History of Oakland County, Michigan, with illustrations descriptive of its scenery, palatial residences, public buildings, fine blocks, and important manufactories, Part 21

Author: Durant, Samuel W
Publication date: 1877
Publisher: Philadelphia, L. H. Everts & co.
Number of Pages: 553

USA > Michigan > Oakland County > History of Oakland County, Michigan, with illustrations descriptive of its scenery, palatial residences, public buildings, fine blocks, and important manufactories > Part 21

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The beautiful poem by Samuel M. Leggett, into which is skillfully woven much of the legendary lore of the aborigines, and which gives an additional charm to the romantic sheet of water known as Orchard lake, we reproduce here for the benefit of our readers. It is a curious and well-written poem, valuable not only for its vivid illustrations of Indian mythology but for its intrinsic merit. The introduction is necessary to an understanding of the poem, and is given verbatim.

" THE LEGEND OF ME-NAH-SA-GOR-NING.

" In the State of Michigan, in one county alone, that of Oakland, is a chain of beautiful lakes, some hundreds in number, many of them miles in length and width. Around these wind the roadways, over beaches of white pebbles, and shaded by the ' forests primeval.' Two rivers, the Huron and Clinton, run through these lakes, and in their tortuous forms wind, and turn, and twist, till,

This is much sociological instead of political lout

HISTORY OF OAKLAND COUNTY, MICHIGAN.

after a course of hundreds of miles, they at last rest in Lakes Erie and St. Clair. These rivers are in summer dotted with the water-lily, as they flow on through the 'openings,' and on their banks are huge old oaks, under which, in the ' days that are gone,' stood many a wigwam.

" The legend which I have attempted to versify is founded upon an incident occurring at Orchard lake long before the coming of the white man, and while the grand farms now lying around it were merely a vast 'oak opening,' its sole occupants the Indian and the wild beast.

" Very near the centre of this Orchard lake is a large island, wooded to its very shore. On it are a few apple-trees, ' old and gnarled,' remnants of an orchard planted so long ago that the Indians even have no data concerning it. Its name, 'Me-nah-sa-gor-ning,' meaning ' apple place,' still lives in tradition.

" On this island the Algonquin chief, Pontiac, had his lodge, after his repulse at the siege of Detroit. On the high bank of this lake, opposite the island, is still

to be seen the ancient burial-ground of the Sacs, Hurons, and Wyandots.

" Tradition says that, back beyond the memory of the tribe, a young chief sick- ened and suddenly died. The maiden to whom he was betrothed became insane, and whenever she could escape from her guardians, would take the body of the chief from its resting-place in the old ground, across the lake, and carry it back where his lodge formerly stood.

" At last, weary of guarding her, with the advice of their ' medicine man,' the tribe killed her, upon her refusal to marry. This crime, so directly opposed to all former Indian custom, so offended the Great Spirit that he avowed his inten- tion to totally destroy the tribe, and to give the maiden, ' as long as water flowed,' complete control over it.

" She alone has power to assume her form at any time. She can compel the attendance of the tribe at any time by the beating of the Indian drum. At this sound they must gather and wait where an old canoe has been gradually covered by the drifting sands. Upon the signal of her coming with her dead the warriors must meet her on the shore, bear the chief on his bier, and lay him down by the ashes of his council-fire, and, waiting beside him until she can caress him, bear him back to his resting-place.

" All, however, must be done between sunset and sunrise,-a foggy night being always chosen, to elude observation.

" On the cedar-crowned beach of Me-nah-sa-gor-ning, Where the waves o'er the pebbles roll slowly ashore; Where the ruby-eyed gull, with its head 'neath its wing, Sleeps calm on its nest when its day's flight is o'er,

II.

" Lies an ancient canoe, buried'deep in the sand That the storms in their fury have over it spread ; And at eve, when the fog rolls away o'er the land, This canoe rises up, and is launched by the dead.

III.

" As the night-hawk whirls by with a swoop overhead, And the loon's trilling call rises shrill from the bay ; In the west the calm lake is with diamond-dust spread, And in garnet-hued clouds the red sun fades away.

