NATHAN:
Patience
sir.
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Yet, this, a coin or cloth for a new mantle,
When this is done. Don't quake; it's strong and good
To last awhile; but here it's singed with flame.
NATHAN: This brand. Oh, I could kiss it! Would you send
This mantle to my daughter that her lips
May cling to this dear speck?
TEMPLAR: Remember, Jew,
My vows, my Order, and my Christian faith!
NATHAN: All lands produce good men. Are we our nation's?
Were Jews and Christians such ere they were men?
And I have found in thee one more who stands
A man confest.
TEMPLAR: Nathan, thy hand; I blush
To have mistaken thee. We will be friends.
Hark you, the maid, your daughter, whom I saved,
Makes me forget that I am partly monk.
How say you; may I hope?
NATHAN: Your suit, young man,
Must be considered calmly. Give me time
To know your lineage and your character.
A parent must be careful of his child. [_Enter_ DAYA.
DAYA: The sultan sends for thee in haste.
NATHAN: I'll go.
Knight, take it not amiss.
TEMPLAR: I'll quit you first.
Farewell! [_Exit. _
NATHAN: 'Tis not alone my Leonard's walk,
But even his stature and his very voice.
Filnek and Stauffen--I will soon know more.
SCENE III. --_A room in_ NATHAN'S _house_. RECHA _and_ DAYA. _A slave
shows in the_ TEMPLAR.
RECHA: 'Tis he, my saviour! Ah!
TEMPLAR: Thou best of beings,
How is my soul 'twixt eye and ear divided.
RECHA: Well, knight, why thus refuse to look at me?
TEMPLAR: Because I wish to hear you.
RECHA: Nay, because
You would not have me notice that you smile
At my simplicity.
TEMPLAR: Ah, no; ah, no.
How truly said thy father, "Do but know her. "
Yet now I must attend him. There is danger.
SCENE IV. --SALADIN'S _audience chamber_. SALADIN _and_ NATHAN.
SALADIN: Draw nearer, Jew. Your name is Nathan?
NATHAN: Yea.
SALADIN: Nathan the Wise?
NATHAN: Ah, no.
SALADIN: Of modesty
Enough, your words and bearing prove you wise.
Now, since you are so wise, tell me which law
Appears to you the better.
NATHAN: Once on a time, eastward, there dwelt a man
Who prized a ring, set with a wondrous opal
That made the owner loved of God and man.
This ring he willed should ever more remain
The heirloom of his house; and to the son
He loved the best bequeathed it, binding him
To leave it also to his best beloved,
And forward so. At length the ring descended
To one who had three sons he loved alike.
To each in turn the doting father promised
The ring, and on his death-bed, sorely grieving
To disappoint two heirs, he had two rings
Made like the first, so close that none could tell
The model from the copies. These he gave
To his three sons in secret, and so passed.
The sequel may be guessed, the strifes, complaints--
For the true ring no more could be distinguished
Than now can--the true faith. Each to the judge
Swore that he had the bauble from his father,
And called his brother forger. Quoth the judge:
"Which of you do his brothers love the best?
You're silent all. You're all deceived deceivers!
None of your rings is true, the true is gone.
Your father sought to end its tyranny.
Let each believe his own the real ring
And vie with others to display its virtue.
And if its power a thousand thousand years
Endure in your descendants, let them then
Before a wiser judge than I appear,
And he'll decide the cause. "
SALADIN: Even God Himself!
NATHAN: Art thou, O Saladin, this wiser judge?
SALADIN: Not yet have sped the thousand thousand years.
His judgment seat's not mine. Go, go, but love me.
NATHAN: Hath Saladin no further need of me?
Perchance my stores might furnish forth thy wars.
SALADIN: Is this Al Hafi's hint? I'll not disown
My object was to ask----
NATHAN: Thou shouldst have all
But that I owe a weighty debt to one--
The Templar thou didst spare.
SALADIN: I had forgot him.
NATHAN: He saved my daughter from the flames.
SALADIN: Ah, so? He looked a hero. Bring him hither;
Sittah must see our brother's counterfeit.
NATHAN: I'll fetch him. For the rest, we are agreed.
SCENE V. --_The Place of Palms_. DAYA _and the_ TEMPLAR.
DAYA: Knight, swear to me that you will make her yours;
Make both her present and eternal welfare.
