Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, NA-TAS-KA; A LEGEND OF LAKE MOHONK, by EDNA DEAN PROCTOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

NA-TAS-KA; A LEGEND OF LAKE MOHONK, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Where shawangunk's rampart meets the skies
Last Line: The waves will speak natas'ka's name.
Alternate Author Name(s): Dean
Subject(s): Lake Mohonk, New York; Legends, Native American


Why does the south wind sigh as it passes Mohonk's lovely water?
Why are the shadows so deep where the cliffs hang over the tide?
Ages ago the shore was the home of the Sagamore's daughter;
Ages to come her story with mountain and lake will abide.
Still, through the lapsing years, the winds and the shadows have sought her,
Sighing and falling for ever for lover and bride.

WHERE Shawangunk's rampart meets the skies,
Cool in its broad embrasure lies
The fairest lake the hills enfold —
Crystal Mohonk, whose warders bold
Challenge the winds, and answer loud
When thunders roll from cloud to cloud.
The Red Man loved its sparkling tide,
Its crags, its woods, its valleys wide,
And on its sunny marge, of yore,
Dwelt the high-hearted Sagamore
Who ruled from mount to river shore,
But now, for many a restless day,
Had bent beneath the Mohawk's sway,
And tribute paid for cliff and strand
To chiefs of Ononda'ga's band.
Of all the ills her sire had known
Little his sheltering care had shown
His young Natas'ka —rarest maid
That ever roamed in Shawangunk's glade.
How blithe she was! how light and free
Her footsteps over hill and lea!
Her velvet cheek, her smiling eyes,
Her lustrous hair whose soft disguise
Her dimpled shoulders fell adown,
Her rounded arms so rosy brown,
The fawn-skin tunic's careless grace,
The girdle thick with wampum strewn,
The shining beads that, lace on lace,
About her shapely throat were thrown,
The moccasins with broidery fine
Her fingers wrought beneath the pine —
From Shawangunk mountains to the sea
No other maid was rare as she.

And had she lovers? Aye, her name
Thrilled many a youth of forest fame
Who heaped his gifts and sued her sire
With eager words and heart of fire;
But one and all he answered still,
'The maid shall wed the man she will!'
For pleased he knew his faith was plight
To Wis'sewa of lineage bright,
Who proudly wore by crag and lea
The wolf-badge of the Len'a-pe;
To Wis'sewa the valorous,
Peer of the chiefs of Esopus,
And worthy, joyful days or dire,
To share Wawas'sing's council-fire;
To Wis'sewa, whose tender gaze,
As in the mead she plucked the maize
That golden morn he gayly bore
Good tidings to the Sagamore,
Entranced her heart, unmoved before.
'Welcome!' her gracious sire had said,
And to the fur-strewn couch had led;
The while she brought their highland cheer —
Their trout, their samp, their venison —
And when the simple meal was done,
And tidings told, delayed to hear
Of wars, and hunts, and phantom deer
Fleet as the wind, with antlers wide,
By wanderers on the hills descried;
And stolen glance and mantling cheek
Revealed the charm they could not speak.
And when beside the spring they met
And vowed to love and love for ever,
Within her necklace-beads he set
His treasured, magic amulet
Wrought by the gods of ruddy ore
On the Great Lake's mysterious shore,
That naught their wedded lives might sever.
Then — with the honored, ancient ways
Befitting chiefs and bridal days
Observed —the Sagamore decreed
When trees should bud and brooks be freed,
With feast and train the maid should go
To glad his lodge the hills below.

Alas! an alien eye has seen
Natas'ka in her forest sheen!—
Bold Tagonwe'ta, from the river
Where the fierce Mohawk fills his quiver,
Has marked the maid and swiftly sped
This darling of the woods to wed;
Nor brooked he rite, nor form's delay,
Bent but to win and haste away.
Renowned in hunt and war was he,
And versed in woodland gallantry:
His beaver robe, his broidered vest,
The bear emblazoned on his breast,
His locks with eagle feathers crowned,
The wampum-belt his waist that bound,
His regal port, his manly form,
Were fit a maiden's heart to warm.
And pipes of carven stone he brought,
And richest furs through perils sought
In lonely wastes and northern snows,
Quivers of otter skin, and bowls
Painted with potent, mystic scrolls;
All at her father's feet he throws —
He who denial ne'er had known —
And asks Natas'ka for his own.

'Brave Mohawk,' said the Sagamore,
'Thy words would open many a door,
But I have said, and say it still,
The maid shall wed the man she will;
And now my faith for her is plight
To Wis'sewa of lineage bright
Who proudly wears by crag and lea
The wolf-badge of the Len'-a-pe;
Our tribes are kindred, and their sway
Was mightier once than thine to-day.
Seek in thy vales thy heart's desire —
The maid to tend thy wigwam fire —
Natas'ka cannot be thy bride.'

