Читать книгу Occoneechee, the Maid of the Mystic Lake - Robert Frank Jarrett - Страница 9
I.
ОглавлениеFar away beneath the shadows
Of the towering Smoky range,
In the Western North Carolina,
Comes a story true, but strange;
Of a maiden and her lover,
Of the tribe of Cherokee,
And she lived far up the mountain,
Near the hills of Tennessee.
Far above the habitation
Of the white man, and the plain,
Lived the dark-eyed Indian maiden,
Of the Junaluska strain;
Junaluska, chief, her father,
Occoneechee was his pride,
In the lonely little wigwam,
High upon the mountain side.
There the stream Oconaluftee
Hides its source far from the eye,
Of the white man in his rovings,
Far upon the mountain high;
And the forest land primeval,
Roamed by doe and wandering bear,
And the hissing, coiling serpent,
Was no stranger to them there.
Catamount and mountain-boomer
Sprang from cliff-side into trees,
And the eagle, hawk and vulture
Winged their course on every breeze.
At the footfall of this maiden
Sped the gobbler wild and free,
From the maiden Occoneechee
Flitted butterfly and bee.
Occoneechee, forest dweller,
Lived amid the scene so wild;
In the simple Indian manner
Lived old Junaluska’s child.
Streams of purest limpid water
Gushed forth o’er the rock below,
And the trout and silver minnow
Dwelt in water, cold as snow.
Occoneechee’s Mother Qualla
Passed away from earth to God,
When this maiden was a baby
And was covered by the sod.
High upon the rugged mountain,
Far above the haunts of men,
With their burdens and their sorrows,
And their load of care and sin.
Thus the maiden knew no mother,
Knew no love as most maids know,
Heard no song, as sung by mother,
Softly, sweetly, plaintive, slow.
When the twilight came at evening,
And the wigwam fire was lit,
And the bearskin robe was spread out
Upon which they were to sit,
Junaluska wept his Qualla,
Wept the lover who had flown,
For she was the only lover
That this chieftain’s heart had known;
And at night, there was no lover
To sit by him on the rug,
Made of skins of bear and woodchuck,
In the wigwam, crude but snug.
And at times he’d stand at evening,
When the sun was setting low,
And would watch with adoration
Shifting clouds and scenes below;
And his soul would want to wander
Where the clime of setting sun
Would reveal his long lost Qualla,
When his work of life was done.
Sunset from Mt. Junaluska.
“And his soul was wont to wander
To the clime of setting sun.”
Lake Junaluska, Mount Junaluska in the distance.
(Near Waynesville, N. C.)
This beautiful lake with Alpine environment is officially recognized by Methodists as their Assembly grounds, where thousands of their faith gather during the summer months each year for social and religious intercourse.
And the tears would fill his eyelids,
And emotion shake his frame,
When he thought of her departed,
Or some friend would speak her name.
And he’d call on God the spirit,
When he’d see the golden glow
Of the radiant splendid sunset,
Where he ever longed to go.
Then he’d think of Occoneechee,
In her adolescent years,
How she needed his protection
There to drive away her fears.
Then he’d cease his deep repining,
And his wailing and his grief,
For her future and her beauty
Brought the chieftain’s heart relief.
Though the life of Occoneechee
Was one lonely strange career,
And the solitude and silence
Made the romance of it drear,
While the wildness of the forest,
With the animals that roam,
And the birds in great profusion
Cheered her little wigwam home,
Yet her spirit, like the eagle’s,
Longed to soar off and be free
From the wilds of gorge and mountain,
Stream and cliff and crag and tree.
And one day there came a red man
Wandering up the mountain side,
From the vale Oconaluftee
Which was every Indian’s pride.
Tall and handsome, agile runner,
And the keenness of his eye
Did betray his quick perception
To the casual passer-by.
Hair hung down in long black tresses,
Far below his shoulder-blade,
And the brilliant painted feathers
By the passing winds were swayed.
And the arrows in his quiver
Tipped with variegated stone,
And the tomahawk and war knife,
All the weapons he had known;
Yet he knew all of their uses,
None could wield with greater skill
Tomahawk or knife or arrow,
Than this wandering Whippoorwill.
Occoneechee, sitting lonely,
In a shady little nook,
Near the opening, by the wigwam,
And the babbling crystal brook;
She was bathing feet and ankles,
Arms and hands she did refresh,
In the iridescent splendor
Of the fountain cool and fresh.
Whippoorwill, the wandering warrior,
Spied the maiden by the pool,
‘Neath the spreading tree above her,
By the limpid stream so cool;
Then he ventured there to tarry,
Watch and linger in the wild,
Near the maiden and the fountain,
Watch this forest-dwelling child.
Though a warrior, brave, undaunted
By the fiercest, wildest foe,
In the battle’s hardest struggle,
Chasing bear and buck and doe;
For his life was used to hardships,
Scaling mountains in the chase,
Yet he ne’er was known to falter
‘Mid the hottest of the race.
