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Far in the
West there lies a desert land, where the mountains
Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous
summits.
Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where
the gorge, like a gateway
Opens a passage rude to the
wheels of the emigrant's waggon,
Westward the Oregon
flows, and the Walleway and the Owyhee,
Eastward,
with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains,
Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the
Nebraska;
And to the South, from Fontaine-qui-bout
and the Spanish sierras,
Fretted with sands and
rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,
Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to
the ocean,
Like the great chords of a harp, in loud
and solemn vibrations.
Spreading between these
streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,
Billowy
bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple
amorphas.
Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the
elk and the roebuck;
Over them wander the wolves, and
herds of riderless horses;
Fires that blast and
blight, and winds that are weary with travel;
Over
them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children,
Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible
war-trails
Circles and sails aloft, on pinions
majestic, the vulture,
Like the implacable soul of a
chieftan slaughtered in battle,
By invisible stairs
ascending and scaling the heavens.
Here and there
rise smoke from the camps of these savage marauders;
Here and there rise groves from the margins of
swift-running rivers;
And the grim, taciturn bear,
the anchorite monk of the desert,
Climbs down their
dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side;
And
over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,
Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.
Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark
Mountains,
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and
trappers behind him.
Day after day, with their Indian
guides, the maiden and Basil
Followed his flying
steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of
his camp-fire
Rise in the morning air from the
distant plain; but at nightfall,
When they had
reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.
And, though thier hearts were sad at times and their
bodies were weary,
Hope still guided them on, as the
magic Fata Morgana
Showed them her lakes of light,
that retreated and vanished before them.
Once, as
they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features
Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her
sorrow.
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her
people,
From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel
Camanches,
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois,
had been murdered.
Touched were their hearts at her
story, and warmest and friendliest welcome
Gave they,
with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them
On the buffalo meat and the venison cooked on the
embers.
But when their meal was done, and Basil and
all his companions,
Worn with the long day's march
and the chase of the deer and the bison,
Stretched
themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering
fire-light
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their
forms wrapped up in their blankets,
Then at the door
of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated
Slowly,
with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian
accent,
All the tale of her love, with its pleasures,
and pains, and reverses.
Much Evangeline wept at the
tale, and to know that another
Hapless heart like her
own had loved and had been disappointed.
Moved to the
depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion,
Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was
near her,
She in turn related her love and all its
disasters.
Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when
she had ended
Still was mute; but at length, as if a
mysterious horror
Passed fro her brain, she spake,
and repeated the tale of the Mowis;
Mowis, the
bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
But,
when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the
sunshine,
Till she beheld him no more, though she
followed far into the forest.
Then, in those sweet,
low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,
Told
she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a
phantom,
That, through the pines o'er her father's
lodge, in the hush of the twilight,
Breathed like the
evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden.
Till
she followed his green and waving plume through the
forest,
And never more returned, nor was seen again
by her people.
Silent with wonder and strange
surprise, Evangeline listened
To the soft flow of her
magical words, till the region around her
Seemed like
enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon
rose,
Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious
splendour
Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing
and filling the woodland.
With a delicious sound the
brook rushed by, and the branches
Swayed and sighed
overhead in scarcely audible whispers.
Filled with
the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a
secret,
Subtle sense crept in of pain and indefinite
terror,
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the
nest of the swallow.
It was no earthly fear. A breath
from the region of spirits
Seemed to float in the air
of night; and she felt for a moment
That, like the
Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.
And
with this thought she slept, and the fear and the
phantom had vanished.
Early upon the morrow the
march was resumed; and the Shawnee
Said, as they
journeyed along, -"On the western slope of these
mountains
Dwells in his little village the Black Robe
chief of the Mission.
Much he teaches the people, and
tells them of Mary and Jesus;
Loud laugh their hearts
with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him."
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline
answered, -
"Let us go to the Mission, for there
good tidings await us!"
Thither they turned their
steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,
Just as
the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,
And
in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit
Mission.
Under a towering oak, that stood in the
midst of the village,
Knelt the Black Robe chief with
his children. A crucifix fastened
High on the trunk
of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines,
Look
with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath
it.
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the
intricate arches
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant
of their vespers,
Mingling its notes with the soft
susurrus and sighs of the branches.
Silent, with
heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching,
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening
devotions.
But when the service was done, and the
benediction had fallen
Forth from the hands of the
priest, like seeds from the hands of the sower,
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and
bade them
Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled
with benignant expression,
Hearing the homelike
sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,
And with
words of kindness conducted them into his wigwam.
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of
the maize-ear
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from
the water-gourd of the teacher.
Soon was their story
told; and the priest with solemnity answered: -
"Not
six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated
On
this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,
Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his
journey!"
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he
spake with an accent of kindness;
But on Evangeline's
heart fell his words as in winter the snowflakes
Fall
into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
"Far to the North he has gone," continued the priest;
"but in autumn,
When the chase is done, will again
return to the Mission."
Then Evangeline said, and her
voice was meek and submissive, -
"Let me remain with
thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted."
So seemed it
wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,
Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and
companions,
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline
stayed at the Mission.
Slowly, slowly, slowly the
days succeeded each other, -
Days and week and
months; and the fields of maize that were springing
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now
waving before her,
Lifted their slender shafts, with
leaves interlacing, and forming
Cloisters for
mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the
maidens
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that
betokened a lover,
But at the crooked laughed, and
called it a thief in the cornfield.
Even the
blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.
"Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy
prayer will be answered!
Look at this delicate plant
that lifts its head from the meadow,
See how its
leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet;
It is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has
suspended
Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the
traveller's journey
Over the sea-like, pathless,
limitless waste of the desert.
Such in the soul of
man is faith. The blossoms of passion,
Gay and
luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odour
is deadly.
Only this humble plant can guide us here,
and hereafter
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that
are wet with the dews of nepenthe."
So came the
autumn, and passed, and the winter, -yet Gabriel came
not.
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of
the robin and blue-bird
Sounded sweet upon wold and
in wood, yet Gabriel came not.
But on the breath of
the summer winds a rumour was wafted
Sweeter than
song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom,
Far to the
north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,
Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river.
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St
Lawrence,
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from
the Mission.
When over weary ways, by long and
perilous marches,
She had attained at length the
depths of the Michigan forests,
Found she the
hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin.
Thus
did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and
places
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering
maiden; -
Now in the tents of grace of the meek
Moravian Missions,
Now in the noisy camps and the
battle-fields of the army,
Now in secluded hamlets,
in towns and populous cities.
Like a phantom she
came, and passed away unremembered.
Fair was she and
young, when in hope began the long journey;
Faded was
she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
Each
succeeding year stole something away from her beauty,
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the
shadow.
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks
of gray o'er her forehead,
Dawn of another life, that
broke o'er her earthly horizon,
As in the eastern sky
the first faint streaks of the morning.
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