Part 2 — THE SEA-GULL.[1] (continued 3)

I saw a light on yester-night— A low light on the misty lea; The stars were dim and silence grim Sat brooding on the sullen sea. From out the silence came a voice— A voice that thrilled me through and through, And said, "Alas, is this your choice? For he is false and I was true." And in my ears the passing years Will sadly whisper words of rue: Forget—and yet—can I forget That one was false and one was true?

Change is the order of the universe. Worlds wax and wane; suns die and stars are born. Two atoms of cosmic dust unite, cohere— And lo the building of a world begun. On all things—high or low, or great or small— Earth, ocean, mountain, mammoth, midge and man, On mind and matter—lo perpetual change— God's fiat—stamped! The very bones of man Change as he grows from infancy to age. His loves, his hates, his tastes, his fancies, change. His blood and brawn demand a change of food; His mind as well: the sweetest harp of heaven Were hateful if it played the selfsame tune Forever, and the fairest flower that gems The garden, if it bloomed throughout the year, Would blush unsought. The most delicious fruits Pall on our palate if we taste too oft, And Hyblan honey turns to bitter gall. Perpetual winter is a reign of gloom; Perpetual summer hardly pleases more. Behold the Esquimau—the Hottentot: This doomed to regions of perpetual ice, And that to constant summer's heat and glow: Inferior both, both gloomy and unblessed. The home of happiness and plenty lies Where autumn follows summer and the breath Of spring melts into rills the winter's snows. How gladly, after summer's blazing suns, We hail the autumn frosts and autumn fruits: How blithesome seems the fall of feathery snow When winter comes with merry clang of bells: And after winter's reign of ice and storm How glad we hail the robins of the spring. For God hath planted in the hearts of men The love of change, and sown the seeds of change In earth and air and sea and shoreless space. Day follows night and night the dying day, And every day—and every hour—is change; From when on dewy hills the rising dawn Sprinkles her mists of silver in the east, Till in the west the golden dust up-wheels Behind the chariot of the setting sun; From when above the hills the evening star Sparkles a diamond 'mong the grains of gold, Until her last faint flicker on the sea. The voices of the hoar and hurrying years Cry from the silence—"Change!—perpetual Change!" Man's heart responding throbs—"Perpetual Change," And grinds like a mill-stone: wanting grists of change It grinds and grinds upon its troubled self. Behold the flowers that spring and bloom and fade. Behold the blooming maid: the song of larks Is in her warbling throat; the blue of heaven Is in her eyes; her loosened tresses fall A shower of gold on shoulders tinged with rose; Her form a seraph's and her gladsome face A benediction. Lo beneath her feet The loving crocus bursts in sudden bloom. Fawn-eyed and full of gentleness she moves— A sunbeam on the lawn. The hearts of men Follow her footsteps. He whose sinewy arms Might burst through bars of steel like bands of straw, Caught in the net of her unloosened hair, A helpless prisoner lies and loves his chains. Blow, ye soft winds, from sandal-shaded isle, And bring the mogra's breath and orange-bloom. Fly, fleet-winged doves, to Ponce de Leon's spring, And in your bills bring her the pearls of youth; For lo the fingers of relentless Time Weave threads of silver in among the gold, And seam her face with pain and carking care, Till, bent and bowed, the shriveled hands of Death Reach from the welcome grave and draw her in.

Hark, the storm is raging high; Beat the breakers on the coast, And the wintry waters cry Like the wailing of a ghost. On the rugged coast of Maine Stands the frugal farmer's cot: What if drive the sleet and rain? John and Hannah heed it not. On the hills the mad winds roar, And the tall pines toss and groan; Round the headland—down the shore— Stormy spirits shriek and moan. Inky darkness wraps the sky; Not a glimpse of moon or star; And the stormy-petrels cry Out along the harbor-bar. Seated by their blazing hearth— John and Hannah—snug and warm— What if darkness wrap the earth? Drive the sleet and howl the storm! Let the stormy-petrels fly! Let the moaning breakers beat! Hark! I hear an infant cry And the patter of baby-feet: And Hannah listened as she spoke, But only heard the driving rain, As on the cottage-roof it broke And pattered on the window-pane. And she sat knitting by the fire While pussy frolicked at her feet; And ever roared the tempest higher, And ever harder the hailstones beat. "Hark! the cry—it comes again!" "Nay, it is the winds that wail, And the patter on the pane Of the driving sleet and hail" Replied the farmer as he piled The crackling hemlock on the coals, And lit his corn-cob pipe and smiled The smile of sweet contented souls. Aye, let the storm rave o'er the earth; Their kine are snug in barn and byre; The apples sputter on the hearth, The cider simmers on the fire. But once again at midnight high, She heard in dreams, through wind and sleet, An infant moan, an infant cry, And the patter of baby-feet. Half-waking from her dreams she turned And heard the driving wind and rain; Still on the hearth the fagots burned, And hail beat on the window-pane. John rose as wont, at dawn of day; The earth was white with frozen sleet; And lo his faithful Fido lay Dead on the door-stone at his feet.

