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“ Hark!" she said; “I hear a rushing, Hear a roaring and a rushing, Hear the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to me from a distance !" “No, my child !" said old Nokomis, “'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!” “Look!” she said ; “I see my father Standing lonely at his doorway, Beckoning to me from his wigwam In the land of the Dacotahs;' “No, my child !” said old Nokomis, “T is the smoke that waves and beckons 1" "Ah!” she said, “ the eyes of Pauguk Glare upon me in the darkness, I can feel his icy fingers Clasping mine amid the darkness ! Hiawatha! Hiawatha !"
And the desolate Hiawatha,
Far away amid the forest,
Miles away among the mountains,
Heard that sudden cry of anguish,
Heard the voice of Minnehaha
Calling to him in the darkness,
“Hiawatha! Hiawatha !"
Over snow-fields waste and pathless,
Under snow-encumbered branches,
Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing:
• Wahonòwin ! Wahonowin!
Would that I had perished for you,
Would that I were dead as you are!
And he rushed into the wigwam,
Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking to and fro and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him,
And his bursting heart within him
Uttered such a cry of anguish,
That the forest moaned and shuddered,
That the very stars in heaven
Shook and trembled with his anguish.
Then he sat down still and speechless,
On the bed of Minnehaha,
At the feet of Laughing Water,
At those willing feet, that never
More would lightly run to meet him,
Never more would lightly follow.
With both hands his face he covered,
Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a swoon he sat there,
Speechless, motionless, unconscious
Of the daylight or the darkness.
Then they buried Minnehaha ;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Clothed her in her richest garments,
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine,
Covered her with snow, like ermine ;
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
And at night a fire was lighted, On her grave four times was kindled, For her soul upon its journey To the Islands of the Blessed. From his doorway Hiawatha Saw it burning in the forest, Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; From his sleepless bed uprising, From the bed of Minnehaha, Stood and watched it at the doorway, That it might not be extinguished, Might not leave her in the darkness.
“Farewell!” said he, “Minnehaha! Farewell, O my Laughing Water! All my heart is buried with you, All my thoughts go onward with you! Come not back again to labor, Come not back again to suffer, Where the Famine and the Fever Wear the heart and waste the body. Soon my task will be completed, Soon your footsteps I shall follow To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter!"
Deep on the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon;
My breath to heaven like vapor goes;
May my soul follow soon!
The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my Lord.
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soiled and dark,
To yonder shining ground;
As this pale taper's earthly spark,
To yonder argent round;
So shows my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am,
To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
Thro' all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors;
The flashes come and go;
All heaven bursts her starry floors,
And strows her lights below,
And deepens on and up! the gates
Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity,
One sabbath deep and wide-
A light upon the shining sea-
The Bridegroom with his bride!
THE ABORIGINES OF AMERICA.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.
O'er the vast regions of that western world Whose lofty mountains hiding in the clouds, Concealed their grandeur and their wealth so long From European eyes, the Indian roved Free and unconquered. From those frigid plains Struck with the torpor of the arctic pole, To where Magellan lifts his torch to light The meeting of the waters; from the shore Whose smooth green line the broad Atlantic laves, To the rude borders of that rocky strait Where haughty Asia seems to stand and gaze On the new continent, the Indian reigned
Majestic and alone. Fearless he rose,
Firm as his mountains; like bis rivers, wild ;
Bold as those lakes whose wondrous chain controls
His northern coast. The forest and the wave
Gave him his food; the slight constructed hut
Furnished his shelter, and its doors spread wide
To every wandering stranger. There his cup,
His simple meal, his lowly couch of skins,
Were hospitably shared. Rude were his toils,
And rash his daring, when he headlong rushed
Down the steep precipice to seize his prey;
Strong was his arm to bend the stubborn bow,
And keen his arrow. This the bison knew,
The spotted panther, the rough, shaggy bear,
The wolf dark prowling, the eye piercing lynx,
The wild deer bounding through the shadowy glade,
And the swift eagle, soaring high to make
His nest among the stars. Clothed in their spoils
He dared the elements : with eye sedate,
Breasted the wintry winds; o'er the white heads
Of angry torrents steered his rapid bark
Light as their foam; mounted with tireless speed
Those slippery cliffs, where everlasting snows
Weave their dense robes; or laid him down to sleep
Where the dread thunder of the cataract lulled
His drowsy sense. The dangerous toils of war
He sought and loved. Traditions, and proud tales
Of other days, exploits of chieftains bold,
Dauntless and terrible, the warrior's song,
The victor's triumph-all conspired to raise
The martial spirit....
Oft the rude wandering tribes
Rushed on to battle. Their aspiring chiefs,
Lofty and iron-framed, with native hue
Strangely disguised in wild and glaring tints,
Frowned like some Pictish king. The conflict raged
Fearless and fierce, mid shouts and disarray,
As the swift lightning urges its dire shafts
Through clouds and darkness, when the warring blasts
Awaken midnight. O'er the captive foe
Unsated vengeance stormed: flame and slow wounds
Racked the strong bonds of life; but the firm soul
Smiled in its fortitude to mock the rage
Of its tormentors; when the crisping nerves
Were broken, still exulting o'er its pain,
To rise unmurmuring to its father's shades,
Where in delightful bowers the brave and just
Rest and rejoice....
Yet those untutored tribes
Bound with their stern resolves and savage deeds
Some gentle virtues; as beneath the gloom
Of overshadowing forests sweetly springs
The unexpected flower....Their uncultured hearts
Gave a strong soil for friendship, that bold growth
Of generous affection, changeless, pure,
Self sacrificing, counting losses light,
And yielding life with gladness. By its side,
Like sister plant, sprang ardent Gratitude,
Vivid, perennial, braving winter's frost
And summer's heat; while nursed by the same dews,
Unbounded reverence for the form of age
Struck its deep root spontaneous....With pious awe
Their eyes uplifted sought the hidden path
Of the Great Spirit. The loud midnight storm,
The rush of mighty waters, the deep roll
Of thunder, gave his voice; the golden sun,
The soft effulgence of the purple morn,
The gentle rain distilling, was his smile,
Dispensing good to all....In various forms arose
Their superstitious homage. Some with blood
Of human sacrifices sought to appease
That anger which in pestilence, or dearth,
Or famine, stalked; and their astonished vales,
Like Carthaginian altars, frequent drank
The horriblo libation. Some, with fruits,
Sweet flowers, and incense of their choicest herbs,
Sought to propitiate Him whose powerful hand
Unseen sustained them. Some with mystic rites,
The ark, the orison, the paschal feast,
Through glimmering tradition seemed to bear,
As in some broken vase, the smothered coals
Scattered from Jewish altars,
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.-MOTUERWELL.
Mournfully! O, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some sweet, plaintive melody
Of ages long gone by!
It speaks a tale of other years,
Of hopes that bloomed to die-
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie!
Mournfully! O, mournfully,
This midnight wind doth moan!
It stirs some chord of memory
In each dull, beavy tone;
The voices of the much-loved dead
Seem floating thereupon-
All, all my fond heart cherished
Ere death hath made it lone.