But he now was moved by caution
To approach, with greatest care,
The unknown maid, there before him,
And the scene so rich and rare;
And his brave heart almost failed him
As he comes up to her side,
And obeisance makes he to her,
E’er the chieftain she espied.
Occoneechee sprang up quickly
From the rock moss-covered seat,
All abashed, but lithe and nimble
Were her ankles and her feet.
“O-I-see-you,” were the greetings
They exchanged spontaneously,
As they moved off together.
Occoneechee leads the way,
To the quiet little wigwam,
Where old Junaluska dwells
With the maiden Occoneechee,
And for whom his heart up-wells.
Spreading out the flowing doe-skin
Flat upon the earthen floor,
Occoneechee and the warrior
Sat and talked the chases o’er.
Sat and talked of bear and venison,
Sat and smoked the calumet.
These the greetings of the warrior,
When the maiden first he met.
Whippoorwill, the wandering warrior,
Tarried for a night and day,
Tarried long within the wigwam,
And was loath to go away,
For the maid and Junaluska
To the warrior were so kind,
That ‘twere hard among the tribesmen
Such a generous clan to find.
But at dawn upon the morrow,
Whippoorwill must wend his way
From old Junaluska’s wigwam,
For too long had been his stay.
Kind affection, Junaluska
Gave to parting Whippoorwill,
As he sauntered from the wigwam,
Wandering toward the rugged rill.
Now the silence so unbroken
Starts a tear-drop in each eye,
And the gentle passing zephyr
Gathered up the lover’s sigh,
And the sighs were borne to heaven,
Like as lovers' sighs ascend,
As the good angelic zephyrs
Bear the message, friend to friend.
Now each heart was sore and lonely,
Sad the parting lovers feel,
Yet the hopes of love’s devotion
Deep into each life did steal.
And when Whippoorwill had left them,
Good old Junaluska said
To his daughter Occoneechee,
“Would you like this brave to wed?”
Occoneechee, timid maiden,
Never thought of love before,
For she ne’er had spread the doe-skin
Wide upon the earthen floor,
For a warrior, brave as he was,
One possessed of skill so rare,
With his tomahawk and war knife,
And such long black raven hair;
And she knew not how to answer,
Though she felt as lovers do,
When they plight their deep devotion
To each other to be true.
“Occoneechee! child of wild woods,
I am growing old and gray,
And I feel I soon must leave you,
Though I grieve to go away.
I can feel the hand of time, child,
Pressing down upon my head,
And I know it won’t be long now
Till I’m resting with the dead.
“I can hear your mother calling,
Sweetly, gently, calling me,
Beckoning from the golden sunset,
And she calls also for thee.
’Twas just last night she stood beside me,
While you lay there sound asleep,
And she called me, ‘Junaluska!’
And her voice caused me to weep.
“And she said, ‘Dear Junaluska,
I have come to tell you where
You will find me at the portals
Of the Lord’s house over there.
I will be among the blessed,
Be with angels up on high.
Have no fears of Death’s dark river,
Be courageous till you die.’
“Then she stood and sang a message
O’er you in your lonely bed,
For a moment, then departed;
And I called, but she had fled.
Yet I daily hear her sweet voice,
And I see her image there,
As she calls us unto heaven,
‘Mid the pleasures, O, so rare.
“And I soon shall cross the river,
And will join her on the strand,
With immortals long departed,
In the fair, blest, happy land.
When I’m gone you’ll need protection,
By a brave who knows no fear,
And when sorrows overflow you,
One to wipe away the tear.
“Then I’ll watch and wait with Qualla,
With the chiefs and warriors brave,
Who have joined the tribe eternal,
Conquered death, hell and the grave.
I shall watch then for your coming,
And I’ll tell the mighty throng
That you’re coming in the future,
And we’ll greet you with the song,
“That the seraphs sing in glory,
Casting gem crowns at the feet,
Praising Him who reigns forever
On the grand tribunal seat.”
As he talked his voice grew weaker,
And his hand grew very chill,
Then the moisture crowned his forehead,
And his pulse was deathly still.
Then she knew that her dear mother
And the great chiefs that had been
Had op’ed the gate of heaven wide
To let another brave chief in.
Then she sobbed out for her father,
As a broken-hearted child
Will for loved ones just departed,
Left so lonely in the wild.
But the dead, too soon forgotten,
Now lies buried by the side
Of his much lamented Qualla,
Once his sweet and lovely bride,
While their spirits dwell together,
Free from care and want and pain,
Where the tempest full of sorrow
Ne’er can reach their souls again.
Years had flown since Occoneechee
Saw her loving Whippoorwill,
High upon the Smoky Mountain,
Near the crystal rippling rill;
For the white man had transported
Brave and squaw and little child
Far away to Oklahoma,
To the western hills so wild.
Some had gone to the Dakotas,
Some had gone to Mexico,
Some had joined the tribe eternal;
All were going, sure but slow.