Listen. She is a Christian, and no child
Of Nathan's.
TEMPLAR: Are you sure of what you say?
DAYA: It cost me tears of blood. She does not know
She is a Christian born.
TEMPLAR: And Nathan reared
Her in this error, and persists in it?
Oh, it confounds me--go; and let me think.
_[Exeunt_.
ACT III
SCENE I. --_The cloisters of a convent_. ATHANASIOS _the Patriarch_,
_and the_ TEMPLAR.
ATHANASIOS: Heaven keep you in your valour, good Sir Knight!
You seek my counsel? It is yours; say on.
TEMPLAR: Suppose, my reverend father, that a Jew
Brought up a Christian child, in ignorance
Of her own faith and lineage, as his daughter,
What then?
ATHANASIOS: Is this mere supposition, sir?
If in our diocese such impious act
Were done in truth, the Jew should die by fire.
You will not name the man? I'll to the sultan,
Who will support us.
TEMPLAR: I'll to Saladin,
And will announce your visit.
ATHANASIOS: Was it then
A problem merely? Nay, this is a job
For Brother Bonafides. Here, my son!
[_Exit_ ATHANASIOS, _talking with the friar_.
SCENE II. --_A room at the palace of_ SALADIN. _Slaves bring in
money-bags to_ SALADIN _and_ SITTAH.
SALADIN (_to_ Sittah): Here, pay yourself with that.
And look, I found
This portrait 'midst the heap of plate and jewels.
It is our brother Assad. I'll compare
The likeness with our Templar. Ah, who's there?
The Templar? Bid him enter.
[_Enter the_ TEMPLAR.
TEMPLAR: Saladin,
Thy captive, sire, who's life is at thy service!
SALADIN: Ah, brave young man, I'm not deceived in thee.
Thou art indeed, in soul and body, Assad!
Came Nathan with thee?
TEMPLAR: Who?
SALADIN: Who? Nathan
TEMPLAR (_coldly_): No.
SALADIN: Why so cold?
TEMPLAR: I've nothing against Nathan,
But I am angry with myself alone
For dreaming that a Jew could be no Jew.
He was so cautious of my suit that I,
In swift resentment, though unwitting, gave
Him over to the Patriarch's bloody rage.
Sultan, the maiden is no child of his;
She is a Christian whom the Jew hath reared
In ignorance of her faith. The Patriarch
Foredooms him to the stake.
SALADIN: Go to, go to.
The case is scarcely hopeless. Summon Nathan,
And I shall reconcile you. If indeed
You're earnest for the maid, she shall be thine.
SCENE III. --_The hall in_ NATHAN'S _house_. NATHAN _and the friar,_
BONAFIDES.
BONAFIDES: The Patriarch hath ever work for me,
And some I like not. Listen. He hath heard
That hereabouts there dwells a certain Jew
Who hath brought up a Christian as his child.
NATHAN: How?
BONAFIDES: Hear me out. I fear me that I gave
Occasion for this sin, when I, a squire,
Brought you, full eighteen years ago, the babe,
The orphan babe of Leonard, Lord of Filnek.
He fell at Askalon.
NATHAN: Ay so; and I,
Bereft by Christians of my wife and sons,
Received the infant as a gift from Heaven,
And made it mine. And now, belike, I suffer
For this my charity. But tell me now,
Was not the mother sister to a Templar,
Conrade of Stauffen?
BONAFIDES: Let me fetch a book,
In Arabic, I had from my dead lord.
'Tis said to tell the lineage of the babe.
NATHAN: Go, fetch it quickly. [_Exeunt. _
SCENE IV. --_A place of palms. _ NATHAN _and the_ TEMPLAR.
NATHAN: Who hath betrayed me to the Patriarch?
TEMPLAR: Alas! 'twas I. You took my suit so coldly
That when from Daya I had learned your secret,
I fancied you had little mind to give
A Christian what from Christians you had taken.
I thought to use my knowledge as a lever,
And so, not having you, I put the matter
In problem-wise before the Patriarch.
Suppose he find you out. What then? He cannot
Seize Recha, if she be no longer yours.
Ah! give her then, to me, and let him come.
NATHAN: Too late! You are too late, for I have found
Her kinsfolk. Hark you, Recha has a brother.
TEMPLAR: Well, he's the man to fit her with a husband.
