver light, Their bodies are made luminous with splendors! Holy, holy, holy! They are the Priests of God, They are the Processional of the Great Mystery!... Their deep-toned voices are a singing hymn, Their deep-toned voices are chanting the anthem of God; In the House of Heaven they sing an eternal song!

The Procession of the Mountains is eternal, The great Mountains, each in his station abiding.

The lodge of Olelbis is very great and beautiful: Its pillars are the trunks of acorned oak-trees, upward growing; Its walls are interwoven with all the flowers of the world; In its midst there is a limpid pool Formed from the dews that glide downward from the laden petals—— Who drinks thereof, he lives forever. In the days of the First People Fire was under the wing of the Swift; Thence Flint stole it, And the World was enkindled. From his lodge in the sky Olelbis gazed downwards: The hills were smoking, The tops of the trees were blazing, The rocks were consumed as burning brush And the earth, bursting, flew upward in furious sparks which clung to the vault of the sky,—— The stars that glow by night are the embers of them. Then Olelbis saw that the flames assailed the foundations of the heavens; The pillars of his lodge were shaking, The pillars of his lodge were burning,—— And his voice sounded around the World. The Woman of the Waters was the first to hear: Her hair is like the kelp which the waves spew forth in their tumult; Her hands are like the fins of huge whales; Her feet are like the tail-flukes of huge whales; When she thrashes amid the sea the foam of the billows washes the sky-floor. The Man of the North Wind was the first to hear: His wings are like the wings of enormous bats, They are blacker than night is black; When he blows furiously his cheek feathers move up and down, Sweeping earth and sky. Against mountains of fire arose mountains of water; They fought with one another, They consumed one another; Red smoke hung over all things; Black smoke hung over all things. Then Olelbis, gazing downward, beheld only ashes; There was no earth where the earth had been; There was no sea where the sea had been; There was nought save the dusk of floating ashes. From the walls of the lodge of Olelbis The flowers descended like a many-colored snow; From the Pool of Life The round drops descended in a shining mist: Life was renewed where Life had been.

Then Olelbis saw that the flames assailed the foundations of the heavens; The pillars of his lodge were burning,— And his voice sounded around the world.

The Sick-Man-of-the-North, He lies upon a litter; There are four stars which are four Doctors who carry him; There are three stars which are three Doctors who follow singing; About the Star-which-Never-Moves they circle—— So it has been, So it shall be, while the World lasts. The Spirit-Star-of-the-South, He was not so high in the heavens when Life was created; His station was appointed him, It was lower in the heavens: He steals upward, He steals northward, as the World grows older. The White-Pathway-of-Souls, It is like a bow laid athwart the night; The souls of the departed journey southward over it.... When the Doctors cease their singing, When the Spirit Star has reached a certain height, stealthily, Will not He-of-the-North journey as they have journeyed—— Southward? Then the Star-that-Never-Moves will be seen no more; Then men will be seen no more.

In the Day ere Man came, In the Morning of Life, They came together, The Father, the Mother, Debating. “Forever they shall live, “Our Children, “When they are born Men “Forever they shall live,” Said the Father, Said the Mother. But the little Bird cried, Ah, the little Bird cried: “How shall I nest me—— “How shall I nest me “In their warm graves “If men live forever?”

Death, you have taught me to mother! Death, I will mother well! With red, red blood I will nourish! I will lull with the rifle’s spell!

Looted from the body of an Indian child killed at Wounded Knee. ’Twas complained that Indian women—some were slain—fought with the braves; which, indeed, they did.

A wild mother’s patterned fancy—white beads, green and blue, With here, like heart-stained arrows, scarlet zigzagged through, Thy lining furry rabbit, little shoe! How joyously she wrought thee, the long blue sunny day, On the wind-stroked grass of the prairie, ’neath the willows’ shady sway, Singing the old song mothers sing alway: Chaske, my little Chaske, Chaske my brave to be! Fleet shall he run as the stallion, stand tall as the tall pine tree, As the storm be mighty and valiant—Chaske, my chief to be! Stringing the beads in patterns, zigzag red and blue; Sewing with thread of tendon the furry edges true; Singing the song of mothers the blue day through.

A hill-slope, a desolation; yonder the cordoned crest Of glinting gun and sabre—here, like mole in nest, Trapped in the hill-crest’s hollow, the huntsmen’s quest. A solitude of heaven, high and sunny still Above a breadth of desert—sudden the locust shrill Of bullets, then death, and sudden the war-whoop’s thrill. And here a wild squaw-mother—something dead at the breast, Something live at the shoulder, spitting lead with the best—— Singing a song of wild-heart’s cradle-rest: Death, you have taught me to mother! Death, I will mother well! With red, red blood I will nourish, I will lull with the rifle’s spell! For O you have taught me to suckle and I will suckle them well! Only a wild squaw-mother, bullet-stung at the start, Quiet out there in the desert, something dead nigh the heart. See! her quaint fancy’s beading, zigzag art.

So there he lies, redeemed at last! His knees drawn tense, just as he fell And shrieked out his soul in a battle-yell; One hand with the rifle still clutched fast; One stretched straight out, the fingers clenched In the knotted roots of the sun-bleached grass; His head flung back on the tangled mass Of raven mane, the war-plume wrenched Awry and torn; the painted face Still foe-wards turned, the white teeth bare ’Twixt the livid lips, the wide-eyed glare, The bronze cheek gaped by battle-trace In dying rage rent fresh apart:— A strange expression for one all good!— On his naked breast a splotch of blood Where the lead Evangel cleft his heart. So there he lies at last made whole, Regenerate! Christ rest his soul!