IV.

"O'er the marsh hangs a fog, and all wildly it trends, Rolling backward and forward o'er valley and hill ; And it wavers like smoke where the still river bends, And it toys with the alders, yet never is still.

"Then it fondles the flags, and its pearly drops press The soft cheek of the iris while filling its urn ; And it spreads o'er the mosses a spray-covered dress, And it trickles adown the green fronds of the fern.

VI.

" At the roll of a drum the gaunt wolf leaves his prey, While the dead rise from graves 'mong the roots of the trees, And they listen a moment, then hasten away, Till their footfall is heard on the fog-laden breeze.

VII.

" They are seeking faint trails, and they halt as each sign Comes again, as of old, on their 'wildering sight; And they wind through the trees till their torches of pine Gleam like nebulous stars through the curtain of night.

VIII.

" They are gathered, all armed, where the stranded canoe On the mist-hidden lake floats as light as of yore ;

And they wait on the beach till a distant halloo

Rolls away on the night from the opposite shore.

" O'er the lake where the pines laugh the wild winds to scorn, And still sigh for the dead who are dust on earth's breast, Echo shouts to old Echo till, far distant borne, Like a play-wearied child it sinks down to its rest.

" With a sound on the air like the loon's pattering feet, When it drags o'er the lake as it rises for flight,

A canoe's glistening prow cuts the waves as they meet, And mingles their spray with the dew-drops of night.

XI. "There's a swaying of reeds where the ripples pass through, With a murmur of waves seething over the sand, When through rifts of the fog looms a tiny canoe, Which an Indian girl slowly guides to the land.

XII.

" In the frail birchen shell she is paddling alone, As it surges along o'er the white-crested wave; And she heedeth no sound, save a low undertone Like the dirge that the mourners chant over a grave.

XIII.

" Bending low o'er a form that seems nodding in sleep, With her paddle she checks the canoe's rapid way, Till it noiselessly rests where the sentinels keep Steadfast watch all the night for the coming of day.

XIV.

"Ere her light-floating bark crush the beautiful weeds That are draping each stone with their emerald green, She has guided its prow where the brown-tufted reeds Throw their buds in her lap as she passes between.

xv.

" As she leaves her small craft by the stranded canoe, And glides in through the mist where the warriors meet, In the hush of the night-time, the shoal water through, Comes a dull, plashing sound, as of moccasined feet.

XVI.

"Looking back like the doe when the wolf's distant cry, Swelling loud on the wind, breaks at night on her ear, Stands the maid in deep shadow, while silently by Aged warriors pass with the chief on his bier.

XVII. " With a sound like slow rain, each foot moves a leaf That has mouldered long years in the old forest trail ; While the drone of the wave and low chant for the chief Float quiveringly up over hill-top and dale.

XVIII.

"'Neath an old fallen pine, whose bared roots are all torn, And are knotted and twined like huge serpents in fight, On dressed skins of the deer lies the chief they have borne Over moss-covered paths through the darkness of night.

XIX.

" From the rain-dimpled ashes, time-furrowed and gray, Through the cedars the council-fire glimmers once more; And its flame through the mist throws a pale, lurid ray On the maiden's slight form as she comes from the shore.

xx.

" She kneels in the midst of the warriors there, With her little hands clasped o'er her blanketed head ; And far out o'er the lake on the fog-thickened air Floats the dirge which the mourner chants over her dead.

XXI. "' I have borne thee again from the far-distant shore, I am kneeling, beloved, beside thee once more, And the night goes by- Dost thou think of me still in the Spirit Land ? Oh, loved ! oh, lost ! could'st thou clasp my hand I would gladly die.

XXII.

"' They will bear thee away from my sight again, And the autumn's dried leaves, and the summer's rain Will fall on thy breast ;-

Wilt thou think, love, of me, when the evening showers Shed their tears with mine on the beautiful flowers, Where thy head shall rest ?'

HISTORY OF OAKLAND COUNTY, MICHIGAN.

