The Complete Poems. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

this Song of Hiawatha!

       Ye who love a nation's legends,

      Love the ballads of a people,

      That like voices from afar off

      Call to us to pause and listen,

      Speak in tones so plain and childlike,

      Scarcely can the ear distinguish

      Whether they are sung or spoken;—

      Listen to this Indian Legend,

      To this Song of Hiawatha!

       Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,

      Who have faith in God and Nature,

      Who believe that in all ages

      Every human heart is human,

      That in even savage bosoms

      There are longings, yearnings, strivings

      For the good they comprehend not,

      That the feeble hands and helpless,

      Groping blindly in the darkness,

      Touch God's right hand in that darkness

      And are lifted up and strengthened;—

      Listen to this simple story,

      To this Song of Hiawatha!

       Ye, who 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

       Table of Contents

THE PEACE-PIPE

       Table of Contents

      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!"

       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 the signal of the Peace-Pipe,

      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