Of thee and me she'll have no longer need.
SCENE V. --SALADIN'S _palace_. SALADIN _and his sister_, SITTAH, _are
talking with_ RECHA.
SITTAH: Ah! I guessed it.
RECHA: Guessed it? What? that I
Am Christian and not Nathan's daughter?
[_She swoons_.
SALADIN: What!
Whose cruelty hath sown this sharp suspicion
In thy fond heart? Ah! if there be two fathers
At strife for thee, quit both, and take a third.
Take Saladin for father! I'll be kind.
SITTAH: Brother, you make her blush.
SALADIN: In a good hour. Blushing becomes the fair.
But see, our Nathan's coming, with another.
Canst guess, sweet girl? Ay, when he comes, blush crimson.
[_Enter_ NATHAN _and the_ TEMPLAR.
Come, stickle not for niceties with him.
Make him thy offer, doing for him more,
Far more, than he for thee, for what was that
But make himself a little sooty. Come!
[_Seeks to lead her to the_ TEMPLAR.
NATHAN _(solemnly)_: Hold, Saladin; hold, Sittah! There's another
Whom I must speak with first--the maiden's brother.
TEMPLAR _(bitterly)_: He has imposed a father on her, now
He'll shark her up a brother! Where's the man?
NATHAN: Patience sir.
SALADIN: Christian, such words as yours had never passed
My Assad's lips.
NATHAN: Forgive him, Saladin.
Oh! Christian, you have hid from me your name.
Conrade of Stauffen is no name of yours,
But Guy of Filnek--mark. I tax you not
With falsehood; for your mother was a Stauffen.
Her brother's name was Conrade. He perchance
Adopted you?
TEMPLAR: Even so the matter stands.
NATHAN: Your father was my friend. He called himself
Leonard of Filnek, but no German he.
He had espoused a German.
TEMPLAR: Ah! no more,
I beg, but tell me who is Recha's brother.
NATHAN: Thou art the man!
TEMPLAR: What, I? I Recha's brother?
RECHA: My brother--he?
SITTAH: So near akin--
RECHA (_offering to embrace him_): My brother!
TEMPLAR: (_withdrawing_): Brother to her!
RECHA (_to_ NATHAN): It cannot be. His heart
Knows nothing of it.
SALADIN: What! not acknowledge
A sister such as she? Go!
TEMPLAR: Saladin!
Mistake not my amazement. Thy Assad
At such a moment, had done likewise.
Oh, Nathan, you have taken, you have given--
Yes, infinitely more--my sister--sister!
[_Embraces_ RECHA.
NATHAN: Blanda of Filnek! Guy! My children both!
SITTAH: Oh! I am deeply moved.
SALADIN: And I half tremble
At thought of the emotion still to be.
Nathan, you say her father was no German.
What was he, then?
NATHAN: He never told me that.
But ah! he loved the Persian speech and owned
He was no Frank.
SALADIN: The Persian! Need I more? Twas my Assad!
NATHAN: Look in this book!
SALADIN: Ay! 'tis his hand, even his.
Oh, Sittah, Sittah, they're my brother's children.
[_He rushes to embrace them_. SITTAH _also embraces
the pair_.
Now, now, proud boy, thou canst not choose but love me.
(_To_ RECHA) And I to thee am all I sought to be,
With or without thy leave.
TEMPLAR: I of thy blood? Then all the tales I heard
In infancy were more than idle dreams.
[_Falls at_ SALADIN'S _feet_.
SALADIN (_raising him_): There's malice for you! Knew it all the time,
And yet he would have let me murder him.
Boy, boy! [_They embrace in silence_.
FOOTNOTES:
[S] Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, one of the greatest names in
German literature, was born January 22, 1729, at Kamenz, in Saxon Upper
Lusatia, where his father was a clergyman of the most orthodox Lutheran
school. After working very hard for five years at a school in Meissen,
he proceeded to the University of Leipzig, in 1746, with the intention
of studying theology, but he soon began to occupy himself with other
matters, made the acquaintance of actors, and acquired a great fondness
for dramatic entertainment. This sort of life, however, pained his
strict relatives, who pronounced it "sinful," and for a short time
Lessing went home. Later he proceeded to Berlin, and while there,
formed many valuable literary friendships, and established the best
literary journal of his time. "Nathan the Wise" ("Nathan der Weise")
arose out of a bitter theological controversy in which Lessing had been
engaged. It was written during the winter of 1778-79, and expresses
ideas and theories its author had already largely developed in prose.
