Indian Legends of Minnesota — Inside the Classic

She thought not of the trade, but went To her young lord with true content, And while she dreamed of joy to come Her heart was full, her lips were dumb; And day by day her task was wrought, Each hour with self-denial fraught; His wants were met, his lodge was trim, Her patient thoughts were all for him. The powers divine did seem to bless The promise of his wild caress; And so the happy moons flew by, Till new refulgence filled her sky When there appeared a baby boy, Whose laugh o'erflowed her cup of joy; For this must prove, she could but feel, A bond between them strong as steel.

Alas, thou too confiding wife, What clouds were gathering o'er thy life! For vanity alone will stay With human nature to the last; Each happy day will slip away Into the valleys of the past, Returning but a ghostly thing When the spirit drinks at Memory's spring.

Why did he vow to cherish ever? Or why allow his heart to change? What maid was she who came to sever Thy love and thee? What magic strange Had she to work her strange endeavor? What mind shall solve the mystery Of loves that come and loves that flee? Why should Anpetusapa give Her heart's whole life, her richest treasure, To one whose boasted flame could live Through but a dozen moons' small measure; Whose passion was for selfish pleasure?

Yet so it was; another came Her heart to cloud, her place to claim. Her lodge became another's nest; The first wife, she was second now; 'Neath custom's yoke compelled to bow And see her rival fondly pressed. The death gloom settled on her brow, Day brought no sun, the night no rest. The beam of sadness lit her eye, And memories that could never die Until her body, void of breath, Became the precious spoil of Death. Morn after morn beheld her still Slow sinking, like a mountain rill Whose fountain-head, once bubbling bright, Hath dried away, and left the white And pulseless sand to mark where long Began the sparkle and the song.

One joy alone was left to bring The heart-swept thrill of other days, When to her baby she would sing Her lullaby of love and praise; And this, even this, renewed the thought Of joyous hopes that came to naught. Betrayed by faith, yet faithful to the last, She murmured not; but patiently she passed Each day in kindly service, given As if her heart were all unriven, Until at length heroic strength Could bear no more.

Upon the shore Of wild Messipi's plunging flood, Where they were camped so long before, They camped again; again their blood Marched to the music of its roar.

'Tis morning: every bird its matin sings And beats the air with throbbing wings, The air so sweet and quick; the glistening dew Hangs crystal beauty on all verdant things,-- Each trembling drop reflecting true The overspread, unclouded blue; While from the east the cohorts of the sun With dazzling spears begin to strew The morning vapors, damp and dun, Whose melting ranks are closed anew To vanish where the rapid waters run.

Anpetusapa hides her woe Until her husband and her foe Have left the lodge and gone from sight. Then with a tearless eye and bright, She gazes madly round the place Where every comfort bears the trace Of wifely labor wrought with pain, Of woman's love that lives in vain. Here moccasins lie with bead-work gay; Here on the wall the breezes sway The music-breathing flute, Whose lips are dry and mute, While she who once inspired its tone Now sits despairing and alone. The very curls of smoke that rise And mingle with the morning skies, Are tokens of the duties done Beneath the red eye of the rising sun. Awhile she sits in cruel thought, Till, with her anguish overwrought, She flies to him who sweetly bears The image of her faithless god, And on each infant feature wears The smiling hopes on which he trod. Convulsively she clasps her child, Whose love, alone left undefiled, Is not enough to nerve her soul Beneath its crushing weight of dole.