Mon-Daw-Min ; Or, The Origin Of The Indian-Corn.

Cherry bloom and green buds bursting     Fleck the azure skies;     In the spring wood, hungering, thirsting,     Faint an Indian lies.     To behold his guardian spirit     Fasts the dusky youth;     Prays that thus he may inherit     Warrior strength and truth.     Weak he grows, the war-path gory     Seems a far delight;     Now he scans the flowers, whose glory     Is not won by fight.     "Hunger kills me; see my arrow     Bloodless lies: I ask,     If life's doom be grave-pit narrow,     Deathless make its task.     "For man's welfare guide my being,     So I shall not die     Like the flow'rets, fading, fleeing,     When the snow is nigh.     "Medicine from the plants we borrow,     Salves from many a leaf;     May they not kill hunger's sorrow,     Give with food relief?"     Suddenly a spirit shining     From the sky came down,     Green his mantle, floating, twining,     Gold his feather crown.     "I have heard thy thought unspoken;     Famous thou shall be;     Though no scalp shall be the token,     Men shall speak of thee.     "Bravely borne, men's heaviest burden     Ever lighter lies;     Wrestling with me, win the guerdon;     Gain thy wish, arise!"     Now he rises, and, prevailing,     Hears the angel say:     "Strong in weakness, never failing,     Strive yet one more day.     "Now again I come, and find thee     Yet with courage high,     So that, though my arms can bind thee,     Victor thou, not I.     "Hark! to-morrow, conquering, slay me,     Blest shall be thy toil:     After wrestling, strip me, lay me     Sleeping in the soil.     "Visit oft the place; above me     Root out weeds and grass;     Fast no more; obeying, love me;     Watch what comes to pass."     Waiting through the long day dreary,     Still he hungers on;     Once more wrestling, weak and weary,     Still the fight is won.     Stripped of robes and golden feather,     Buried lies the guest:     Summer's wonder-working weather     Warms his place of rest.     Ever his commands fulfilling,     Mourns his victor friend,     Fearing, with a heart unwilling,     To have known the end.     No! upon the dark mould fallow     Shine bright blades of green;     Rising, spreading, plumes of yellow     O'er their sheaves are seen.     Higher than a mortal's stature     Soars the corn in pride;     Seeing it, he knows that Nature     There stands deified.     "'Tis my friend," he cries, "the guerdon     Fast and prayer have won;     Want is past, and hunger's burden     Soon shall torture none."