Primarily the play is a strong plea for tolerance, the governing
conception being that noble character belongs to no particular creed,
but to all creeds, as set forth herein in the parable of the wonderful
ring. And thus it follows that there is no sufficient reason why people
holding one set of religious opinions should not tolerate others who
maintain totally different doctrines. Purely as a drama the play may
be disappointing, but regarded as a poem it ranks with the noblest
dramatic literature of the eighteenth century. The characters abound in
vitality, and some of the passages rise to heights of great splendour.
Lessing died on February 15, 1781 (see also Vol. XX, p. 239).
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW[T]
Evangeline, A Tale of Acadie
_I. --The Betrothal and the Exile_
On the night when Evangeline, the beautiful daughter of Benedict
Bellefontaine, the richest farmer of Grand-Pre, was to be betrothed to
Gabriel, the son of Basil Lajeunesse the blacksmith, the two fathers
were engaged in discussing the reason of the presence of several
English war vessels which were riding at anchor at the mouth of the
Gaspereau. Basil was inclined to take a gloomy view, and Benedict
a hopeful one, when the arrival of the notary put an end to his
discussion.
Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with brown ale,
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and ink-horn,
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
Then the notary, rising and blessing the bride and bridegroom,
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale, and drank to their welfare.
Wiping the foam from his lips, he solemnly bowed and departed,
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
Till Evangeline brought the draught board out of its corner.
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre.
Meanwhile, apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mists of the meadows.
Pleasantly rose next morn. And lo! with a summons sonorous,
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,
Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones
Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.
Then came the guards from the ships, and entered the sacred portal.
Straight uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar.
"You are convened this day," he said, "by his majesty's orders.
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds,
Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from the province
Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! "
In the midst of the tumult and angry contention that broke out,
Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
Entered with solemn mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
Raising his hand, with a gesture he awed the throng into silence.
"What is this that ye do? " he said. "What madness has seized you?
Forty years of my life have I laboured among you and taught you,
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? "
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people
Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,
While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them! "
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farmhouse.
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the seashore,
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the
sea-beach,
Piled in confusion, lay the household goods of the peasants.
Great disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking
Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their
children
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
Moon climbs the crystal wall of heaven, and o'er the horizon,
Titan-like, stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow,
Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of
a martyr.
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and,
uplifting,
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred housetops
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maidens
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the seashore,
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
With the first dawn of the day, the tide came hurrying landward.
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbour,
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
_II. --The Quest and the Finding_
The exiles from Acadie landed some on one coast, some on another;
and the lovers were separated from one another. Evangeline sought
everywhere for Gabriel, in towns and in the country, in churchyards
and on the prairies, in the camps and battlefields of the army, and
among missions of Jesuits and Moravians. But all in vain. She heard
far and distant news of him, but never came upon him. And so the years
went by, and she grew old in her search.
In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware waters,
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn, the apostle,
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,
And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him.
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent.
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others--
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city.
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm the oppressor;
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger--
Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
Thither, by night and day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour,
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter.
Thus on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.
Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden;
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.
And with light in her looks, she entered the chamber of sickness.
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
Laying his hand on many a heart, had healed it forever.
Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her
fingers,
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
Long and thin and grey were the locks that shaded his temples;
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood.
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit, exhausted,
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness--
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
"Gabriel! O my beloved! " and died away into silence.
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,
Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and walking under their shadow,
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bed-side.
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered,
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would
have spoken.
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.
Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.
All was ended now--the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience;
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank Thee! "
FOOTNOTES:
[T] Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the best-known and
best-beloved of American poets, was born at Portland, Maine, on
February 27, 1807. The son of a lawyer, he graduated at Bowdoin
College at the age of eighteen, and then entered his father's office,
not, however, with any intention of adopting the law as a profession.
