The Complete Poems. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,

      Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,

      Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.

      Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;

      Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;

      Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;

      Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children,

      Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails

      Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,

      Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,

      By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.

      Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;

      Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;

      And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,

      Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side,

      And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,

      Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.

       Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,

      Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.

      Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil

      Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.

      Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire

      Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,

      When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.

      And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,

      Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana

      Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.

       Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered

      Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features

      Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.

      She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,

      From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches,

      Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered.

      Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome

      Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them

      On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.

      But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,

      Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison,

      Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light

      Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets

      Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated

      Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,

      All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.

      Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another

      Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.

      Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion,

      Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,

      She in turn related her love and all its disasters.

      Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended

      Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror

      Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;

      Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,

      But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,

      Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,

      Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.

      Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,

      Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,

      That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight,

      Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,

      Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,

      And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people.

      Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened

      To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her

      Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.

      Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,

      Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor

      Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.

      With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches

      Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.

      Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret,

      Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,

      As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.

      It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits

      Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment

      That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.

      With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.

       Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee

      Said, as they journeyed along, "On the western slope of these mountains

      Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.

      Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;

      Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him."

      Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,

      "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!"

      Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,

      Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,

      And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,

      Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.

      Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,

      Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened

      High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines,

      Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.

      This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches

      Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,

      Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.

      Silent,