The Song of Hiawatha
An Epic Poem
By
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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M.A. DONOHUE & CO.
CHICAGO
Song of Hiawatha
by
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Minnehaha Edition
COPYRIGHT 1898
Contents
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
The Song of Hiawatha first appeared in 1855. In it Mr. Longfellow has
woven together the beautiful traditions of the American Indians into one
grand and delightful epic poem. The melodies of its rhythm and measure
flow from his classic pen in unison with the hoof-beats of the bison, the
tremulous thunder of the Falls of Minnehaha, the paddle strokes of the
Indian canoeist, and he has done more to immortalize in song and story the
life and environments of the red man of America than any other writer,
save perhaps J. Fenimore Cooper. It was from a perusal of the Finnish epic
"Kalevala" that both the measure and the style of "Hiawatha" was suggested
to Mr. Longfellow. In fact, it might appropriately be named the "Kalevala"
of North America. Mr. Longfellow derived his knowledge of Indian legends
from Schoolcraft's Algic Researches and other books, from Heckewelder's
Narratives, from Black Hawk, with his display of Sacs and Foxes on Boston
Common, and from the Ojibway chief, Kahge-gagah-bowh, whom he entertained
at his own home.
Hiawatha had a wide circulation, both in America and Europe, and was
universally admired by readers and critics on both Continents. Large
audiences gathered to hear it read by public readers. It was set to music
by Stoepel, and at the Boston Theater it was rendered with explanatory
readings by the famous elocutionist, Matilda Heron. The highest encomiums
were passed upon it by such critics of ripe scholarship as Emerson and
Hawthorne. A part of it was translated into Latin and used as an academic
text book. Those who wish to read more about it will find interest and
pleasure in perusing the masterly criticisms of Dr. O. W. Holmes in the
Annals of the Massachusetts Historical Society, and that of Horatio Hale
in the Proceedings of the American Association for the Advancement of
Science, 1881.
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.
INTRODUCTION.
S
Should you ask me, whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest,
With
the dew and damp of meadows,
5With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations,
As of thunder in the mountains?
10I should answer, I should tell
you,
"From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
15From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands,
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I
repeat them as I heard them
From the lips
of Nawadaha,
20The
musician, the sweet singer."
Should you
ask where Nawadaha
Found these songs so
wild and wayward,
Found these legends and
traditions,
I should answer, I should tell
you,
25"In the
bird's-nests of the forest,
In the lodges
of the beaver,
In the hoof-prints of the
bison,
In the eyry of the eagle!
"All the wild-fowl sang them to him,
30In the moorlands and the
fen-lands,
In the melancholy marshes;
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,
Mahn, the loon, the
wild goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the
Shuh-shuh-gah
35And
the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"
If still
further you should ask me,
Saying, "Who was
Nawadaha?
Tell us of this Nawadaha,"
I should answer your inquiries
40Straightway in such words as
follow.
"In the Vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt
the singer Nawadaha.
45Round
about the Indian village
Spread the
meadows and the cornfields,
And beyond them
stood the forest,
Stood the groves of
singing pine-trees,
Green in Summer, white
in Winter,
50Ever
sighing, ever singing.
"And the pleasant
water-courses,
You could trace them through
the valley,
By the rushing in the
Spring-time,
By the alders in the Summer,
55By the white fog in the
Autumn,
By the black line in the Winter;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of
Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley.
60"There he sang of
Hiawatha,
Sang the Song of Hiawatha,
Sang his wondrous birth and being,
How he prayed and how he fasted,
How
he lived, and toiled, and suffered
65That the tribes of men might prosper,
That he might advance his people!"
Ye who love the haunts of Nature,
Love
the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow
of the forest,
70Love
the wind among the branches,
And the
rain-shower and the snow-storm,
And the
rushing of great rivers
Through their
palisades of pine-trees,
And the thunder in
the mountains,
75Whose
innumerable echoes
Flap like eagles in
their eyries;—
Listen to these wild
traditions,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye who love a nation's legends
80Love 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
85Whether
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,
90Who 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,
95That 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,
100To 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
105Over
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,
110Homely 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,
115Read this song of Hiawatha!
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.
I.
THE PEACE-PIPE.
