The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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the lodge of old Nokomis,

      And the seven days of his fasting

      Were accomplished and completed.

      But the place was not forgotten

      Where he wrestled with Mondamin;

      Nor forgotten nor neglected

      Was the grave where lay Mondamin,

      Sleeping in the rain and sunshine,

      Where his scattered plumes and garments

      Faded in the rain and sunshine.

       Day by day did Hiawatha

      Go to wait and watch beside it;

      Kept the dark mould soft above it,

      Kept it clean from weeds and insects,

      Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings,

      Kahgahgee, the king of ravens.

       Till at length a small green feather

      From the earth shot slowly upward,

      Then another and another,

      And before the Summer ended

      Stood the maize in all its beauty,

      With its shining robes about it,

      And its long, soft, yellow tresses;

      And in rapture Hiawatha

      Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin!

      Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin!"

       Then he called to old Nokomis

      And Iagoo, the great boaster,

      Showed them where the maize was growing,

      Told them of his wondrous vision,

      Of his wrestling and his triumph,

      Of this new gift to the nations,

      Which should be their food forever.

       And still later, when the Autumn

      Changed the long, green leaves to yellow,

      And the soft and juicy kernels

      Grew like wampum hard and yellow,

      Then the ripened ears he gathered,

      Stripped the withered husks from off them,

      As he once had stripped the wrestler,

      Gave the first Feast of Mondamin,

      And made known unto the people

      This new gift of the Great Spirit.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      Two good friends had Hiawatha,

      Singled out from all the others,

      Bound to him in closest union,

      And to whom he gave the right hand

      Of his heart, in joy and sorrow;

      Chibiabos, the musician,

      And the very strong man, Kwasind.

       Straight between them ran the pathway,

      Never grew the grass upon it;

      Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,

      Story-tellers, mischief-makers,

      Found no eager ear to listen,

      Could not breed ill-will between them,

      For they kept each other's counsel,

      Spake with naked hearts together,

      Pondering much and much contriving

      How the tribes of men might prosper.

       Most beloved by Hiawatha

      Was the gentle Chibiabos,

      He the best of all musicians,

      He the sweetest of all singers.

      Beautiful and childlike was he,

      Brave as man is, soft as woman,

      Pliant as a wand of willow,

      Stately as a deer with antlers.

       When he sang, the village listened;

      All the warriors gathered round him,

      All the women came to hear him;

      Now he stirred their souls to passion,

      Now he melted them to pity.

       From the hollow reeds he fashioned

      Flutes so musical and mellow,

      That the brook, the Sebowisha,

      Ceased to murmur in the woodland,

      That the wood-birds ceased from singing,

      And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,

      Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,

      And the rabbit, the Wabasso,

      Sat upright to look and listen.

       Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,

      Pausing, said, "O Chibiabos,

      Teach my waves to flow in music,

      Softly as your words in singing!"

       Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,

      Envious, said, "O Chibiabos,

      Teach me tones as wild and wayward,

      Teach me songs as full of frenzy!"

       Yes, the robin, the Opechee,

      Joyous, said, "O Chibiabos,

      Teach me tones as sweet and tender,

      Teach me songs as full of gladness!"

       And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,

      Sobbing, said, "O Chibiabos,

      Teach me tones as melancholy,

      Teach me songs as full of sadness!"

       All the many sounds of nature

      Borrowed sweetness from his singing;

      All the hearts of men were softened

      By the pathos of his music;

      For he sang of peace and freedom,

      Sang of beauty, love, and longing;

      Sang of death, and life undying

      In the Islands of the Blessed,

      In the kingdom of Ponemah,

      In the land of the Hereafter.

       Very dear to Hiawatha

      Was the gentle Chibiabos,

      He the best of all musicians,

      He the sweetest of all singers;

      For his gentleness he loved him,

      And the magic of his singing.

       Dear, too, unto Hiawatha

      Was the very strong man, Kwasind,

      He the strongest of all mortals,

      He the mightiest among many;

      For his very strength he loved him,

      For his strength allied to goodness.

       Idle in his youth was Kwasind,

      Very listless, dull, and dreamy,

      Never played with other children,

      Never fished and never hunted,

      Not like

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