XXIII.

" Once again the mute throng, with a slow, muffled tread, Wend their way o'er the beach to the stranded canoe,- Once again through the foam, gently bearing the dead, Go the warriors, plashing the shoal water through.

XXIV.

" Kindly hands take her own : with a look of despair, While yet warm on her lip breathes the simple refrain, She moves on in the trail of the sad mourners there, As the fawn follows on when the doe has been slain.

XXV.

"In the silence of grief, peering out through the dark, On the shore with her dead stands the listening maid, When, rocking light on the wave, the once stranded bark Slowly glides where the bier of the chieftain is laid.

XXVI.

"Not a sound on the beach from that shadowy crew As they lift the dead form of the warrior there ; Not a sound on the lake, as that ancient canoe Floats as silently out as the mist on the air.

XXVII.

" Leaning forward, she stands with her hand to her ear, And she listens, where all seems as still as the grave, And she peers through the gloom-not a sound can she hear, Save the moan and the plash of the incoming wave.

XXVIII.

" Then the maid, stooping down, holds her little brown hand, Where the waves, flecked with foam, die away on the shore; Till she knows that the swell surging up o'er the sand Is a messenger back from the bark passing o'er.

XXIX.

"She has passed through the mist as the sentinel's cry, Telling daylight is near, rises piercing and shrill; And again o'er the lake the old echoes reply, Then, murmuring, turn in their sleep and are still.

xxx.

"In their old forest graves sleep the shadowy band,- And the fog melts away with the first ray of morn,- While the ancient canoe sinks again in the sand, And the gulls scream aloud in their greeting of dawn."

The following are selections from contributions, by various writers, to the litera- ture of the day. Those of Hon. H. M. Look are especially fine :

VOICES OF THE SEA. BY HENRY M. LOOK.

List, the melancholy murmur of the sea ! The reverberating anthem of the sea ! I can hear its great heart beating, And its foamy lips repeating Their mournful and eternal symphony.

In the night-time, when the billows boom and roll, When the spirit spurns mortality's control, How the never-resting ocean Will communicate its motion To the stormy sea of passion in the soul.

There are thoughts that bloom like lilies on the deep- Exhalations from the stilly breasts that sleep In the palaces of amber Where the sea-weeds wind and clamber- They are secrets that the ocean cannot keep.

There are fantasies that fill the misty air, Floating goldenly as Berenice's hair ; Where the plumy foam is bending They are flitting, they are blending. Oh, the meaning and the mystery they wear !

Roll forever, O reverberating Sea! Peal thy thunders, O thou everlasting Sea ! For their measured detonation Is the pæan of creation- Time's lofty and eternal symphony.

PONTIAC, MICH., February, 1876.

THE POWER OF BEAUTY: AN INCIDENT.

BY HENRY M. LOOK.

Alone within his closed and silent room, At noon of one autumnal night, sat one Of noblest skill in his most noble art : One whom, for generous qualities, I loved, Albeit not all men loved him. On his breast,

In thoughtful mood, his curl-crowned head was bowed,

And as the struggling flame cast now and then A gleam athwart his face, thou mightst have caught The eager lineaments where Genius dwelt, And high Ambition held her shadowy seat. Not his the hard heart of the charlatan ; His steady hand, that could the scalpel guide So closely past life's throbbing portal that The soul should startle in its citadel, Was gentle as a woman's, and as kind.

A cautious step came to the door. Within The lock the turning key scarce made a sound. The door swung silently, and in there stalked A strong, rough man, who bore a sheeted load. The surgeon waved direction with his hand, And when the burden was bestowed, in tone Subdued demanded of the boor : " Where didst

Thou dig ?" "Within the Strangers' Quarter." " Some Unknown and friendless wretch, God grant." " Unknown,

Maybe, and friendless; but no wretch, as I'm No Christian."

" What ?" "Thou'lt see." "Is't man, or woman ?" " Woman. Give me my fee." "Here. Now begone."

