Epic Ballad
Not here, not today, but in the poem below, published in Indian School Journal, in 1913. Hodjkiss was Cheyenne/Sioux, and almost nothing else is known about him. Skilled poet, though, as evidenced by this driving, carefully rhymed ballad, written in English, which was likely not his native tongue.
Song of the Storm-Swept Plain
The wind shrills forth
From the white cold North
Where the gates of the Storm-god are;
And ragged clouds,
Like mantling shrouds,
Engulf the last, dim star.
Through naked trees,
In low coulees,
The night-voice moans and sighs;
And sings of deep,
Warm cradled sleep,
With wind-crooned lullabies.
He stands alone
Where the storm’s weird tone
In mocking swells;
And the snow-sharp breath
Of cruel Death
The tales of its coming tells.
The frightened plaint
Of his sheep sound faint
Then the choking wall of white—
Then is heard no more,
In the deep-toned roar,
Of the blinding, pathless night.
No light nor guide,
Save a mighty tide
Of mad fear drives him on;
‘Till his cold-numbed form
Grows strangely warm;
And the strength of his limbs is gone.
Through the storm and night
A strange, soft light
O’er the sleeping shepherd gleams;
And he hears the word
Of the Shepherd Lord
Called out from the bourne of dreams.
Come, leave the strife
Of your weary life;
Come unto Me and rest
From the night and cold,
To the sheltered fold,
By the hand of love caressed.
The storm shrieks on,
But its work is done—
A soul to its God has fled;
And the wild refrain
Of the wind-swept plain,
Sings requiem for the dead.