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
wagon,
Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and 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 wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk
and the roebuck;
Over them wandered 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 chieftain slaughtered
in battle,
By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.
Here and there rise smokes 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 their 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 through 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 nevermore 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 splendor
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,
Subtile 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.
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,
Looked 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 seed 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 snow-flakes
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 return again 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 weeks and months; and the fields of maize
that were springing
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now
waving above 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 corn-field.
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 vigorous plant that lifts its head from
the meadow,
See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true
as the magnet;
This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God
has planted
Here in the houseless wild, 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
odor 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 bluebird
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came
not.
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was
wafted
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor 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 earthy
horizon,
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the
morning.
