Onota the White Doe

In the wood of the Silver Beeches
Onota, the white doe,
Wandered the forest reaches
In the days of the long ago;
Browsed where the aisles were brackened
When the dusk or the dawning slackened,
As white as the eddying snow
That hides the crispèd grass
At the tide of Candlemas.

As supple she was and slender
As the arrowy hickory bole;
And she had for her defender
The love of the great All-Spirit
That over the earth and near it
Leans and broods and yearns
If the red day-planet burns,
Or night, with its shadowy stole,
Is a balm for the bruisèd soul.

As light of foot was she
As the milkweed-down that drifts
Over the meadow rifts
When the torch of the maple tree
Is a beacon among the firs, —
Is the autumn's beacon-fire, —
And the lonely cricket chirrs
Of the summer's spent desire.

And never she had for foeman
One of the bronzèd bowmen
Ranging the forest trail;
Nay, for they ever deemed her
Shielded and sacred; dreamed her
Presence a happy omen
Of the life that shall never fail, —
A precious and pulsing part
Of the Almighty Heart.

Opal and rose and beryl
In the wood of the Silver Beeches
Was the season's varied flow,
And never a sign of peril
In all of the waving reaches
Menaced the milk-white doe.
Then (ah, the wanton woe!)
When the blooms hung as a garland
On the spires of the columbine,
There fared from out of a far land
O'er the barren wastes of the brine
One who was fain to bring
From his forest wandering,
As a star plucked out of the star-land,
Some trophy to his king.

And led by the feet of Fate, or
Led by the thread of chance,
He met with Wando the traitor, —
Wando, the redman traitor, —
(Evil hung on the hour!)
And he heard the woodland story
Like a strain of wild romance,
Till he thought of naught but the glory
Of slaying this forest flower.

When over the Silver Beeches
The moon was a golden targe,
They thridded the silent reaches
To a wood-pool's reedy marge;
They crouched them long and low,
(Ah, but the wanton woe!)
Till out of the purple glooming,
Like a water lily blooming,
Stepped forth the milk-white doe.

A crimson stain on the grasses;
Reeds with a crimson dye,
And on the wind that passes
The thrill of a poignant cry, —
A cry as of mortal pain;
And never again, nay, never,
With wax of the year or wane,
Gather the days or sever,
Were seen those treacherous twain;
Never, nay, never again!

But still 'neath the Silver Beeches,
Fair and free and fain,
In matin or vesper glow,
(Thus say the men of the Faith)
Though it be ghost or wraith,
Fleet through the forest reaches
Wanders the milk-white doe.