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That now is in the Holy Land,
Yet in my memory from afar
Is shining on us like a star.
But linger not. For, while I speak,
A sheeted spectre white and tall,
The cold mist climbs the castle wall,
And lays his hand upon thy cheek.

(They go in.)

EPILOGUE.

THE TWO RECORDING ANGELS ASCENDING. The Angel of Good Deeds (with closed book). God sent his messenger the rain, And said unto the mountain brook, “Rise up, and from thy caverns look And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, From the cool hills into the heat Of the broad, arid plain." God sent his messenger of faith, And whispered in the maiden's heart, “Rise up, and look from where thou art, And scatter with unselfish hands Thy freshness on the barren sands And solitudes of Death." O beauty of holiness, Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness! O power of meekness, Whose very gentleness and weakness Are like the yielding, but irresistible air! Upon the pages of the sealed volume that I bear, The deed divine Is written in characters of gold, That never shall grow old, But through all ages Burn and shine With soft effulgence! O God! it is thy indulgence That fills the world with the bliss Of a good deed like this ! The Angel of Evil Deeds (with open book Not yet, not yet Is the red sun wholly set,

But evermore recedes,
While open still I bear
The Book of Evil Deeds,
To let the breathings of the upper air
Visit its pages, and erase
The records from its face!
Fainter and fainter as I gaze
In the broad blaze
The glimmering landscape shines,
And below me the black river
Is hidden by wreaths of vapour!
Fainter and fainter the black lines
Begin to quiver
Along the whitening surface of the paper;
Shade after shade
The terrible words grow faint and fade
And in their place
Runs a white space!
Down goes the sun !
But the soul of one,
Who by repentance
Has escaped the dreadful sentence,
Sbines bright below me as I look.
It is the end!
With closed Book
To God do I ascend.

Lo! over the mountain steeps
A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps
Beneath my feet;
A blackness inwardly brightening
With sudden heat,
As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning.
And a cry of lamentation,
Repeated and again repeated,
Deep and loud
As the reverberation
Of cloud answering unto cloud,
Swells and rolls away in the distance,
As if the sheeted
Lightning retreated,
Baffled and thwarted by the wind's resistance.

It is Lucifer,
The son of mystery;
And since God suffers him to be,
He, too, is God's minister,
And labours for some good
By us not understood !

The Song of Hiawatha.

1855.

INTRODUOTION.

SHOULD you ask me, whence these stories? Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, Whence these legends and traditions, Mahng, the loon, the wild goose, Wawan With the odours of the forest,

The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, With the dew and damp of meadows, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa !" With the curling smoke of wigwams,

If still further you should ask me, With the rushing of great rivers, Saying, “Who was Nawadaha ! With their frequent repetitions,

Tell us of this Nawadaha," And their wild reverberations,

I should answer your inquiries As of thunder in the mountains ? Straightway in such words as follow.

I should answer, I should tell you, “In the vale of Tawasentha, “ From the forest and the prairies, In the green and silent valley, From the great lakes of the Northland, By the pleasant water courses, From the land of the Ojibways,

Dwelt the singer Nawadaba. From the land of the Dacotabs,

Round about the Indian village From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands, Spread the ineadows and the corn-fields, Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And beyond them stood the forest, Feeds among the reeds and rushes, Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, I repeat them as I heard them

Green in Summer, white in Winter, From the lips of Nawadaha,

Ever sighing, ever singing. The musician, the sweet singer.”

“And the pleasant water-courses, Should you ask where Nawadaha You could trace them through the valley, Found these songs, so wild and wayward, By the rushing in the Spring-time, Found these legends and traditions, By the alders in the Summer, I should answer, I should tell you, By the white fog in the Autumn, “In the birds'-nests of the forest, By the black line in the Winter; In the lodges of the beaver,

And beside them dwelt the singer, In the hoof-prints of the bison,

In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the eyry of the eagle!

In the green and silent valley.
“Al the wild-fowl sang them to him, “There he sang of Hiawatha,
In the moorlands and the fen-lands, Sang the song of Hiawatham
In the melancholy marshes ;

Sang his wondrous birth and being,

How he prayed and how he fasted,
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered,
That 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,
Love 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,
Whose 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,
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 bands and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God's right hand in that dark-

ness,
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,
Wbere the tangled barberry-bushes
Hang their tufts of crimson berries
Over stone walls grey 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 beart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the Here and the Hereafter;-
Stay and read this rude inscription !
Read this Song of Hiawatha !

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 filowed 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!”

Proin 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 neighbouring 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 vapour, Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, Like the tree-tops of the forest, Ever rising, rising, rising,

Till it touched the top of heaven, Warning, chiding, spake in this wise :Till it broke against the heaven,

“V my children ! my poor children ! And rolled outward all around it. Listen to tbe words of wisdom, From the Vale of Tawasentha,

Listen to the words of warning, From the Valley of Wyoming,

From the lips of the Great Spirit, From the groves of Tuscaloosa,

From the Master of Life, who made you ! From the far-off Rocky Mountains,

“I have given you lands to hunt in, From the Northern lakes and rivers, I have given you streams to fish in, All the tribes beheld the signal,

I have given you bear and bison, Saw the distant smoke ascending,

I have given you roe and reindeer, The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe.

I have given you brant and beaver, And the Prophets of the nations Filled the marshes full of wild -fowl, Said : “Behold it, the Pukwana ! Filled the rivers full of fishes; By this signal from afar off,

Why then are you not contented ? Bending like a wand of willow,

Why then will you hunt each other? Waving like a hand that beckons,

I am weary of your quarrels, Gitche Manito, the mighty,

Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Calls the tribes of men together, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Calls the warriors to his council!” Of your wranglings and dissensions ;

Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, All your strength is in your union,
Came the warriors of the nations, All your danger is in discord;
Came the Delawares and Mohawks, Therefore be at peace henceforward,
Came the Choctaws and Camanches, And as brothers live together.
Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, “I will send a Prophet to you,
Came the Pawnees and Omahas,

A Deliverer of the nations,
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, Who shall guide you and shall teach you,
Came the Hurons and Ojibways,

Who shall toil and suffer with you. All the warriors drawn together

If you listen to his counsels, By the signal of the Peace-Pipe,

You will multiply and prosper ; To the Mountains of the Prairie,

If bis warnings pass unheeded, To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. You will fade away and perish!

And they stood there on the meadow, 1 “Bathe now in the stream before you, With their weapons and their war gear, Wash the war-paint from your faces, Painted like the leaves of Autumn, Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, Painted like the sky of morning,

Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, Wildly glaring at each other;

Break the red stone from this quarry, In their faces stern defiance,

Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, In their hearts the feuds of ages, Take the reeds that grow beside you, The hereditary hatred,

Deck them with your brightest feathers, The ancestral thirst of vengeance.

Smoke the calumet together, Gitcbe Manito, the mighty,

And as brothers live henceforward !" The Creator of the pations,

Then upon the ground the warriors Looked upon them with compassion, Threw their cloaks and shirts of deerWith paternal love and pity;

skin, Looked upon their wrath and wrangling Threw their weapons and their war-gear, But as quarrels among children,

Leaped into the rushing river, But as feuds and fights of children ! Washed the war paint from their faces.

Over them he stretched his right hand, Clear above them flowed the water, To subdue their stubborn natures, Clear and limpid from the footprints To allay their thirst and fever,

Of the Master of Life descending; By the shadow of his right hand; Dark below them flowed the water, Spake to them with voice majestic Soilet and stained with streaks of crim. As the sound of far-off waters,

son, Falling into deep abysses,

| As if blood were mingled with it !

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