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.

IMG_4763.jpeg

Song of the Storm-Swept Plain 

William D. Hodjkiss

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.