Shortly afterwards, the college trustees sent him on a European tour
to qualify himself for the chair of foreign languages, one result of
which was a number of translations and his book "Outre Mer. " "Voices of
the Night," his first volume of original verse, appeared in 1839, and
created a favourable impression, which was deepened on the publication
in 1841 of "Ballads, and Other Poems," containing such moving pieces as
"The Wreck of the Hesperus," "The Village Blacksmith," and "Excelsior. "
From that moment Longfellow's reputation as poet was established--he
became a singer whose charm and simplicity not only appealed to his
own countrymen, but to English-speaking people the world over. In 1847
he produced what many regard as the greatest of his works, namely,
"Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie. " The story is founded on the compulsory
expatriation by the British of the people of Acadia (Nova Scotia), in
1713, on the charge of having assisted the French (from whom they were
descended) at a siege of the war then in progress. The poem is told
with infinite pathos and rare narrative power. Longfellow died on March
24, 1882.
The Song of Hiawatha[U]
_I. --Of Hiawatha and His Battle with Mudjekeewis_
Hiawatha was sent by Gitche Manito, the Master of Life, as a prophet
to guide and to teach the tribes of men, and to toil and suffer
with them. If they listened to his counsels they would multiply and
prosper, but if they paid no heed they would fade away and perish.
His father was Mudjekeewis, the West Wind; his mother was Wenonah,
the first-born daughter of Nokomis, who was the daughter of the Moon.
Wenonah died in her anguish deserted by the West Wind, and Hiawatha
was brought up and taught by the old Nokomis. He soon learned the
language of every bird and every beast; and Iagoo, the great boaster
and story-teller, made him a bow with which he shot the red deer. When
he grew into manhood he put many questions concerning his mother to
the old Nokomis, and having learned her story, resolved, despite all
warnings, to take vengeance on Mudjekeewis.
Forth he strode into the forest,
Crossed the rushing Esconaba,
Crossed the mighty Mississippi,
Passed the Mountains of the Prairie,
Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet,
Came unto the Rocky Mountains,
To the kingdom of the West Wind,
Where upon the gusty summits
Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis,
Ruler of the winds of Heaven.
Filled with awe was Hiawatha
At the aspect of his father.
Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis
When he looked on Hiawatha.
"Welcome," said he, "Hiawatha,
To the kingdom of the West Wind!
Long have I been waiting for you.
Youth is lovely, age is lonely;
You bring back the days departed,
You bring back my youth of passion,
And the beautiful Wenonah! "
Many days they talked together,
Questioned, listened, waited, answered;
Much the mighty Mudjekeewis
Boasted of his ancient prowess.
Patiently sat Hiawatha
Listening to his father's boasting.
Then he said: "O Mudjekeewis,
Is there nothing that can harm you? "
And the mighty Mudjekeewis
Answered, saying, "There is nothing,
Nothing but the black rock yonder,
Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek! "
And he looked at Hiawatha
With a wise look and benignant,
Saying, "O my Hiawatha!
Is there anything can harm you? "
But the wary Hiawatha
Paused awhile as if uncertain,
And then answered, "There is nothing,
Nothing but the great Apukwa! "
Then they talked of other matters;
First of Hiawatha's brothers,
First of Wabun, of the East Wind.
Of the South Wind, Shawondasee,
Of the north, Kabibonokka;
Then of Hiawatha's mother,
Of the beautiful Wenonah,
Of her birth upon the meadow,
Of her death, as old Nokomis
Had remembered and related.
Then up started Hiawatha,
Laid his hand upon the black rock.
With his mittens, Minjekahwun,
Rent the jutting crag asunder,
Smote and crushed it into fragments
Which he hurled against his father,
The remorseful Mudjekeewis,
For his heart was hot within him,
Like a living coal his heart was.
But the ruler of the West Wind
Blew the fragments backward from him,
Blew them back at his assailant;
Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa,
Dragged it with its roots and fibres
From the margin of the meadow.
Long and loud laughed Hiawatha.
Like a tall tree in the tempest
Bent and lashed the giant bulrush;
And in masses huge and heavy
Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek;
Till the earth shook with the tumult
And confusion of the battle.
Back retreated Mudjekeewis,
Rushing westward o'er the mountains,
Stumbling westward down the mountains,
Three whole days retreated fighting,
Still pursued by Hiawatha
To the doorways of the West Wind,
To the earth's remotest border.
"Hold! " at length called Mudjekeewis,
"'Tis impossible to kill me.
For you cannot kill the immortal.
I have put you to this trial
But to know and prove your courage.
Now receive the prize of valour!
Go back to your home and people,
Live among them, toil among them,
Cleanse the earth from all that harms it.