O
On the Mountains of the Prairie,
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
He
the Master of Life, descending,
5On 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,
10O'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,
15Saying 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;
20From
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;
25Breathed 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,
30Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe,
As a signal to the nations.
Three canoes.
And the smoke rose slowly, slowly,
Through the tranquil air of morning,
First a single
line of darkness,
35Then
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,
40Till 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,
45From 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.
50And
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,
55Gitche 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,
60Came
the Delawares and Mohawks,
Came the
Choctaws and Camanches,
Came the Shoshonies
and Blackfeet,
Came the Pawnees and Omahas,
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs,
65Came 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.
70And 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;
75In
their faces stern defiance,
In their
hearts the feuds of ages,
The hereditary
hatred,
The ancestral thirst of vengeance.
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
80The 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,
85But 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;
90Spake 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!
95Listen 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,
100I 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,
105Filled the rivers full of
fishes;
Why then are you not contented?
Why then will you hunt each other?
"I am weary of your quarrels,
Weary of your wars and bloodshed,
110Weary of your prayers
for vengeance,
Of your wranglings and
dissensions;
All your strength is in your
union,
All your danger is in discord;
Therefore be at peace henceforward,
115And as brothers live
together.
"I will send a Prophet to you,
A Deliverer of the nations,
Who
shall guide you and shall teach you,
Who
shall toil and suffer with you.
120If you listen to his counsels,
You will multiply and prosper;
If his warnings pass unheeded,
You
will fade away and perish!
"Bathe now in
the stream before you,
125Wash
the war-paint from your faces,
Wash the
blood-stains from your fingers,
Bury your
war-clubs and your weapons,
Break the red
stone from this quarry,
Mould and make it
into Peace-Pipes,
130Take
the reeds that grow beside you,
Deck them
with your brightest feathers,
Smoke the
calumet together,
And as brothers live
henceforward!"
Then upon the ground the warriors
135Threw their cloaks and shirts
of deer-skin,
Threw their weapons and
their war-gear,
Leaped into the rushing
river,
Washed the war-paint from their
faces.
Clear above them flowed the water,
140Clear and limpid from
the footprints
Of the Master of Life
descending;
Dark below them flowed the
water,
Soiled and stained with streaks of
crimson,
As if blood were mingled with it!
145From the river came the
warriors,
Clean and washed from all their
war-paint;
On the banks their clubs they
buried,
Buried all their warlike weapons,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
150The Great Spirit, the creator,
Smiled upon his helpless children!
And in silence all the warriors
Broke
the red stone of the quarry,
Smoothed and
formed it into Peace-Pipes,
155Broke the long reeds by the river,
Decked them with their brightest feathers,
And departed each one homeward,
While the Master of Life, ascending,
Through the
opening of cloud-curtains,
160Through the doorways of the heaven,
Vanished from before their faces,
In the smoke that rolled around him,
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe!
II.
THE FOUR WINDS.
H
"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!"
Cried
the warriors, cried the old men,
When he
came in triumph homeward
With the sacred
Belt of Wampum,
5From
the regions of the North-Wind,
From the
kingdom of Wabasso,
From the land of the
White Rabbit.
He had stolen the Belt of Wampum
From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa,
10From the Great Bear of the mountains,
From the terror of the nations,
As he lay asleep and cumbrous
On
the summit of the mountains,
Like a rock
with mosses on it,
15Spotted
brown and gray with mosses.
Silently he
stole upon him,
Till the red nails of the
monster
Almost touched him, almost scared
him,
Till the hot breath of his nostrils
20Warmed the hands of
Mudjekeewis,
As he drew the Belt of Wampum
Over the round ears, that heard not,
Over the small eyes, that saw not,
Over the long nose and nostrils,
25The black muffle of the nostrils,
Out of which the heavy breathing
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis.
Then
he swung aloft his war-club,
Shouted loud
and long his war-cry,
30Smote
the mighty Mishe-Mokwa
In the middle of
the forehead,
Right between the eyes he
smote him.
With the heavy blow bewildered,
Rose
the Great Bear of the mountains;
35But his knees beneath him trembled,
And he whimpered like a woman,
As he reeled and staggered forward,
As he sat upon his haunches;
And
the mighty Mudjekeewis,
40Standing fearlessly before him,
Taunted him in loud derision,
Spake disdainfully in this wise:—
"Hark you, Bear! you are a coward,
And no Brave, as you pretended;
45Else you would not cry and whimper
Like a miserable woman!
