WINTEMOYEH.
Reading edition
A LEGEND OF MACKINAW.
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BY GEORGE H. COLTON.
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The incident related in the following lines is recorded of a young British officer, commanding at Fort Mackinaw, soon after the French war. His name was Robinson; and the cliff, from which the enraged Indian sprung with his daughter, rising to three hundred feet above the water, is called, to this day, Robinson’s Folly. They had been married about two weeks when the tragical event took place.
How glorious, gleaming o’er the wave,
Whereon the evening sun is shining,
With woods, and bannered fortress brave,
And chalky cliff, and scallop cave,
And vines o’er gray old rocks entwining,
Proud Mackinaw uplifts her form,
Unchanged by years of sun and storm!
Borne from afar, around her feet
The purple waters murmuring meet;
In milder beauty’s dimpling smiles
Rise, near, her deep-born sister isles,
And, winding wild, with forests green,
Low banks, and lonely coves unseen,
Stretch wide away, on either hand,
Shores fair as an enchanted land.
Ah, me! there is no spot of earth,
Though brightest with the smile of God,
Where’er the human heart hath birth,
Or human foot hath trod,
That doth no deed of terror know,
Or thought of unrecorded wo!
Nor ever hath the evening sun
Looked forth the rounded world upon,
And witnessed in no lovely place
Some scene of sin or dark distress!
Of all the sons of Tarke[3] none
In battle braver deeds had done,
Or mightier in the council sat
Where chieftains joined the deep debate,
Than proud Peechiki. He had trod
With Pontiac on the path of blood;
With Pontiac had at every chance
Still struggled for the love of France;
With Pontiac in the battle’s crash
Hewed down the hated Sagaunash;[4]
And when his last the Ottowa breathed,
To stern Peechiki was bequeathed
A hidden hatred—such as burns
Where Ætna’s heart to ashes turns.
But suddenly a terror came,
A swift disease of fearful name.
All whom he loved, or could have wept,
One hour beheld to darkness swept—
All but his youngest, fairest child,
On which the mother dying smiled,
Sweet Wintemoyeh, sweetest flower,
Lone lingerer in his rifled bower,
The loveliest far of Tarke’s daughters
Beside St. Mary’s rushing waters.
And now beyond their empty home
No more the mourning sire would roam,
But all his moody hours employ
In hovering near his only joy.
So sweet to gaze upon her face,
Why should his foot the wild deer trace?
So light her step green leaves among,
Why should he seek the warrior throng?
Or where could tones so soft and clear
Make music to his aged ear?
Oh! thus to love can only be
Refined, absorbing misery!
But cloudy years were gathering fast,
And ere they should their shadows cast
Upon his grave, the sole, fair flower
He would might grace some chieftain’s bower.
And when, to woo her for his bride,
The Children-of-the-Reindeer’s pride,
Great Assiboin, his love gifts bore:
From far Superior’s farthest shore,
The father gave her youthful age,
With joy, to be his heritage.
For who like him could hunt the roe?
Who track so fast a flying foe?
Whose feet by lake and lonely glen
So oft had led his dauntless men
From Mississippi’s haunted cave
To Saskatchawan’s gloomy wave?
Beloved by one so brave as he
How happy would her portion be!
In truth, he was a warrior bold,
But wedded, ugly, fierce and old,
To maiden’s heart a terror, were
No brighter image worshiped there:
And ah! the maid had chanced to see
A face that lived in memory!
The wild flowers of the early spring
Her gentle hands were gathering,
When lo! before her gazing stood
A pale-face in the leafy wood.
And as she looked upon him there,
So young, so proud, so nobly fair,
A thrill of strange emotion stole
In tremblings through her timid soul.
Yet turned she not—and then he took
His seat beside her, where the brook
Ran rippling o’er its pebbly bed;
And soft and earnest things he said
With broken words and many a sign
That only Love could e’er divine.
He was a white man—hated race!
But ah! what looks, what winning grace!
And who such gentle words could say?
Her simple heart was stol’n away!
The hideous bridegroom comes at last—
The feast is gorged—the night is past—
At morn behold the father lie
In writhing, wildered agony!
He hastes the nuptials that his eyes
May see her blest before he dies:
Alas! her father’s couch of pain!
But how with such a spouse remain?
Poor girl! how sad the lot that laid
Such choice upon a guileless maid!
She trembles—flees—that gentle being—
Her lover clasps her—trembling—fleeing.
An April day was hers—so brief,
With tears and sunshine, joy and grief.
Upon the island’s lofty verge,
That overhangs the chiding surge,
Within a sylvan bower, arrayed
Of cedars green and woven shade,
In festive mirth with comrades boon,
The lover sat, from radiant noon
Till shadowy eve: and by him smiled
Fair Wintemoyeh, now beguiled
Of thought by melting music wild;
Love keeping watch in her dark eye,
How fast the speaking moments fly!
Now sank the sun, but lingering gave
Last looks of love each rising wave,
That wooed his smile—when suddenly
A rifle rang, and, bounding high
In baffled rage, as, with a yell,
By death-bolt at the lover sped,
Another than his victim fell,
The father, minister of dread,
Whom wrath had rescued from the dead,
Dashed through the revel—seized his child—
Yelled in her frighted ear “defiled!”
At one stride bore her to the ledge,
Then, turning darkly on the edge,
His clenched hand shook. The lover sprung
To save his love. With whoop and whirl,
Far from the cliff exulting flung,
The savage bore the wretched girl;
And as to every gazing eye
They gleamed, like meteor hurled from high,
Wild rose through mid air to the sky
His cry of triumph, hers of terror:
Down, down, careering, headlong borne,
Dashed on the rocks, disjointed, torn,
The chieftain found his vengeance sworn,
The maid atoned her first, last error.
The waves, the broken rocks that lave,
Received them to a restless grave,
Whose mangled forms, unclasping never,
Move with the moving tide forever.