No More Learning

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.
And at last when Death draws near you,
When the awful eyes of Pauguk
Glare upon you in the darkness,
I will share my kingdom with you;
Ruler shall you be thenceforward
Of the North-west Wind, Keewaydin,
Of the home wind, the Keewaydin. "


_II. --Of Hiawatha's Friends and of His Fight with Pearl-Feather_

The first exertion which Hiawatha made for the profit of his people
was to fast for seven days in order to procure for them the blessing
of Mondamin, the friend of man. At sunset of the fourth, fifth, and
sixth days Hiawatha wrestled with the youth Mondamin, and on the
evening of the seventh day Mondamin, having fallen lifeless in the
combat, was stripped of his green and yellow garments and laid in the
earth. From his grave shot up the maize in all its beauty, the new
gift of the Great Spirit; and for a time Hiawatha rested from his
labours, taking counsel for furthering the prosperity of his people
with his two good friends--Chibiabos, the great singer and musician;
and Kwasind, the very strong man. But he was not long inactive. He
built the first birch canoe, and, with the help of Kwasind, cleared
the river of its sunken logs and sand-bars; and when he and his canoe
were swallowed by the monstrous sturgeon Mishe-Nahma, he killed it by
smiting fiercely on its heart. Not long afterwards his grandmother,
Nokomis, incited him to kill the great Pearl-Feather, Megissogwon,
the magician who had slain her father. Pearl-Feather was the sender
of white fog, of pestilential vapours, of fever and of poisonous
exhalations, and, although he was guarded by the Kenabeek, the
great fiery surpents, Hiawatha sailed readily in his birch canoe to
encounter him.

Soon he reached the fiery serpents,
The Kenabeek, the great serpents,
Lying huge upon the water,
Sparkling, rippling in the water,
Lying coiled across the passage,
With their blazing crests uplifted,
Breathing fiery fogs and vapours,
So that none could pass beyond them.
Then he raised his bow of ash-tree,
Seized his arrows, jasper-headed,
Shot them fast among the serpents;
Every twanging of the bow-string
Was a war-cry and a death-cry,
Every whizzing of an arrow
Was a death-song of Kenabeek.
Then he took the oil of Nahma,
Mishe-Nahma, the great sturgeon,
And the bows and sides anointed,
Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly
He might pass the black pitch-water.
All night long he sailed upon it,
Sailed upon that sluggish water,
Covered with its mold of ages,
Black with rotting water-rushes,
Rank with flags and leaves of lilies,
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal,
Lighted by the shimmering moonlight,
And by will-o'-wisps illumined,
Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled,
In their weary night encampments.
Westward thus fared Hiawatha,
Toward the realm of Megissogwon,
Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather,
Till the level moon stared at him,
In his face stared pale and haggard,
Till the sun was hot behind him,
Till it burned upon his shoulders,
And before him on the upland
He could see the shining wigwam
Of the Manito of Wampum,
Of the mightiest of magicians.
Straightway from the shining wigwam
Came the mighty Megissogwon,
Tall of stature, broad of shoulder,
Dark and terrible in aspect,
Clad from head to foot in wampum,
Armed with all his warlike weapons,
Painted like the sky of morning,
Crested with great eagle feathers,
Streaming upward, streaming outward.
Then began the greatest battle
That the sun had ever looked on.
All a summer's day it lasted;
For the shafts of Hiawatha
Harmless hit the shirt of wampum;
Harmless were his magic mittens,
Harmless fell the heavy war-club;
It could dash the rocks asunder,
But it could not break the meshes
Of that magic shirt of wampum.
Till at sunset, Hiawatha,
Leaning on his bow of ash-tree,
Wounded, weary, and desponding,
With his mighty war-club broken,
With his mittens torn and tattered,
And three useless arrows only,
Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree.
Suddenly, from the boughs above him
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker:
"Aim your arrow, Hiawatha,
At the head of Megissogwon,
Strike the tuft of hair upon it,
At their roots the long black tresses;
There alone can he be wounded! "
Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper,
Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow,
Just as Megissogwon, stooping
Raised a heavy stone to throw it.
Full upon the crown it struck him,
And he reeled and staggered forward.
Swifter flew the second arrow,
Wounding sorer than the other;
And the knees of Megissogwon
Bent and trembled like the rushes.
But the third and latest arrow
Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest,
And the mighty Megissogwon
Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk,
Saw the eyes of Death glare at him;
At the feet of Hiawatha
Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather.
Then the grateful Hiawatha
Called the Mama, the woodpecker,
From his perch among the branches,
And in honour of his service,
Stained with blood the tuft of feathers
On the little head of Mama;
Even to this day he wears it,
Wears the tuft of crimson feathers,
As a symbol of his service.


