The Song of Hiawatha | Page 3

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
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 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 stem 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 subdue their stubborn
natures,
To allay their thirst and fever,
By the shadow of his right
hand;
Spake 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!
Listen 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,
I 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,
Filled 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,

Weary 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,
And 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.

If 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,
Wash 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,
Take 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
Threw 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,
Clear 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!