Once more alone, the surgeon turned to look Upon the form that lay so still, so straight, Waiting so speechlessly his cold, keen knife. There gleamed on either hand the implements Of his deft art, yet he forebore their use. There seemed a bar between him and the dead. He touched her not, but pondered bodingly. Then came a longing to behold her face. Misgivingly, for wonder who she was,

He laid the vestments off and looked upon Her features. He shrunk back as if the dead Had spoken in her shroud! How a dead face Will sometimes smite us with its patient, sad Rebuke!

Oh ! I have seen a singular Transparent beauty, waxen, wonderful, Cling to a coffined corse. Such beauty clung To her. Decay stood yet aloof, as loth To shatter with his ashy wand a form So fair. The mingled hues of death and life Like a seraphic atmosphere suffused Her o'er ; a glory supernatural Encompassed her.

Silent a space he stood. Erelong, as musing half aloud, he spake; Yet brokenly, still stopping oft to gaze : "Sleep on, nor fear profaning hands. Like some

Lost princess of the dead thou seemest, cast Upon this boundary of doom to be The sorceress of my unresting thought. In my rapt mind I liken thee unto That miracle in marble of the Greek Cleomenes, whose hushed enchantment checks The laughter of the Florentine. Thy head Lies proudly in its lustrous wealth ; a spell O'erfloats it, like a cloudy dream. Thy hand, Stretching to me its misty fingers from The tomb, is beauteous as that peerless Scot's Whose blood was shed by great Elizabeth. Thy limbs that lie in whiteness, and thy small, Pale feet-where have they walked, where danced or knelt ? What home was glorified by thee ? Who saw The splendor of thine eyes ? Who kissed thy lips ? Who loved thee, and who weeps for thee to-night ? Voiceless and cold-alas ! how cold !- How cam'st Thou in the Strangers' Quarter ? Possibly Thou wast an outcast for thy wrong, and sought'st In a strange land a stranger's grave. I know Not, little reck ; for thy supernal grace

HISTORY OF OAKLAND COUNTY, MICHIGAN.

Hath wrought such marvelous control of me That I perforce am reverent. My hand, That fain had traced thy tender nerves, and searched The chill, deserted chambers of thy heart, Is stayed by a mysterious power. Oh ! whence, If not from high Infinity, doth come The sway ineffable that Beauty hath ? Wiser, mayhap, than our dogmatic creeds, Was the embodiment the sages gave- The crown of roses, the Olympian seat. Beauty enthroned with the Eternal sits, And her bewitching cestus is the charm Of Heaven and Earth. Like a sweet vestal doth She breathe upon the world, and fan the flame Of immortality in human hearts. Upon each life her blest ideal lies. Men carve and paint and build to compass her; Uncomprehended still she dwells and reigns- A spirit kin to the Supreme-a touch Of Deity ennobling the poor dust. Here do I swear to her divinity ! Naught less had thwarted my resolve, nor held Me back. Sleep on."

The taper waned ; the sad Moon touched the dim horizon's circle; still The waking watched the wakeless.

Morning broke. A purple beam crept in and rested on The sleeper's face, and touched with brilliance soft The heavy hair, the curtained eyes, the calm, Unmoving lips. It was as if the soul, Because none other came, in pity stooped From its celestial seat to kiss its clay.

Mutely the watcher turned. There bloomed a rare White lily by his flowery casement, that The night had wept on. Breaking it, all pearled With tremulous transparent drops, he laid It o'er the stainless billows of her breast, A sacrifice to Beauty. In her hair He placed, as telling what his words could not, Geranium and amaranth ; meet crown For her, the slumbering bride of Death. Alone Through all the morn he labored to atone For breaking of her rest; surrounding her With all of best and costliest that could Befit her in her tomb. At noon he kissed The lips that kissed him not again, went out. And left her lying in the lonely room.

At eve I met him ; and he told me all The tale, as I have told it thee. He begged Me I would go and help him give the dust To dust again. In the still night we ope'd The kind Earth's breast, and gave her back her child. No bier, save only our clasped hands; no light But the lorn moon ; no mourners but the stars- The silent, everlasting stars-and we Who weeping closed the nameless grave.