The day of truth is dawning. I behold O'er darksome hills the trailing robes of gold And silent footsteps of the gladsome dawn. The morning breaks by sages long foretold; Truth comes to set upon the world her throne. Men lift their foreheads to the rising sun, And lo the reign of Reason is begun. Fantastic phantasms fly before the light— Pale, gibbering ghosts and ghouls and goblin fears: Man who hath walked in sleep—what thousands years? Groping among the shadows of the night, Moon-struck and in a weird somnambulism, Mumbling some cunning cant or catechism, Thrilled by the electric magic of the skies— Sun-touched by Truth—awakes and rubs his eyes. Old Superstition, mother of cruel creeds, O'er all the earth hath sown her dragon-teeth. Lo centuries on centuries the seeds Grew rank, and from them all the haggard breeds Of Hate and Fear and Hell and cruel Death. And still her sunken eyes glare on mankind; Her livid lips grin horrible; her hands, Shriveled to bone and sinew, clutch all lands And with blind fear lead on or drive the blind. Ah ignorance and fear go hand in hand, Twin-born, and broadcast scatter hate and thorns, They people earth with ghosts and hell with horns, And sear the eyes of truth with burning brand. Behold, the serried ranks of Truth advance, And stubborn Science shakes her shining lance Full in the face of stolid Ignorance. But Superstition is a monster still— An Hydra we may scotch but hardly kill; For if with sword of Truth we lop a head, How soon another groweth in its stead! All men are slaves. Yea, some are slave to wine And some to women, some to shining gold, But all to habit and to customs old. Around our stunted souls old tenets twine And it is hard to straighten in the oak The crook that in the sapling had its start: The callous neck is glad to wear the yoke; Nor reason rules the head, but aye the heart: The head is weak, the throbbing heart is strong; But where the heart is right the head is not far wrong. Men have been learning error age on age, And superstition is their heritage Bequeathed from age to age and sire to son Since the dim history of the world begun. Trust paves the way for treachery to tread; Under the cloak of virtue vices creep; Fools chew the chaff while cunning eats the bread, And wolves become the shepherds of the sheep. The mindless herd are but the cunning's tools; For ages have the learned of the schools Furnished pack-saddles for the backs of fools. Pale Superstition loves the gloom of night; Truth, like a diamond, ever loves the light. But still 'twere wrong to speak but in abuse, For priests and popes have had, and have, their use. Yea, Superstition since the world began Hath been an instrument to govern man: For men were brutes, and brutal fear was given To chain the brute till Reason came from heaven. Aye, men were beasts for lo how many ages! And only fear held them in chains and cages. Wise men were priests, and gladly I accord They were the priests and prophets of the Lord; For love was lust and o'er all earth's arena Hell-fire alone could tame the wild hyena. All history is the register, we find, Of the crimes and lusts and sufferings of mankind; And there are still dark lands where it is well That Superstition wear the horns of hell, And hold her torches o'er the brutal head, And fright the beast with fire and goblin dread Till Reason come the darkness to dispel. How hard it is for mortals to unlearn Beliefs bred in the marrow of their bones! How hard it is for mortals to discern The truth that preaches from the silent stones, The silent hills, the silent universe, While Error cries in sanctimonious tones That all the light of life and God is hers! Lo in the midst we stand: we cannot see Either the dark beginning or the end, Or where our tottering footsteps turn or trend In the vast orbit of Eternity. Let Reason be our light—the only light That God hath given unto benighted man, Wherewith to see a glimpse of his vast plan And stars of hope that glimmer on our night. Lo all-pervading Unity is His; Lo all-pervading Unity is He: One mighty heart throbs in the earth and sea, In every star through heaven's immensity, And God in all things breathes, in all things is. God's perfect order rules the vast expanse, And Love is queen and all the realms are hers; But strike one planet from the Universe And all is chaos and unbridled chance. And is there life beyond this life below? Aye, is death death?—or but a happy change From night to light—on angel wings to range, And sing the songs of seraphs as we go? Alas, the more we know the less we know we know. God hath laid down the limits we cannot pass; And it is well he giveth us no glass Wherewith to see beyond the present glance, Else we might die a thousand deaths perchance Before we lay our bones beneath the grass. What is the soul, and whither will it fly? We only know that matter cannot die, But lives and lived through all eternity, And ever turns from hoary age to youth. And is the soul not worthier than the dust? So in His providence we put our trust; And so we humbly hope, for God is just— Father all-wise, unmoved by wrath or ruth: What then is certain—what eternal? Truth, Almighty God, Time, Space and Cosmic Dust.