_III. --Hiawatha's Life with His People and His Departing Westward_

When Hiawatha was returning from his battle with Mudjekeewis he had
stopped at the wigwam of the ancient Arrow-maker to purchase heads
of arrows, and there and then he had noticed the beauty of the
Arrow-maker's daughter, Minnehaha, Laughing Water. Her he now took
to wife, and celebrated his nuptials by a wedding-feast at which
Chibiabos sang, and the handsome mischief-maker, Pau-Puk-Keewis,
danced. Minnehaha proved another blessing to the people. In the
darkness of the night, covered by her long hair only, she walked all
round the fields of maize, making them fruitful, and drawing a magic
circle round them which neither blight nor mildew, neither worm nor
insect, could invade. About this same time, too, to prevent the memory
of men and things fading, Hiawatha invented picture-writing, and
taught it to his people. But soon misfortunes came upon him. The evil
spirits, the Manitos of mischief, broke the ice beneath his friend
Chibiabos, and drowned him; Pau-Puk-Keewis put insult upon him, and
had to be hunted down; and the envious Little People, the mischievous
Puk-Wudjies, conspired against Kwasind, and murdered him. After this
ghosts paid a visit to Hiawatha's wigwam, and famine came upon the
land.

Oh, the long and dreary winter!
Oh, the cold and cruel winter!
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker
Froze the ice on lake and river;
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape,
Fell the covering snow, and drifted
Through the forest, round the village.
All the earth was sick and famished;
Hungry was the air around them,
Hungry was the sky above them,
And the hungry stars in heaven
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them!
Into Hiawatha's wigwam
Came two other guests, as silent
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy.
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow
At the face of Laughing Water.
And the foremost said, "Behold me!
I am Famine, Buckadawin! "
And the other said, "Behold me!
I am Fever, Ahkosewin! "
And the lovely Minnehaha
Shuddered as they looked upon her,
Shuddered at the words they uttered;
Lay down on her bed in silence.
Forth into the empty forest
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha;
In his heart was deadly sorrow,
In his face a stony firmness;
On his brow the sweat of anguish
Started, but it froze and fell not.
"Gitche Manito, the Mighty! "
Cried he with his face uplifted
In that bitter hour of anguish,
"Give your children food, O father!
Give me food for Minnehaha--
For my dying Minnehaha! "
All day long roved Hiawatha
In that melancholy forest,
Through the shadow of whose thickets,
In the pleasant days of summer,
Of that ne'er-forgotten summer,
He had brought his young wife homeward
From the land of the Dacotahs.
In the wigwam with Nokomis,
With those gloomy guests that watched her,
She was lying, the beloved,
She, the dying Minnehaha.
"Hark! " she said; "I hear a rushing,
Hear the falls of Minnehaha
Coming 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
Beckoning, lonely, from his wigwam
In the land of the Dacotahs! "
"No, my child! " said old Nokomis.
"'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons! "
"Ah! " said she, "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,
Miles away among the mountains,
Heard that sudden cry of anguish,
Heard the voice of Minnehaha
Calling to him in the darkness.
Over snowfields waste and pathless,
Under snow-encumbered branches,
Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted;
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing,
"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 very stars in heaven
Shook and trembled with his anguish.
Then he sat down, still and speechless,
On the bed of Minnehaha.
Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a swoon he sat there.
Then they buried Minnehaha;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome.
"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 labour,
Come not back again to suffer.
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! "

Hiawatha indeed remained not much longer with his people, for after
welcoming the Black-Robe chief, who told the elders of the nations of
the Virgin Mary and her blessed Son and Saviour, he launched his birch
canoe from the shores of Big-Sea-Water, and, departing westward,

Sailed into the fiery sunset,
Sailed into the purple vapours,
Sailed into the dusk of evening.


FOOTNOTES:

[U] In 1854 Longfellow resigned his professorship at Harvard.
"Evangeline" had been followed by "Kavanagh," a novel of no particular
merit, a cluster of minor poems, and in 1851 by the "Golden Legend,"
a singularly beautiful lyric drama, based on Hartmann van Aue's story
"Der arme Heinrichs. " Leaving the dim twilight of mediaeval Germany,
the poet brought his imagination to bear upon the Red Indian and his
store of legend. The result was the "Song of Hiawatha," in 1855. Both
in subject and in metre the poem is a conscious imitation of the
Finnish "Kalevala. " It was immensely popular on its appearance, Emerson
declaring it "sweet and wholesome as maize. " If the poem lacks veracity
as an account of savage life, it nevertheless overflows with the beauty
of the author's own nature, and is typical of those elements in his
poetry which have endeared his name to the English-speaking world. With
the exception of "Evangeline," it is the most popular of Longfellow's
works.




LUCRETIUS[V]




On the Nature of Things


_I. --The Invocation and the Theme_

Mother of Romans, joy of men and gods,
Kind Venus, who 'neath gliding signs of heaven
Dost haunt the main where sail our argosies,
Dost haunt the land that yieldeth crops of grain,
Since 'tis of thee that every kind of breath
Is born and riseth to behold the light;
Before Thee, Lady, flit the winds; and clouds
Part at thine advent, and deft-fingered earth
Yields Thee sweet blooms; for Thee the sea hath smiles,
And heaven at peace doth gleam with floods of light.
Soon as the fair spring face of day is shown
And zephyr kind to birth is loosed in strength;
First do the fowls of air give sign of Thee,
Lady, and of Thy entrance, smit at heart
By power of Thine. Then o'er the pastures glad
The wild herds bound, and swim the rapid streams.
Thy glamour captures them, and yearningly
They follow where Thou willest to lead on.
Yea, over seas and hills and sweeping floods,
And leafy homes of birds and grassy leas,
Striking fond love into the heart of all,
Thou mak'st each race desire to breed its kind.
Since Thou dost rule alone o'er nature's realm,
Since without Thee naught wins the hallowed shores
Of light, and naught is glad, and naught is fair,
Fain would I crave Thine aid for poesy
Which seeks to grasp the essence of the world.