As through The rising dawn I homeward walked, I saw The Star of Beauty burning in the east. Wide from her sapphire throne the Goddess waved Her wand, and breaking down the dusky arch Of night, let in the day. She touched the hills With glory, and the clouds, and all the seas, As late she touched the features of the dead. With lifted hand I hailed and blessed her, bright Enchantress of the universe ! PONTIAC, MICH., January, 1876.

PRO PATRIA.

[On witnessing the unveiling of the Michigan Soldiers' Monument, at Detroit, April 9, 1872.] BY HENRY M. LOOK.

Through glade and glen, from deep to deep, The silent hosts of heroes sleep-

Their arms at rest, their labor done, Their battle fought, the vict'ry won.

O'er some, through all the golden day, Fame's loudest echoes grandly play,

And immortelle and myrtle weave A dewy wreath for them at eve,

While floats around them, low and sweet, The prayer which loving lips repeat.

O'er many more no trophies rise,- Unnamed, unknown each sleeper lies,

With wilding fern or asphodel Alone to mark where valor fell.

What though above their dreamless sleep No mourner's head be bowed to weep ? . What though no sage their record write, Nor grateful bard their fame indite ?

Their glory gleams o'er every plain That bears their blood's redeeming stain :

Like the soft splendor of the stars When first they break their twilight bars,

The pure effulgence pours around, And hallows the historic ground.

Pile ye the granite, rear the bronze For Freedom's brave, immortal sons.

Rich though the tribute, rare the pains, A prouder guerdon yet remains.

When bronze shall waste, and granite fall, And dark oblivion mantle all,

On generations yet to be Shall break the anthem of the free,

Forever wafting with its tone The names ye carve in crumbling stone;

Forever bearing-blest refrain !- The honors of the nameless slain.

Then sleep, ye silent heroes, sleep, Through glade and glen, from deep to deep ;

Nor foeman's shaft nor coward's blame Shall reach your everlasting fame.

And thou, O Empire of the Free ! Beloved land, God compass thee !

Still keep and guard thee in thy ways, Still prosper thee in coming days !

And ye, O People brave and blest ! Love still your country's cause the best :

Uphold her faith, maintain her powers, Defend her ramparts and her towers.

While waves her dauntless flag on high, While joyous salvos shake the sky, Be praise to Him whose fiat broke The traitor's steel, the tyrant's yoke.

THE RESCUE OF CHICAGO.

BY HENRY M. LOOK.

I saw the city's terror, I heard the city's cry, As a flame leaped out of her bosom Up, up to the brazen sky ! And wilder rose the tumult, And thicker the tidings came- Chicago, queen of the cities, Was a rolling sea of flame !

Yet higher rose the fury, And louder the surges raved (Thousands were saved but to suffer, And hundreds never were saved), Till out of the awful burning A flash of lightning went, As across to brave Saint Louis The prayer for succor was sent.

God bless thee, O true Saint Louis ! So worthy thy royal name- Back, back on the wing of the lightning Thy answer of rescue came ;

HISTORY OF OAKLAND COUNTY, MICHIGAN ..

But alas ! it could not enter Through the horrible flame and heat, For the fire had conquered the lightning, And sat in the Thunderer's seat !

God bless thee again, Saint Louis ! For resting never then, Thou calledst to all the cities By lightning and steam and pen : " Ho, ho, ye hundred sisters, Stand forth in your bravest might ! Our sister in flame is falling, Her children are dying to-night !"

And through the mighty Republic Thy summons went rolling on, Till it rippled the seas of the tropics, And ruffled the Oregon. The distant Golden City Called through her golden gates, And quickly ran the answer From the City of the Straits;

And the cities that sit in splendor Along the Atlantic sea, Replying, called to the dwellers Where the proud magnolias be. From slumber the army started At the far-resounding call- " Food for a hundred thousand," They shouted, "and tents for all."