Seek ye the fairest lily of the field, The fairest lotus that in lakelet lies, The fairest rose that ever morn revealed, And Love will find—from other eyes concealed— A fairer flower in some fair woman's eyes. List ye the lark that warbles to the morn, The sweetest note that linnet ever sung, Or trembling lute in tune with silver horn, And Love will list—and laugh your lute to scorn— A sweeter lute in some fair woman's tongue. Seek ye the dewy perfume seaward blown From flowering orange-groves to passing ships; Nay, sip the nectared dew of Helicon, And Love will find—and claim it all his own— A sweeter dew on some fair woman's lips. Seek ye a couch of softest eider-down, The silken floss that baby birdling warms, Or shaded moss with blushing roses strown, And Love will find—when they are all alone— A softer couch in some fair woman's arms.

Silence is the voice of mighty things. In silence dropped the acorn in the rain; In silence slept till sun-touched. Wondrous life Peeped from the mold and oped its eyes on morn. Up-grew in silence through a thousand years The Titan-armed, gnarl-jointed, rugged oak, Rock-rooted. Through his beard and shaggy locks Soft breezes sung and tempests roared: the rain A thousand summers trickled down his beard; A thousand winters whitened on his head; Yet spake he not. He, from his coigne of hills, Beheld the rise and fall of empire, saw The pageantry and perjury of kings, The feudal barons and the slavish churls, The peace of peasants; heard the merry song Of mowers singing to the swing of scythes, The solemn-voiced, low-wailing funeral dirge Winding slow-paced with death to humble graves; And heard the requiem sung for coffined kings. Saw castles rise and castles crumble down, Abbeys up-loom and clang their solemn bells, And heard the owl hoot ruin on their walls: Beheld a score of battle fields corpse-strewn— Blood-fertiled with ten thousand flattered fools Who, but to please the vanity of one, Marched on hurrahing to the doom of death— And spake not, neither sighed nor made a moan. Saw from the blood of heroes roses spring, And where the clangor of steel-sinewed War Roared o'er embattled rage, heard gentle Peace To bleating hills and vales of rustling gold Flute her glad notes from morn till even-tide. Grim with the grime of a thousand years he stood— Grand in his silence, mighty in his years. Under his shade the maid and lover wooed; Under his arms their children's children played And lambkins gamboled; at his feet by night The heart-sick wanderer laid him down and died, And he looked on in silence. Silent hours In ghostly pantomime on tip-toe tripped The stately minuet of the passing years, Until the horologe of Time struck One. Black Thunder growled and from his throne of gloom Fire-flashed the night with hissing bolt, and lo, Heart-split, the giant of a thousand years Uttered one voice and like a Titan fell, Crashing one hammer-clang, and passed away.

On the Spirit-Island ^[CI] sitting under midnight's misty moon, Lo I see the spirits flitting o'er the waters one by one! Slumber wraps the silent city, and the droning mills are dumb; One lone whippowil's shrill ditty calls her mate that ne'er will come. Sadly moans the mighty river, foaming down the fettered falls, Where of old he thundered ever o'er abrupt and lofty walls. Great Unktéhee—god of waters—lifts no more his mighty head; Fled he with the timid otters?—lies he in the cavern dead? Hark!—the waters hush their sighing and the whippowil her call, Through the moon-lit mists are flying dusky shadows silent all. Lo from out the waters foaming—from the cavern deep and dread— Through the glamour and the gloaming comes a spirit of the dead. Sad she seems; her tresses raven on her tawny shoulders rest; Sorrow on her brow is graven, in her arms a babe is pressed. Hark!—she chants the solemn story—sings the legend sad and old, And the river wrapt in glory listens while the tale is told. Would you hear the legend olden hearken while I tell the tale— Shorn, alas, of many a golden, weird Dakota chant and wail.

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. Hunter swift was he and cunning, caught the beaver, slew the bear, Overtook the roebuck running, dragged the panther from his lair. Loved was he by many a maiden; many a dark eye glanced in vain; Many a heart with sighs was laden for the love it could not gain. So they called the brave "Ska Câpa;"^[CJ] but the fairest of the band— Moon-faced, meek Anpétu-Sâpa—won the hunter's heart and hand.

