Narrative and Legendary Poems, Complete






HOW THE ROBIN CAME.

AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND.

     HAPPY young friends, sit by me,
     Under May's blown apple-tree,
     While these home-birds in and out
     Through the blossoms flit about.
     Hear a story, strange and old,
     By the wild red Indians told,
     How the robin came to be:

     Once a great chief left his son,—
     Well-beloved, his only one,—
     When the boy was well-nigh grown,
     In the trial-lodge alone.
     Left for tortures long and slow
     Youths like him must undergo,
     Who their pride of manhood test,
     Lacking water, food, and rest.

     Seven days the fast he kept,
     Seven nights he never slept.
     Then the young boy, wrung with pain,
     Weak from nature's overstrain,
     Faltering, moaned a low complaint
     "Spare me, father, for I faint!"
     But the chieftain, haughty-eyed,
     Hid his pity in his pride.
     "You shall be a hunter good,
     Knowing never lack of food;
     You shall be a warrior great,
     Wise as fox and strong as bear;
     Many scalps your belt shall wear,
     If with patient heart you wait
     Bravely till your task is done.
     Better you should starving die
     Than that boy and squaw should cry
     Shame upon your father's son!"

     When next morn the sun's first rays
     Glistened on the hemlock sprays,
     Straight that lodge the old chief sought,
     And boiled sainp and moose meat brought.
     "Rise and eat, my son!" he said.
     Lo, he found the poor boy dead!

     As with grief his grave they made,
     And his bow beside him laid,
     Pipe, and knife, and wampum-braid,
     On the lodge-top overhead,
     Preening smooth its breast of red
     And the brown coat that it wore,
     Sat a bird, unknown before.
     And as if with human tongue,
     "Mourn me not," it said, or sung;
     "I, a bird, am still your son,
     Happier than if hunter fleet,
     Or a brave, before your feet
     Laying scalps in battle won.
     Friend of man, my song shall cheer
     Lodge and corn-land; hovering near,
     To each wigwam I shall bring
     Tidings of the corning spring;
     Every child my voice shall know
     In the moon of melting snow,
     When the maple's red bud swells,
     And the wind-flower lifts its bells.
     As their fond companion
     Men shall henceforth own your son,
     And my song shall testify
     That of human kin am I."

     Thus the Indian legend saith
     How, at first, the robin came
     With a sweeter life from death,
     Bird for boy, and still the same.
     If my young friends doubt that this
     Is the robin's genesis,
     Not in vain is still the myth
     If a truth be found therewith
     Unto gentleness belong
     Gifts unknown to pride and wrong;
     Happier far than hate is praise,—
     He who sings than he who slays.

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