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قراءة كتاب Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3
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Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3
without a branch to interrupt the regularity of their tall trunks for a hundred feet, stand thick and close together, like so many tall columns reared to support the roof of a vast temple. All is silent as the grave. Not an insect buzzes or chirps about you; no cry or song of bird or beast is heard. You seem to have penetrated beyond the bounds not only of human society and existence but of animal life, and to be passing through the still and dark valley of the shadow of death.
As the traveller pushes his doubtful way along, he will come upon some broad, lake-like sheet of water, still, silent, and sluggish, calmly reflecting the quiet solemnity of the forest. I say still and silent, but these little lakes are visited at certain seasons of the year by myriads of wild fowl, the clapping of whose wings, as they rise from the water, may be heard to a great distance. The water of all those lakes is of the same colour as the roots and bark of the juniper and cedar-trees, from which it receives its hue. And, when the sun flashes on the amber-coloured lake, and the cypress forest throws its gloomy shade over its face, the traveller becomes thrilled with awe and astonishment. He fancies that he has never seen any spot so fitted to be the residence of spirits of a malignant influence, and expects to see evil eyes cast upon him from every copse. The bird and bat, as they flit through the shades of night, magnified by the misty exhalations, seem the envious demons of the spot; and, foolish man! he more regards the dangers which are unreal than those which are real—is more afraid of the spirits which cannot harm, than of the ravenous beasts and poisonous serpents with which he is environed, and whose fangs are death in its most hideous shape.
Having introduced this not altogether gratuitous description of a spot celebrated in America for its picturesque situation and horrors, I resume the rhythmical tale of the chief of the Roanokes.
How long I cannot tell my brother,
That this sad thing befell;
The tale was old in the time of my father,
To whom it was told by my mother's mother.
My brother hears—'tis well—
Nor may he doubt my speech;
The red man's mind receives a tale
As snow the print of a mocassin;
But, when he hath it once,
It abides like a footstep chisell'd in rock,
The hard and flinty rock.
The pale man writes his tales
Upon a loose and fluttering leaf,
Then gives it to the winds that sweep
Over the ocean of the mind;
The red man his on the evergreen
Of his trusty memory(1).
When he from the far-off land would know
The tales of his father's day,
He unrolls the spirit-skin[3],
And utters what it bids:
The Indian pours from his memory
His song, as a brook its babbling flood
From a lofty rock into a dell,
In the pleasant summer-moon.—
My brother hears.—
And let him write them down
Upon the spirit-skin,
That, when he has cross'd the lake,
The Great Salt Lake,
The lake, where the gentle spring winds dwell,
And the mighty fishes sport,
And has called his babes to his knee,
And his beauteous dove to his arms,
And has smok'd in the calumet
With the friends he left behind,
And his father, and mother, and kin,
Are gather'd around his fire,
To learn what red men say,
He may the skin unroll, and bid
His Okki this tradition read[4]—
The parting words of the Roanoke,
And his tale of a lover and maiden true,
Who paddle the Lake in a White Canoe.
In that far day,
The warlike Roanokes,
The masters of the wilds:
They warr'd on distant lands,
This valiant nation, victors every where;
Their shouts rung through the hollow oaks,
That beetle over the Spirit Bay[6],
Where the red elk comes to drink;
The frozen clime of the Hunter's Star
Rang shrill with the shout of their bands,
And the whistle of their cress[7];
And they fought the distant Cherokee,
The Chickasaw, and the Muscogulgee,
And the Sioux of the West.
They liv'd for nought but war,
Though now and then would be caught a view
Of a Roanoke in a White Canoe.
Of brave and warlike Roanokes,
Were two—a youth and maid,
Who lov'd each other well,
Long and fondly lov'd,
Lov'd from the childish hour,
When, through the bosky dell,
Together they fondly rov'd,
In quest of the little flower,
That likes to bloom in the quiet shade
Of the tall and stately oaks.
The pale face calls it the violet—
'Tis a beautiful child when its leaves are wet
With the morning dew, and spread
To the beam of the sun, and its little head
Sinks low with the weight of the tear
That gems its pale blue eye,
Causing it to lie
Like a maiden whose heart is broke.—
Does my