Excerpt
THE LAKE OF THE WHITE CANOE. Wo! Wo! WoWo to the sons of the far-off land,Weak in heart and pale in face,Deer in battle, moose in a race,Panthers wanting claw and toothWo to the red man, strong of hand,Steady of purpose, lithe of limb,Calm in the toils of the foe,Knowing nor tears nor ruthWo to them and him,If, cast by hard fate at the midnight damp,Or an hour of storm in the dismal swamp,That skirts the Lake of the White Canoe! Wo to him and them,If, when the night's dim lamps are veil'd,And the Hunter's Star is hid,And the moon has shut her lid,For their wearied limbs the only birthBe the cold and frosty earth,And their flesh be burnt by the gum exhal'dFrom the cedar's poisonous stem,And steep'd in the blistering dewOf the barren vine in the birchen copse,Where rear the pines their giant topsAbove the Lake of the White Canoe! My brother hears—'t is well—And let him shun the spot,The damp and dismal brake,That skirts the shallow lake,The brown and stagnant pool,The dark and miry fen,And let him never at nightfall spreadHis blanket among the isles that dotThe surface of that lake;And let my brother tellThe men of his race that the wolf hath fedEre now on warriors brave and true,In the fearful Lake of the White Canoe. Wo! Wo! Wo!To him that sleeps in those dark fens!The she-wolf will stir the brake,And the copper-snake breathe in his ear,And the bitterns will start by tens,And the slender junipers shakeWith the weight of the nimble bear,And the pool resound with the cayman's plash,And the owl will hoot in the boughs of the ash,Where he sits so calm and cool;Above his head, the muckawissWill sing his gloomy song;Frogs will scold in the pool,To see the musk-rat carry alongThe perch to his hairy brood;And, coil'd at his feet, the horn-snake will hiss,Nor last nor least of the throng,The shades of the youth and maid so true,That haunt the Lake of the White Canoe. And, if he chance to sleep,Still will his okki whisper wo,For hideous forms will rise:The spirits of the swampWill come from their caverns dark and deep,Where the slimy currents flow,With the serpent and wolf to romp,And to whisper in the sleeper's earOf wo and danger near;And mist will hide the pale, cold moon,And the stars will seem like the sparkling fliesThat twinkle in the prairie glades,In my brother's month of June—Murky shades, dim, dark shades,Shades of the cypress, pine, and yew,In the swamp of the Lake of the White Canoe. Wo! wo! wo!He will hear in the dead of the night—If the bittern will stay his toot,And the serpent will cease his hiss,And the wolf forget his howl,And the owl forbear his hoot,And the plaintive muckawiss,And his neighbour the frog, will be mute—A plash like the dip of a water-fowl,In the lake with mist so white;And two forms will float on his troubled view,O'er the brake, with a meteor light,And he'll hear the words of a tender song,Stealing like a spring-wind alongThe Lake of the White Canoe. That song will be a song of wo,Its burthen will be a gloomy tale;It will cause the rain to flow;It will tell of youthful love,Fond but blighted love;It will tell of father's cruelty;It will cause the rain to flow;It will tell of two lovely flowersThat grew in the wilderness;And the mildew that touch'd the leaf;And the canker that struck the bud;And the lightning that wither'd the stem;And 't will speak of the Spirit-dove,That summon'd them away,Deeming them all too good and true,For aught save to paddle a White Canoe
With these wild stanzas, preliminary to a tradition current among the tribes of that region, Walk in the Water, a Roanoke chief of great celebrity, commenced his tale. Undoubtedly most of the Indians present were as well acquainted with the story as the narrator, but that circumstance seemed to abate nothing of the interest with which it was listened to; it certainly did not diminish the attention of the audience....