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

A poem by John Campbell

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."