THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS.


The sun sails high in his azure realms;
Beneath the arch of the breezy elms
The feast is spread by the murmuring river.
With his battle spear and his bow and quiver,
And eagle plumes in his ebon hair,
The chief Wakawa himself is there;
And round the feast in the Sacred Ring, [48]
Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing.
Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tasted
For three long days ere the holy feast;
They sat in their teepee alone and fasted,
Their faces turned to the Sacred East. [21]
In the polished bowls lies the golden maize
And the flesh of fawn on the polished trays.
For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide--
The blushing pink and the meek blue-bell,
The purple plumes of the prairie's pride, [49]
The wild, uncultured asphodel,
And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet
That the Virgins call "Let-me-not-forget,"
In gay festoons and garlands twine
With the cedar sprigs [50] and the wildwood vine.
So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed,
And none but a virgin may enter there;
And clad is each in a scarlet vest,