Now the men were all like women, She was thinking of a hunter, And her eyes were very dreamy. Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, Heard a rustling in the branches, And with glowing cheek and forehead, With the deer upon his shoulders, Straight the ancient Arrow-maker At the feet of Laughing Water Very spacious was the wigwam, Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Drawn and painted on its curtains, Hardly touched his eagle-feathers Brought forth food and set before them, 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, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind, And of happiness and plenty In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful. 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, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Loveliest of Dacotah women!" 465 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: "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !" And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant, As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said, and blushed to say it, "I will follow you, my husband!” In the land of the Dacotahs! From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, "Fare thee well, O Minnehaha !" BAYARD TAYLOR. 1825. ["Poems of the Orient." 1855.] THE MYSTERY. THOU art not dead; thou art not gone to dust; Thou canst not wholly perish, though the sod Though by the feet of generations trod, The head-stone crumbles from thy place of rest. The marvel of thy beauty cannot die; The sweetness of thy presence shall not fade; Earth gave not all the glory of thine eye; Death may not keep what Death has never made. It was not thine, that forehead strange and cold, But thou hadst gone-gone from the dreary land, Lured by the sweet persuasion of a hand Which leads thee somewhere in the distance still. Where'er thou art, I know thou wearest yet The same bewildering beauty, sanctified By calmer joy, and touched with soft regret For him who seeks, but cannot reach thy side. I keep for thee the living love of old, And seek thy place in Nature, as a child Whose hand is parted from his playmate's hold, Wanders and cries along a lonesome wild. When, in the watches of my heart, I hear Canst thou not bid the empty realms restore That voice, the perfect music of thy heart? O once, once bending to these widowed lips, Take back the tender warmth of life from me; Or let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse The light of mine, and give me death with thee! |