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That now is in the Holy Land,
(They go in.)
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,
Lo! over the mountain steeps
It is Lucifer,
The Song of Hiawatha.
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 green and silent valley.
Sang his wondrous birth and being,
How he prayed and how he fasted,
Ye who love the haunts of Nature,
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature,
Who believe, that in all ages
Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles
On the Mountains of the Prairie,
From his footprints filowed a river,
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,
A Deliverer of the nations,
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 !