Classic Poem

Build the wigwam close and secret,
Bend the willow boughs,
Wind the sacred forest creeper
Through the house.

Heat the glowing granite boulder
Till it scorches brown
The green birch bark we shove under.
Set it down.

Strip him naked, loose his war-lock,
Bind his arms behind;
He shall see the sacred spirits
Of his kind.

Cast upon the fiery granite
In the center ring
Cool clear water brought by maidens
From the spring.

Knit the door with wild-grape tendrils,
Leave him there alone,
Start the mournful tom-tom's wailing
Monotone.

Round the wigwam dusky bodies
Glisten all the night
And the Spirit-maker wears an
Elk-tooth white.

Little fiery lights are glancing
Through the stifling gloom,
And his nostrils sense a subtle
Strange perfume.

Little fiery faces glimmer,
Little hands are laid
Cool against his sweating body
Unafraid.

And the voices of his fathers
Through the shadows dim
All the secrets of the spirits
Tell to him.

Tell him where the tribe shall winter,
What new enemies
Have come creeping through the marshes
On their knees.

Tell him that the Spirit-maker
Walks with Manitou,
That his voice should warn the peoples
What to do.

Louder beat the muffled tom-toms
Through the stifling steam
And the throbbing in his temples
Is like flame.

See, the eastern sky is whiter
And the stars have gone;
Open wide the sacred wigwam
With the dawn

Lift him out, the fainting prophet,—
Holy is he now,
For thin spirit hands have rested
On his brow.

Nevermore the warriors know him
In his empty place,
He has seen the Long Departed
Face to face.

He has paid the price of vision,
Looked past life and death;
Sacred in the tribal councils
What he saith.

Manitou has breathed upon him
And his eyes are deep;
And the lips that spirits greeted,
Secrets keep.