Legend of the Isiamagomi 1838

The Isiamagomi, or Long Lake, is in the Country of the Saguenay. The rock mentioned in the tradition is still a conspicuous object.¹

He that is weary of the din and toil

Of towns and commerce, let him go abroad

And ramble through the wilderness awhile,

And ease his spirits of their anxious load.

Let his dulled eye behold the amber sod,

The leaf-strewn brook, the still, secluded lake,

Skirted with wild white roses, where hath trod

None save the forest-ranger; this will break

His stubborn apathy, his better nature wake.

Deep is the weekday stillness of a church:

Deep is the stillness of an Eastern town,

Where the long grass grows rankly at each porch,

And pestilence, in few short days, hath mown

What time, in years, would not have stricken down:

Deep is the stillness of a desert cell,

Of ruins, with the rust of ages brown:

Of isles, wherein no living creatures dwell,

And nought the calm disturbs, save the song surges’ swell.

But deeper is the solemn hush that broods,

Like the low whispering of a dream, among

The shadows of the patriarchal woods;

As if the spell of some old spirit hung

Thereon, and bound their many-toned tongue.

The glossy birch, like column smooth and clean,

The arching boughs, from stalwart maple flung,

The dim soft light, the aisles of sombre green

All cheat the willing sense, and wear a temple’s mien.

A spacious temple, where the unchecked eye

Through high and far-diverging vaults may see:

An ancient temple, where all live to die,

And dies to nourish some fresh-springing floe:

A lasting temple? —No, this may not be!

The tide of cultivation rolls along

With ruthless haste, and stern utility

Shall silence soon the low, delicious song

Of the wood-elves that sit the forest-glades among.

But if this show of vegetative life

Fatigues the eyesight, it may find repose

In the stern brute, blackened with the strife

Of wind and flame, when the red surge arose

Blasting alike the pine tree and the rose.

Chill scene of desolation! Naught is here

But sharp and naked stumps; the dull breeze blows

With a strange sound of sullenness and fear,

Make the tall weeds nod, like plumes upon a bier.

Far other are the scenes which girdle thee,

Bright Isiamagomi! Thy waters sleep

Most tranquilly beneath the sheltering lee

Of pine-clad hills, that rise, in awful sweep,

Mount above mount, a wild, Titanic heap.

Thou wakenest the mind, with spell of might,

To many passions: we could almost weep,

Standing beside thee in the cold starlight,

And thinking of dear friends, who rest in coffined night.

In sunny day, thy view is to the heart,

A pure and wholesome well of cheerfulness,

Making the pulse with quickened rapture start,

And spirit glow with strong desire to bless.

In gloom and storm, deep is the silentness

With which we hear the thunder’s voice of dread

Shout through each glen and cavernous recess,

While clouds come trooping through each mountain head,

And thou liest far below, unruffled, leaden, dead!

There is a rock, precipitous and bare,

On the lake’s northern shore. At distance spied

It bears the aspect of a bird of air,

Vast, lone, and brooding by the waterside.

The spell of old tradition doth abide

On that hoar cliff, whose touching loneness brings

A dimness to the eye for him who died

Thereon, whose heart had yearned for unfound things,

And broke at last, worn out by crushed imaginings.

And here, they say, it was his wont to lie

For hours, and gaze upon the lake beneath,

As if there were some binding sympathy

Between these waters, roughened by no breath.

And his own being’s still and pulseless death.

And oft the nightly fisher, on his float,

Felt superstitious terrors round him wreathe

To hear a voice from upper air remote,

As if a spirit spoke, the guardian of the spot.

What he had suffered, why he thus repined,

Is all surmise. Some said his talk was much

Of one, whose mood had changed, and grown unkind,

And so had withered him; —of beauty, such

As few might have, and live without reproach.

God pity him! How bitter must it be

To rest our young hopes on a broken crutch,

To feel warm hands grow icy-cold, to see

The eye wax passionless, whose look was ecstasy!

One summer’s day, some hunters pitched their camp

Below the rock. The sun went down in gloom,

The air grew thick and hot, a heavy damp

Struck on the heart, and, silent as the tomb,

The lake lay waiting for the wrath come.

It came—no tempest broke, no whirlwind skirred,

To usher in its mutterings of doom,

Alone the Earthquake spoke, alone was heard

The deep, hoarse voice of awe, the hill and water stirred.

And all that night, they said, at intervals,

The anchorite talked wildly with the air,

Filling the place with wailings, and loud calls

That rose to sink in terrible despair.

Day dawned at last, the moon’s distempered glare

Gave place unto the bright and cheerful sun,

And then they scaled the cliff in haste, and there

They found a pale, grief-wasted corse,² whereon

The living sunbeams looked, in hollow mockery down.

And so he died, in lonely sorrow died,

Unseen, uncared for. There was none to weep

For him, the child of broken lore and pride,

Yet, let us hope, his soul is buried deep,

Like a tired child’s, in soft and happy sleep.

None wept for him, but now the lake doth wear

A desert aspect, and the granite steep

Seems musing wistfully, and silence drear

Reigns through the hoary woods, his refuge and his bier.

E.T.F.

12 May 1838