  There is an artless tradition among the Indians, related by Irving, of a warrior who saw the thunderbolt lying upon the ground, with a beautifully wrought moccasin on each side of it. Thinking he had found a prize, he put on the moccasins, but they bore him away to the land of spirits, whence he never returned. Loud pealed the thunder From arsenal high, Bright flashed the lightning Athwart the broad sky; Fast o'er the prairie, Through torrent and shade, Sought the red hunter His hut in the glade. Whose forge is the sun, And red was the chain The thunderbolt spun; O'er the thick wild wood There quivered a line, Low 'mid the green leaves Lay hunter and pine. Clear was the sunshine, The hurricane past, And fair flowers smiled in The path of the blast; While in the forest Lay rent the huge tree, Up rose the red man, All unharmed and free. With sunlight and spray, And close at his feet The thunder-bolt lay, And moccasins, wrought With the beads that shine, Where the rainbow hangeth A wampum divine. Wondered the hunter What spirit was there, Then donned the strange gift With shout and with prayer; But the stout forest That echoed the strain, Heard never the voice of That red man again. As torrents roll down, Marched he o'er dark oak And pine's soaring crown; Far in the bright west The sunset grew clear, Crimson and golden The hunting-grounds near: Light trod the chieftain The tapestried plain, There stood his good horse He'd left with the slain; Gone were the sandals, And broken the spell; A drop of clear dew From either foot fell. Sought, tearful and wide; Never the red man Came back for his bride; With the forked lightning Now hunts he the deer, Where the Great Spirit Smiles ever and near. |
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