[Scene. A tent on the open shores of Lake Superior—a
camp-fire—canoes turned up on the beach—boatmen engaged
in cooking. A conference at the tent-door. Ethwald, a
traveller. Oscar, a missionary. De la Joie, a trader.
Mongazid (Azid), an Indian Prophet and hunter, with his
retinue. The pipe is about to be lit. Time—sun-set.]
ETHWALD.
HOARY hunter, stern and wild,
Nature’s lone forsaken child!
Wand’ring born and wand’ring bred,
Forest school’d and forest fed—
Turn thy quick revolving glance,
O’er yon water’s bright expanse.
See—along the purple sky,
See the billows looming high;
Not in rage as (if aright
Men report the wild affright,)
Oft with fear too sorely true,
Thy advent’rous kinsmen view,
But with long and lab’ring swells,
That of lulling tempest tells;
Seest thou? near the horizon dim,
Shadowy form upon its brim,
Dun and small—that closer scann’d,
Main and margin, should be land.
Tell!—for by thy lifted eye,
Well I ken thou read’st the sky—
Tell me!—in its shadowy forms
Is there sunshine—is there storms?
Seest thou there, a spirit mild,
Or the fiend of waters wild,
Who shall make to-morrow’s wave,
Many a hapless hunter’s grave,
And along the yellow strand,
Raise their mounds amid the sand?
Or to thy well-practised eye,
Is the god of south winds nigh,
With his soft, ethereal balms,
Whisp’ring peace and breathing calms?
Say, shall mortal blade essay,
O’er yon waves a tranquil way
On the morrow—spirit blest!
Shall it speed toward the west,
And the genii of the strand,
Waft the vent’rous bark from land,
With a breeze and with a smile,
To yon dim-discovered isle?
MONGAZID.
Listen, white man! go not there;
Unseen spirits stalk the air!
Though the sky be clear and calm,
And the south-west winnow balm—
Though each wave be smooth and fair,
Be thou cautioned—go not there!
Misty forms, that walk the wind,
Guard the treasures there enshrined;
Hungry birds their influence lend,
Snakes defy, and kites defend:
There, the star-eyed panther prowls,
And the wolf in hunger howls;
There, the speckled adder breeds,
And the mighty canieu feeds;
Spirits prompt them—fiends incite—
They are eager for the fight,
And are thirsting, night and day,
On the human heart to prey:
Be they gods, or be they not,
Touch not thou the sacred spot.