For the white man’s occupation,
Cherokee must give their land,
And must give up all possessions,
Go and join some other band.
Yet a residue of tribesmen
Were allowed here to remain,
‘Mid the mountains and the forest,
And the meadows and the plain,
But the strong men and the warriors,
Most of them had gone away,
Far across the mighty mountains
Toward the closing of the day.
General Jackson’s men in blue coats
Came and took away the braves,
Took away the squaw and papoose,
Buried many in their graves,
Yet the residue triumphant,
Roamed out in the forest wild,
Without shelter, food or comfort,
For decrepid chief and child.
Sad and weary, long and dreary,
Moved the Cherokee out West,
With their store of skins and venison,
And the trinkets they possessed.
Up across the Smoky Mountains,
Rough and rugged trail and road,
Lined by rhododendron blossoms,
Close beside where Lufty flowed.
When they down the gorge descended,
Winding toward the Tennessee,
Branch and bough o’erhead were bending
And no landscape could they see,
And the labyrinthian footway
Led through forests dense and dark
And the air was sweetly laden
With the bruised birchen bark;
| A glimpse of the Craggies. | From top of Chimney Rock. |
| Graybeard Mountain. | Chimney Top. |
Hemlocks tall and swaying gently
In the sighing passing breeze,
And the fir and spreading balsam
Joined the cadence of the trees.
At the base of birch and hemlock
Flowed the Pigeon fierce and bold,
With its water clear as crystal,
And its fountains icy cold;
Flowed the dauntless rapid waters,
Fresh and pure and ever free,
Rushed o’er cataract and cascade,
Ever onward toward the sea.
Whippoorwill, the wandering warrior,
Shorn of power and of pride,
Marched in single file and lonely,
With his hands behind him tied.
Hands were bound with thongs and fetters—
Thongs and fetters could not hold
Brave so gallant young and noble
As this valiant warrior bold.
For his thoughts of Occoneechee,
Who was left far, far behind,
With the residue of women,
Stirred his brave heart and his mind.
On and on for days they traveled
By the stream whose silver flow,
From the great high Smoky Mountains,
Became silent now and slow;
For the rocks and rising ridges,
Once their progress did impede,
Now were fading in the distance,
Could not now retard their speed.
And the journey, long and tedious,
Wore the women, wore the brave,
And they sore and much lamented,
To be bound as serf or slave;
For their free-born spirits never
Had been bound by man before,
Till the blue-coat Jackson soldier
Came and dragged them from their door.
Corn was blooming on the lowlands
When the journey they betook,
And the grass gave much aroma,
By the laughing Soco brook;
But the suns and moons oft waning
Brought the moon of ripening corn
To a nation, broken-hearted,
With a doubting hope forlorn.
Level lands brought no enchantment
To a people who had known
Naught but freedom till the present,
Whose utopian dream had flown;
Flown as flows the radiant river,
Flown as flows the hopes of youth,
From the red man of the forest.
They were no more free, forsooth.
By and by the Father Waters
Came in view of brave and squaw,
And the skiff and side-wheel steamer
Were the shifting scenes they saw,
Plying fast the Father Waters,
With a current slow and still,
And reverberating whistles
Shrieked a medley loud and shrill.
And the ferryboat was busy,
Plying fast the liquid wave
Of the Father Water’s current,
Bearing squaw and chief and brave,
Till the last brave Indian warrior
Crossed the Father Waters' tide,
Crossed the gentle flowing river,
With its current deep and wide.
Then they rested from their journey,
Rested for a little while,
On the bluff above the river,
Where they saw her laughing smile.
They could see the sun at morning
Rise up quickly from his rest,
See him hasting to his zenith,
Soon to go down in the west.
Then the winter came on quickly,
Killing corn and grass and cane,
And the wind brought cloudy weather,
With its snow and mist and rain,
And the tribe within the barracks
Were disheartened, one and all.
And they longed now for their Lufty,
With its cascade and its fall.
But at last the genial sunshine
Took away the ice that froze
The corn of hope, from the tribesmen,
And the chilly wind that blows,
Along the valley, of the river,
Over bog and prairie, too;
And an order came with springtime,
“You the journey must renew.”
Then they rose up in the morning,
Rose before the dawn of day,
Rolled and tied the tents together,
And were quickly on their way,
On their way to Oklahoma,
Out across Missouri land,
Chief and squaw and wary warrior,
Marched the Cherokee brave band.
To the western reservation,
Where the bison and the owl,
And the she-wolf, fox and serpent
Writhe and roam and nightly prowl;
This the country where they took them,
This the country that they gave
In exchange for their own country,
To the chief and squaw and brave.
Leaving all they loved behind them,
Leaving all to them most dear,
And they settled there so lonely,
In a country dry and drear;
There to pine away in sorrow,
And repining, die of grief;
From the solitude and silence
Of this land there’s no relief.