I heard through next night's darkness The trains go thundering by, Till they stood where the fated city Shone red in the brazen sky. The rich gave their abundance, The poor their willing hands ; There was wine from all the vineyards, There was corn from all the lands.

At daybreak over the prairies Re-echoed the gladsome cry-

" Ho, look unto us, ye thousands, Ye shall not hunger nor die !" Their weeping was all the answer That the famishing throng could give To the million voices calling, " Look unto us and live !"

Destruction wasted the city, But the burning curse that came Enkindled in all the people Sweet charity's holy flame. Then still to our God be glory ! I bless Him, through my tears, That I live in the grandest nation That hath stood in all the years.

PONTIAC, MICH., October 11, 1871.

The following beautiful extracts we clip from Mr. Look's exquisite poem, entitled " CUI BONO? A SERIOUS SATIRE," delivered at the opening of the Grove high school building in Pontiac :

Where is the master that shall teach, With loving purpose and eloquent speech, The unknown wisdom that all men preach, -- The uncomprehended ideal ? And banishing all our folly hence, All our ignorance and pretense, Give us the glorious recompense,- The true, the right, the real ?

Yet who shall teach a fool his folly ? Sad it is, most melancholy, That with all our schools and masters, With books and presses everywhere, With creeds unnumbered, and to spare, Taught by unnumbered pastors, The golden god still holds his throne, With Pride and Passion,-three in one ; Still rolls, like waves of Acheron, The tide of time's disasters.

Victoria regia, queen of the lilies That float and bloom by the warm Antilles, Is the theme of the seaman's story ; But under the ocean's sounding caves, Where never a breaking billow raves, Is gathered its odorous glory.

So every mind's most lofty achievement,

Its proudest triumph, or deepest bereavement, Its utmost word for the true or good, Is conceived in the silentest solitude. In every soul is a secret cell, Void of eucharist, book, or bell,

Where never the foot of a stranger fell, Nor echoed a stranger's laughter ;

Where thoughts, like the roots of the regia, grow, Where passions burn with a smouldering glow, Where purposes ripen, which none can know, That shall reach to the far hereafter.

Ah! one I saw, and still can see :- As a picture dim she seemeth to me, By the hand of a master painted; Around the picture a halo clings, And the face that memory backward brings Is like the face of the sainted. #

* Once, in the hush of a winter night, I sat with her and watched the flight Of the stars in their shining courses, And listened entranced to her words of fate Till the lordly sun through the eastern gate Was reining his fiery horses.

The wisdom of all departed ages, Of orient poets and olden sages, The riddle of life, the lesson of time,

Flowed from her lips in a musical rhyme, Till the magical rhythm, the murmuring motion,

Seemed thrilling the earth and sky and ocean. I saw her bow her beautiful head At the fatal Messenger's words of dread : Her thin gray hair on his white beard lay, Like a filmy cloud on the breast of day, As he clasped her closely, and hand in hand They vanished into the Silent Land.

Clothed in her immortality, Her wonderful spirituality, Washed from all sensuality, She entered the glowing portal ! I caught the flash of a shining wing As the opal doors did backward swing. And a rapturous burst of triumphing, And the royal welcome of the King,- The King of the realm immortal! Often, amid life's dull refrain, I strive to recall her magical strain ; But the dust of toil and the rust of time Have obscured the words of the musical rhyme;

And they only come like a far-off hymn Chanted in some cathedral dim- Only a wandering waving swell, Like the dying tone of a minster bell : Yet, bending close, and listening near, This murmurous strain I still can hear- Being may change, and years may roll, But youthful forever remains the soul ; Brightening, rising in endless line, For life is immortal, and love divine- This, and the dirge they sang for her When all the great bells rang for her.

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History of Oakland County, Michigan, with illustrations descriptive of its scenery, palatial residences, public buildings, fine blocks, and important manufactories, Part 21

Author: Durant, Samuel W Publication date: 1877 Publisher: Philadelphia, L. H. Everts & co. Number of Pages: 553

Author: Durant, Samuel W
Publication date: 1877
Publisher: Philadelphia, L. H. Everts & co.
Number of Pages: 553