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Hiawatha laid his burden,
Very spacious was the wigwam,
Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha, Laid aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them, Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered.
Yes, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwásind, And of happiness and plenty In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful.
“ After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibway's And the tribe of the Dacotahs.” Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, “That this peace may last for ever, And our hands be clasped more closely, And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Loveliest of Dacotah Women!"
And the ancient Arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water,
And made answer very gravely:
And the lovely Laughing Water
This was Hiawatha's wooing!
From the wigwam he departed,
And the ancient Arrow-maker
Pleasant was the journey homeward,
Over wide and rushing rivers
Made at night a lodge of branches,
All the travelling winds went with them,
Pleasant was the journey homeward !
From the sky the sun benignant
From the sky the moon looked at them,
Thus it was they journeyed homeward;
ROBERT BURNS.—Fitz GREENE HALLECK.
The memory of Burns—a name
That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, A nation's glory, and her shame,
In silent sadness up.
A nation's giory—be the rest
Forgot-she 's canonized his mind;
We may of human kind.
I've stood beside the cottage bed
Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath; A straw-thatched roof above his head,
A straw-wrought couch beneath.
And I have stood beside the pile,
His monument that tells to heaven The homage of earth's proudest isle
To that Bard-peasant given!
Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot,
Boy-Minstrel, in thy dreaming hour; And know, however low his lot,
A Poet's pride and power.
The pride that lifted Burns from earth,
The power that gave a child of song Ascendency o'er rank and birth,
The rich, the brave, the strong; And if despondency weigh down
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, Despair:-thy name is written on
The roll of common men.
There have been loftier themes than his,
And longer scrolls and louder lyres , And lays lit up with Poesy's
Purer and holier fires :
Yet read the names that know not death;
Few nobler ones than Burns are there; And few have won a greener wreath
Than that which binds his hair.
His is that language of the heart,
In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,
Or the smile light the cheek;
And his that music, to whose tone
The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime.
And who hath heard his song, nor kneit
Before its spell with willing knee, And listen'd, and believed, and felt
The Poet's mastery ?
O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm,
O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, O'er Passion's moments bright and warm,
O'er Reasons dark, cold hours;
On fields where brave men "die or do,"
In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourners weep, where lovers woo,
From throne to cottage hearth ;
What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
What wild vows falter on the tongue, When “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,"
Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung!
Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,
Come with your Cotter's hymn of praise, And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,
With “ Logan's' banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call. Imagination's world of air,
And our own world, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,
And death's sublimity.
And Burns—though brief the race he ran,
Though rough and dark the patlı he trodLived--died-in form and soul a Man,
The image of his God.