Bear!
you know our tribes are hostile,
Long have
been at war together;
Now you find that we
are strongest,
50You
go sneaking in the forest,
You go hiding
in the mountains!
Had you conquered me in
battle
Not a groan would I have uttered;
But you, Bear! sit here and whimper,
55And disgrace your tribe by
crying,
Like a wretched Shaugodaya,
Like a cowardly old woman!"
Then again he
raised his war-club,
Smote again the
Mishe-Mokwa
60In
the middle of his forehead,
Broke his
skull, as ice is broken
When one goes to
fish in Winter.
Thus was slain the
Mishe-Mokwa,
He the Great Bear of the
mountains,
65He
the terror of the nations.
"Honor be to
Mudjekeewis!"
With a shout exclaimed the
people,
"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!
Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind,
70And hereafter and forever
Shall he hold supreme dominion
Over all the winds of heaven.
Call him no more Mudjekeewis,
Call
him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!"
75Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen
Father of the Winds of Heaven.
For
himself he kept the West-Wind,
Gave the
others to his children;
Unto Wabun gave the
East-Wind,
80Gave
the South to Shawondasee,
And the
North-Wind, wild and cruel,
To the fierce
Kabibonokka.
Young and beautiful was Wabun;
He it was who brought the morning,
85He it was whose silver arrows
Chased the dark o'er hill and valley;
He it was whose cheeks were painted
With the brightest streaks of crimson,
And whose voice awoke the village,
90Called the deer, and called
the hunter.
Lonely in the sky was Wabun;
Though the birds sang gayly to him,
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow
Filled the air with odors for him,
95Though the forests and the
rivers
Sang and shouted at his coming,
Still his heart was sad within him,
For he was alone in heaven.
But
one morning, gazing earthward,
100While the village still was sleeping,
And the fog lay on the river,
Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise,
He beheld a maiden walking
All
alone upon a meadow,
105Gathering
water-flags and rushes
By a river in the
meadow.
Every morning, gazing earthward,
Still
the first thing he beheld there
Was her
blue eyes looking at him,
110Two blue lakes among the rushes.
And he loved the lonely maiden,
Who thus waited for his coming;
For
they both were solitary,
She on earth and
he in heaven.
115And
he wooed her with caresses,
Wooed her with
his smile of sunshine,
With his flattering
words he wooed her,
With his sighing and
his singing,
Gentlest whispers in the
branches,
120Softest
music, sweetest odors,
Till he drew her to
his bosom,
Folded in his robes of crimson,
Till into a star he changed her,
Trembling still upon his bosom;
125And forever in the heavens
They are seen together walking,
Waban
and the Wabun-Annung,
Wabun and the Star of
Morning.
But the fierce Kabibonokka
130Had his dwelling among
icebergs,
In the everlasting snow-drifts,
In the kingdom of Wabasso,
In the land of the
White Rabbit.
He it was whose hand in
Autumn
135Painted
all the trees with scarlet,
Stained the
leaves with red and yellow;
He it was who
sent the snow-flakes,
Sifting, hissing
through the forest,
Froze the ponds, the
lakes, the rivers,
140Drove
the loon and sea-gull southward,
Drove the
cormorant and curlew
To their nests of
sedge and sea-tang
In the realms of
Shawondasee.
Once the fierce Kabibonokka
145Issued from his lodge
of snow-drifts,
From his home among the
icebergs,
And his hair, with snow
besprinkled,
Streamed behind him like a
river,
Like a black and wintry river,
150As he howled and
hurried southward,
Over frozen lakes and
moorlands.
There among the reeds and rushes
Found he Shingebis, the diver,
Trailing strings of fish behind him,
155O'er the frozen fens and
moorlands,
Lingering still among the
moorlands,
Though his tribe had long
departed
To the land of Shawondasee.
Cried
the fierce Kabibonokka,
160"Who is this that dares to brave me?
Dares to stay in my dominions,
When the Wawa has departed,
When
the wild-goose has gone southward,
And the
heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
165Long 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,
170Heaped
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,
175Shingebis, 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,
180Warm and merry, eating, laughing,
Singing, "O Kabibonokka,
You
are but my fellow-mortal!"