Legend of Mount Hood

by Unknown

Layout 2

LEGEND OF MOUNT HOOD.

---

"Tahoma"—thus the native Indian legends run—

"A god magnificent and pure of soul, dwelt in a grove

Of giant trees where stands this mountain now. None came to share

His meditations, or his loneliness,

'Till form empyreal, of loveliness

And grace and majesty and holiness

Coequal with his own, swept through the vault—a goddess fair,

On errand from the stars. 'Twas Red Tamahnous, queen of love!

Tahoma saw; she smiled, and passed beyond the sun.

Aflame with strange, ecstatic fire, the fervent god,

In sleepless vigil, waited through the years for her return—

Ten hundred years. She came at last, at rising of the sun.

Exalting all his form Tahoma rose

To greet his queen; in maidenly repose

She lingered in the west; upon her brows

A wreathed effulgence flamed. In form the lovers were as one,

Their ornaments the same. Each learned that fires celestial burn

Where love is pure. Thus, near opposed, they willing stood.

Foredoomed to earthly home, Tahoma sued her dear

Companionship—that she, with silver hair untressed and spread

In beauty through the skies, no more from stars to sun should roam.

An errant messenger. She gave consent;

Above the pair a morning halo bent,

The greater spirit's token of assent.

With arms outstretched the god essayed to clasp his bride's fair form,

When lo! behind her 'rose a grisly shape of aspect dread;

It veiled her from his sight and bore her through the air.

’Twas Black Tamahnous, fiend of rage and hate, the foe

Of all the good and pure in heaven, on earth; relentless, fierce,

Of form prodigious, aspect foul, she murders joy and love

Where e'er she goes. Transfixed Tahoma stood;

Then burst his heart: above his head the blood,

In fountain red and hot, poured all its flood,

And thus he died. The Spirit Great bewailed his son and wove

A mantle pure and white around his form, and as the years

Speed past renews the garb, as symbol of his woe.

And ever as the summer comes the mystic queen,

Forbidden ever to return as comet to the sky,

Steals silently from out the west, at rising of the sun,

To look upon her lover’s mantled form

And meditate, alone, that sweet, sad morn

When first they met; and still the hag, hell born,

Pursues and draws obscuring veil o’er each; to realms unknown

They thus return. The tale is true, for even mortal eye,

When blessed of sight, may yet behold that very scene."