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TOUSOULIA (A LEGEND OF THE MOHEGAN), by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The juniata rippled at her feet


THE Juniata rippled at her feet,
And like a fallen giant lay the sun
Aslant the silent trees. Tousoulia
Was sad. The maiden had been waiting through
Three crescent moons; had marked them orb and go,
Like dreamy Houris, down the stairs of night
To bathe in mists behind the purple hills;
And yet her Indian warrior came Not back.


Thus to the stream that wandered by,
Thus to the shadows of the coming night
Tousoulia made her moan:
The autumn has been breathing on the leaves,
And burnt them into redness with her lips;
And I am sadder than the Whip-po- will.


The summer birds have floated to the south;
My lonely heart is vacant as their nests-
It shall be empty till my Chief comes home!


There are no footfalls that can make me glad,
There are no warblings of the lover's lute,
At eventide, outside the wigwam door.


No tender hands caress me as they used;
Only the lips of moonbeams kiss my breast;
And I am sadder than the Whip- po-will.


When wilt thou come ? and is the trail so long,
Three moons must stalk between thee and thy bride ?
She waits for thee as eagerly, Lenape,


As Earth for Spring to kiss it into buds!
The Bending Lily yearns for him who will
Made her as happy as a humming bird!"
And softly with her foot she stirred
A clump of water-lilies, and then grew as mute
As moulting robins.


Like a lark that skims
The outer surface of cerulean
Clouds, shot a canoe from out the shadow
Of the trailing trees; and, like a blood-hound
On its mistress ' knee, it placed its long head
On the beach. Another and another,
And a third; while from them leaped a score of
Painted braves.


So softly came they, the Mohegan girl
Perceived them not till some dry branches cracked
Beneath their feet; then, springing up, she threw
Her arms around the neck of one who stalked
Majestically as a king-' twas not
Lenape. All rich with blushes she drew back
And, at a distance, followed them into
The Indian village.


The Council fire
Leaped high that night; a scalping party that
Had been three moons away, came opulent
In deeds and trophies back. And there were
Praises and welcomings for the returned,
Wailings and wild sorrowing for the dead.


The hungry fire was fed with brushwood; high
Into the night its flaming arms were stretched
Like one in prayer. Without the reaches of
Its radiancy stood Tousoulia,
With heart as full of tears as a cloud in April time.


Each warrior told his
Own exploits with a wild eloquence; then
As the calm of stagnant winds before the
Lightning, with its fiery finger, pricks
The swollen cloud, and deluges the earth
With most delicious tears, a silence fell
Upon the plumed and dusky throng. Then, like
The moanings of a distant ocean, broke
Upon a hundred swarthy lips the name
Of all names that Tousoulia loved.


War Eagle rose; the hair had fallen from
His aged head as leaves from the grand oak
In autumn winds. With a big heart he spoke:
When the Great Father scalps the forest trees,
And we have laid our store of bear-meat in,
Our young men must take panther skins and corn
To Nemhaw's wigwam, for he hath no son!"


The speaker paused, and thro' the stillness trilled
A laugh so fearful that the couchant braves
Sprang to their feet; the sleepy watch curs howled,
And frighted squaws drew nearer to the fire.
Tousoulia pressing through the wildered
Throng, stood by the crackling fire scornfully.
The great Mohegan is not dead! she cried. "
I hear the paddles of his bark canoe
Afar, afar!" she paused like one that hears
A sound i' the distance. "He will come. I'll wait
For him. He pants beneath the weight of scalps!
The great Mohegan is not dead! "
Alas! in the too sudden shock of wo, her brain
Had lost its equipoise, and her mind went
Wandering, like a bird whose nest has been
Destroyed.


Through weary length of autumn
Days, she sat beside the Juniata
Trailing her feet, the live long day, among
The globes of water-lilies, and ' twas thus
She made her moan unto the listening wood,
And to the mouthing wind, and to the stream
Whose voice was like the music of her own:
When wilt thou come? and is the trail so long,
Three moons must stalk between thee and thy bride,
Whose heart is empty as a last year's nest ?"
And to this day the spot is pointed out
Where sat the maniac girl, and saw three
Summers drop in leafy graves, waiting for
Him who never, never came to make her
Happy as a humming bird. "






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