'Vain boaster!' fierce the Mohawk cried,
'Shall Tagonwe'ta be denied?
Shall thus a vassal chieftain dare?
Let the base Len'-a-pe beware! —
The sun will sooner leave the sky,
The river northward flow, than I
My purpose lose! for, mark me well,
Natas'ka in my lodge shall dwell!
Ye hear my words.' That instant fell
A gloom of clouds o'er lake and wood; —
And, turning quickly where he stood,
Scorn on his lips, his brow a frown,
The Mohawk strode the mountain down,
And vanished, like a shadow fled,
Where the slight pathway valeward led.

'Begone, bold robber!' said her sire,
'And let the north wind cool thine ire.
Thy words are hawks. The dove shall fly
Beyond their swoop to safer sky.
Natas'ka, thou hast naught to fear!'
And forth he fared to chase the deer.

Now fell the snows; the brooks were still;
The hunters housed by plain and hill;
But in her wigwam's fold, the maid,
Her robes to deck, her mats to braid,
Forgot the lodges by the river
Where the fierce Mohawk filled his quiver,
And let her fancy wander free
To Wis'sewa the Len'-a-pe,
Sure that his talisman had power
To shield her in an evil hour.
Thrice the new moon o'er Shawangunk hung,
Then March winds roared the woods among,
And April's sunny, showery weather
Woke bird and brook and tree together.
To-morrow, at the break of day,
Natas'ka takes her westward way,
And all the forest pomp with her
Of gift and guard and servitor.

Content, yet fain to keep the hills,
Before the evening dew distils,
Or the low sun the vale bereaves,
Unseen the merry camp she leaves
And climbs the steep to view once more
The crags, the lake, the lovely shore;
While down the vale the day declines
And crimsons all the mountain shrines.
Wistful she stands above the brink
And marks a fawn that stoops to drink,
And a lone eagle circling high
Where the huge cliffs uphold the sky,
And north, upon the horizon's rim,
Greets the great ranges, blue and dim,
That bar her father from his foes;
Then —wondering what the years will prove
Borne from this scene of childhood's love
Where sweet is every breeze that blows —
To all the gods of earth and air
She breathes a fervent, maiden prayer;
And the wind died; the vale was still;
And twilight hung o'er lake and hill.

'Natas'ka!' said a voice so near
It smote her heart with chilling fear;
And all the joy within her dies
To see the dreaded Mohawk rise
From the dusk wood and front her thus,
Defiant, stern, victorious.
'Natas'ka! sire nor Powers Divine
Can aught avail, for thou art mine!
Long have I watched; my warriors wait
To guard thee to the river-gate,
And thence our light canoes will fly
Up where the Mohawk meadows lie.
The base-born, coward Len'-a-pe
'Twere shame to mate with maid like thee!'

A step, and he is at her side —
But, swift as fawn, afar she springs,
And where the pathway closest clings
To the sheer edge, she holds her way,
Pursued as hawk pursues its prey!
Woe to the magic amulet
Her lover in her necklace set!
Where was the hill-god's kindly care?
Why failed the powers of wave and air
Her frantic homeward flight to guide?
A riven, treacherous rock she pressed
Crashed downward to the lake's clear breast
And plunged the maid, to-morrow's bride,
Full deep beneath the whelming tide! —
Madly the Mohawk followed her,
Dropping from crag to cleft and spur;
But when he gained the startled shore
No trace the rippling waters bore,
Nor sight nor sound in cove or glade,
Save the wild moan the night wind made,
Natas'ka's hapless fate betrayed!
And rent with bitterest rage and pain,
Baffled, and powerless to deliver,
To the dusk wood he turned again
And sought, with stealthy steps, the river.

I love to think athwart the wave
She swam to find some hidden cave,
Some secret bower whence glad she stole
To meet the sachem of her soul;
I know not —but the legend's bride
Sleeps, evermore, beneath the tide!

—And yet, they say, in balmy eves
Above the brink the maiden stands,
And, silent, while the south wind grieves,
Lifts to the sky imploring hands;
And then her bold, relentless lover
Leaps toward her from the laurel cover,
And proud salute and sharp recall
Echo along the mountain wall;
But, should you near them, man and maid
Grow faintest shadows in the shade,
And down the lake pursuit and cry
Blend with the wandering zephyr's sigh.

Gone are the sagamores of old;
Their heights and valleys strangers hold;
And blue-eyed girls with sunny locks
Roam the shy glades or climb the rocks,
And list to lovers' vows, and dream
Of bridal morns, by cliff and stream.
But while Mohonk spreads crystal-fair
And Shawangunk lifts its crags in air,
While laurels flush and sunsets flame,
The waves will speak Natas'ka's name.





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