Song of Hiawatha. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

sometimes, in your rambles

       Through the green lanes of the country,

       Where the tangled barberry-bushes

       Hang their tufts of crimson berries

       Over stone walls gray with mosses,

       Pause by some neglected graveyard,

       For a while to muse, and ponder

       On a half-effaced inscription,

       Written with little skill of song-craft,

       Homely phrases, but each letter

       Full of hope and yet of heart-break,

       Full of all the tender pathos

       Of the Here and the Hereafter;—

       Stay and read this rude inscription,

       Read this Song of Hiawatha!

       • I •

      THE PEACE-PIPE

      On the Mountains of the Prairie,

       On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,

       Gitche Manito, the mighty,

       He the Master of Life, descending,

       On the red crags of the quarry

       Stood erect, and called the nations,

       Called the tribes of men together.

      From his footprints flowed a river,

       Leaped into the light of morning,

       O'er the precipice plunging downward

       Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.

       And the Spirit, stooping earthward,

       With his finger on the meadow

       Traced a winding pathway for it,

       Saying to it, "Run in this way!"

      "Gitche Manito, the mighty,

       Calls the tribes of men together"

      From the red stone of the quarry

       With his hand he broke a fragment,

       Moulded it into a pipe-head,

       Shaped and fashioned it with figures;

       From the margin of the river

       Took a long reed for a pipe-stem,

       With its dark green leaves upon it;

       Filled the pipe with bark of willow,

       With the bark of the red willow;

       Breathed upon the neighboring forest,

       Made its great boughs chafe together,

       Till in flame they burst and kindled;

       And erect upon the mountains,

       Gitche Manito, the mighty,

       Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe,

       As a signal to the nations.

      And the smoke rose slowly, slowly,

       Through the tranquil air of morning,

       First a single line of darkness,

       Then a denser, bluer vapor,

       Then a snow-white cloud unfolding,

       Like the tree-tops of the forest,

       Ever rising, rising, rising,

       Till it touched the top of heaven,

       Till it broke against the heaven,

       And rolled outward all around it.

      From the Vale of Tawasentha,

       From the Valley of Wyoming,

       From the groves of Tuscaloosa,

       From the far-off Rocky Mountains,

       From the Northern lakes and rivers

       All the tribes beheld the signal,

       Saw the distant smoke ascending,

       The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe.

      And the Prophets of the nations

       Said: "Behold it, the Pukwana!

       By this signal from afar off,

       Bending like a wand of willow,

       Waving like a hand that beckons,

       Gitche Manito, the mighty,

       Calls the tribes of men together,

       Calls the warriors to his council!"

      Down the rivers, o'er the prairies,

       Came the warriors of the nations,

       Came the Delawares and Mohawks,

       Came the Choctaws and Camanches,

       Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet,

       Came the Pawnees and Omahas,

       Came the Mandans and Dacotahs,

       Came the Hurons and Ojibways,

       All the warriors drawn together

       By the signal of the Peace-Pipe,

       To the Mountains of the Prairie,

       To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry.

      And they stood there on the meadow,

       With their weapons and their war-gear,

       Painted like the leaves of Autumn,

       Painted like the sky of morning,

       Wildly glaring at each other;

       In their faces stern defiance,

       In their hearts the feuds of ages,

       The hereditary hatred,

       The ancestral thirst of vengeance.

      Gitche Manito, the mighty,

       The creator of the nations,

       Looked upon them with compassion,

       With paternal love and pity;

       Looked upon their wrath and wrangling

       But as quarrels among children,

       But as feuds and fights of children!

      Over them he stretched his right hand,

       To subdue their stubborn natures,

       To allay their thirst and fever,

       By the shadow of his right hand;

       Spake to them with voice majestic

       As the sound of far-off waters,

       Falling into deep abysses,

       Warning, chiding, spake in this wise:—

      "O my children! my poor children!

       Listen to the words of wisdom,

       Listen to the words of warning,

       From the lips of the Great Spirit,

       From the Master of Life, who made you!

      "I have given you lands to hunt in,

       I have given you streams to fish in,

       I have given you bear and bison,

       I have given you roe and reindeer,

       I have given you brant and beaver,

       Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl,