The Epic Song of Hiawatha. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

has gone southward,

       And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,

       Long ago departed southward?

       I will go into his wigwam,

       I will put his smouldering fire out!”

      And at night Kabibonokka

       To the lodge came wild and wailing,

       Heaped the snow in drifts about it,

       Shouted down into the smoke-flue,

       Shook the lodge-poles in his fury,

       Flapped the curtain of the door-way.

       Shingebis, the diver, feared not,

       Shingebis, the diver, cared not;

       Four great logs had he for fire-wood,

       One for each moon of the winter,

       And for food the fishes served him.

       By his blazing fire he sat there,

       Warm and merry, eating, laughing,

       Singing, “O Kabibonokka,

       You are but my fellow-mortal!”

      Then Kabibonokka entered,

       And though Shingebis, the diver,

       Felt his presence by the coldness,

       Felt his icy breath upon him,

       Still he did not cease his singing,

       Still he did not leave his laughing,

       Only turned the log a little,

       Only made the fire burn brighter,

       Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue.

      From Kabibonokka’s forehead,

       From his snow-besprinkled tresses,

       Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy,

       Making dints upon the ashes,

       As along the eaves of lodges,

       As from drooping boughs of hemlock,

       Drips the melting snow in spring-time,

       Making hollows in the snow-drifts.

      Till at last he rose defeated,

       Could not bear the heat and laughter,

       Could not bear the merry singing,

       But rushed headlong through the door-way,

       Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts,

       Stamped upon the lakes and rivers,

       Made the snow upon them harder,

       Made the ice upon them thicker,

       Challenged Shingebis, the diver,

       To come forth and wrestle with him,

       To come forth and wrestle naked

       On the frozen fens and moorlands.

      Forth went Shingebis, the diver,

       Wrestled all night with the North-Wind,

       Wrestled naked on the moorlands

       With the fierce Kabibonokka,

       Till his panting breath grew fainter,

       Till his frozen grasp grew feebler,

       Till he reeled and staggered backward,

       And retreated, baffled, beaten,

       To the kingdom of Wabasso,

       To the land of the White Rabbit,

       Hearing still the gusty laughter,

       Hearing Shingebis, the diver,

       Singing, “O Kabibonokka,

       You are but my fellow-mortal!”

      Shawondasee, fat and lazy, —

       Had his dwelling far to southward,

       In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine,

       In the never-ending Summer.

       He it was who sent the wood-birds,

       Sent the Opechee, the robin,

       Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa,

       Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow,

       Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward,

       Sent the melons and tobacco,

       And the grapes in purple clusters.

      From his pipe the smoke ascending

       Filled the sky with haze and vapor,

       Filled the air with dreamy softness,

       Gave a twinkle to the water.

       Touched the rugged hills with smoothness,

       Brought the tender Indian Summer

       To the melancholy North-land,

       In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes.

      Listless, careless Shawondasee!

       In his life he had one shadow,

       In his heart one sorrow had he.

       Once, as he was gazing northward,

       Far away upon a prairie

       He beheld a maiden standing,

       Saw a tall and slender maiden

       All alone upon a prairie;

       Brightest green were all her garments,

       And her hair was like the sunshine.

      Day by day he gazed upon her,

       Day by day he sighed with passion,

       Day by day his heart within him

       Grew more hot with love and longing

       For the maid with yellow tresses.

       But he was too fat and lazy

       To bestir himself and woo her;

       Yes, too indolent and easy

       To pursue her and persuade her.

       So he only gazed upon her,

       Only sat and sighed with passion

       For the maiden of the prairie.

      Till one morning, looking northward,

       He beheld her yellow tresses

       Changed and covered o’er with whiteness,

       Covered as with whitest snow-flakes.

       “Ah! my brother from the North-land,

       From the kingdom of Wabasso,

       From the land of the White Rabbit!

       You have stolen the maiden from me,

       You have laid your hand upon her,

       You have wooed and won my maiden,

       With your stories of the North-land!”

      Thus the wretched Shawondasee

       Breathed into the air his sorrow;

       And the South-Wind o’er the prairie

       Wandered warm with sighs of passion,

       With the sighs of Shawondasee,

       Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes,

       Full of thistle-down the prairie,

       And the maid with hair like sunshine

       Vanished from his sight forever;

       Never more did Shawondasee

       See the maid with yellow tresses!

      Poor, deluded Shawondasee!

       ‘T was no woman that you gazed at,

       ‘T was no maiden that you sighed for,

       ‘T was the prairie dandelion