From the wars with triumph burning, from the chase of bison fleet, To his lodge the brave returning, spread his trophies at her feet. Love and joy sat in the teepee; him a black-eyed boy she bore; But alas, she lived to weep a love she lost forevermore. For the warriors chose Wanâta first Itáncan^[CK] of the band. At the council-fire he sat a leader brave, a chieftain grand. Proud was fair Anpétu-Sâpa, and her eyes were glad with joy; Proud was she and very happy with her warrior and her boy. But alas, the fatal honor that her brave Wanâta won, Brought a bitter woe upon her,—hid with clouds the summer sun. For among the brave Dakotas wives bring honor to the chief. On the vine-clad Minnesota's banks he met the Scarlet Leaf.

Young and fair was Apè-dúta^[CL]—full of craft and very fair; Proud she walked a queen of beauty with her dark, abundant hair. In her net of hair she caught him—caught Wanâta with her wiles; All in vain his wife besought him—begged in vain his wonted smiles. Apè-dúta ruled the teepee—all Wanâta's smiles were hers; When the lodge was wrapped in sleep a star^[CM] beheld the mother's tears. Long she strove to do her duty for the black-eyed babe she bore; But the proud, imperious beauty made her sad forevermore. Still she dressed the skins of beaver, bore the burdens, spread the fare; Patient ever, murmuring never, though her cheeks were creased with care. In the moon Magâ-o kâda, ^[71] twice an hundred years ago— Ere the "Black Robe's^[CN]" sacred shadow stalked the prairies' pathless snow— Down the swollen, rushing river, in the sunset's golden hues, From the hunt of bear and beaver came the band in swift canoes. On the queen of fairy islands, on the Wita Wâstè's ^[CO] shore Camped Wanâta, on the highlands just above the cataract's roar. Many braves were with Wanâta; Apè-dúta, too, was there, And the sad Anpétu-sâpa spread the lodge with wonted care. Then above the leafless prairie leaped the fat-faced, laughing moon, And the stars—the spirits fairy—walked the welkin one by one. Swift and silent in the gloaming on the waste of waters blue, Speeding downward to the foaming, shot Wanâta's birch canoe. In it stood Anpétu-sâpa—in her arms her sleeping child; Like a wailing Norse-land drapa ^[CP] rose her death-song weird and wild:

Mihihna,^[CQ] Mihihna, my heart is stone; The light is gone from my longing eyes; The wounded loon in the lake alone Her death-song sings to the moon and dies. Mihihna, Mihihna, the path is long, The burden is heavy and hard to bear; I sink—I die, and my dying song Is a song of joy to the false one's ear. Mihihna, Mihihna, my young heart flew Far away with my brave to the bison-chase; To the battle it went with my warrior true, And never returned till I saw his face. Mihihna, Mihihna, my brave was glad When he came from the chase of the roebuck fleet; Sweet were the words that my hunter said As his trophies he laid at Anpétu's feet. Mihihna, Mihihna, the boy I bore— When the robin sang and my brave was true, I can bear to look on his face no more, For he looks, Mihihna, so much like you. Mihihna, Mihihna, the Scarlet Leaf Has robbed my boy of his father's love; He sleeps in my arms—he will find no grief In the star-lit lodge in the land above. Mihihna, Mihihna, my heart is stone; The light is gone from my longing eyes; The wounded loon in the lake alone Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.

Swiftly down the turbid torrent, as she sung her song she flew; Like a swan upon the current, dancing rode the light canoe. Hunters hurry in the gloaming; all in vain Wanâta calls; Singing through the surges foaming, lo she plunges o'er the Falls. Long they searched the sullen river—searched for leagues along the shore, Bark or babe or mother never saw the sad Dakotas more; But at night or misty morning oft the hunters heard her song, Oft the maidens heard her warning in their mellow mother-tongue. On the bluffs they sat enchanted till the blush of beamy dawn; Spirit Isle, they say, is haunted, and they call the spot Wakân^[CR] Many summers on the highland in the full moon's golden glow— In the woods on Fairy Island,^[CS] walked a snow-white fawn and doe— Spirits of the babe and mother sadly seeking evermore For a father's love another turned away with evil power. Sometimes still when moonbeams shimmer through the maples on the lawn, In the gloaming and the glimmer walk the silent doe and fawn; And on Spirit Isle or near it, under midnight's misty moon, Oft is seen the mother's spirit, oft is heard her mournful tune.