On the high system of the heavens and gods
I will essay to speak, and primal germs
Reveal, whence nature giveth birth to all,
And growth and nourishment, and unto which
Nature resolves them back when quite outworn.
These, when we treat their system, we are wont
To view asm "matter," "bodies which produce,"
And name them "seeds of things," "first bodies" too,
Since from them at the first all things do come.


THE TYRANNY OF RELIGION AND THE REVOLT OF EPICURUS

When human life lay foully on the earth
Before all eyes, 'neath Superstition crushed,
Who from the heavenly quarters showed her head
And with appalling aspect lowered on men,
Then did a Greek dare first lift eyes to hers--
First brave her face to face. Him neither myth
Of gods, nor thunderbolt; nor sky with roar
And threat could quell; nay, chafed with more resolve
His valiant soul that he should yearn to be
First man to burst the bars of nature's gates.
So vivid verve of mind prevailed. He fared
Far o'er the flaming ramparts of the world,
And traversed the immeasurable All
In mind and soul: and thence a conqueror
Returns to tell what can, what cannot rise,
And on what principle each thing, in brief,
Hath powers defined and deep-set boundary.
Religion, then, is cast to earth in turn
And trampled. Triumph matches man with heaven.

The profoundest speculations on the nature of things are not impious.
Let not the reader feel that in such an inquiry he is on guilty
ground. It is, rather, true that religion has caused foul crimes. An
instance is the agonising sacrifice of sweet Iphigenia, slain at the
altar to appease divine wrath.

"Religion could such wickedness suggest. " Tales of eternal punishment
frighten only those ignorant of the real nature of the soul. This
ignorance can be dispelled by inquiring into the phenomena of heaven
and earth, and stating the laws of nature.


_II. --First Principles and a Theory of the Universe_

Of these the first is that nothing is made of nothing; the second,
that nothing is reduced to nothing. This indestructibility of matter
may be illustrated by the joyous and constantly renewed growth that is
in nature. There are two fundamental postulates required to explain
nature--atoms and void. These constitute the universe. There is no
_tertium quid_. All other things are but properties and accidents of
these two. Atoms are solid, "without void"; they are indestructible,
"eternal"; they are indivisible. To appreciate the physical theory of
Epicurus, it is necessary to note the erroneous speculations of other
Greek thinkers, whether, like Heraclitus, they deduced all things
from one such fundamental element as fire, or whether they postulated
four elements. From a criticism of the theories of Empedocles and
Anaxagoras, the poet, return to the main subject.


A HARD TASK AND THREEFOLD TITLE TO FAME

How dark my theme, I know within my mind;
Yet hath high hope of praise with thyrsus keen
Smitten my heart and struck into my breast
Sweet passion for the Muses, stung wherewith
In lively thought I traverse pathless haunts
Pierian, untrodden yet by man.
I love to visit those untasted springs
And quaff; I love to cull fresh blooms, and whence
The Muses never veiled the brows of man
To seek a wreath of honour for my head:
First, for that lofty is the lore I teach;
Then, cramping knots of priestcraft I would loose;
And next because of mysteries I sing clear,
Decking my poems with the Muses' charm.

This sweetening of verse with: "the honey of the Muses" is like
disguising unpalatable medicine for children. The mind must be engaged
by attractive means till it perceives the nature of the world.

As to the existing universe, it is bounded in none of its dimensions;
matter and space are infinite. All things are in continual motion
in every direction, and there is an endless supply of material
bodies from infinite space. These ultimate atoms buffet each other
ceaselessly; they unite or disunite. But there is no such thing
as design in their unions. All is fortuitous concourse; so there
are innumerable blind experiments and failures in nature, due to
resultless encounters of the atoms.


CALM OF MIND IN RELATION TO A TRUE THEORY OF THE UNIVERSE

When tempests rack the mighty ocean's face,
How sweet on land to watch the seaman's toil--
Not that we joy in neighbour's jeopardy,
But sweet it is to know what ills we 'scape.
How sweet to see war's mighty rivalries
Ranged on the plains--without thy share of risk.
Naught sweeter than to hold the tranquil realms
On high, well fortified by sages' lore,
Whence to look down on others wide astray--
Lost wanderers questing for the way of life--
See strife of genius, rivalry of rank,
See night and day men strain with wondrous toil
To rise to utmost power and grasp the world.

Man feels an imperious craving to shun bodily pain and secure mental
pleasure. But the glitter of luxury at the banquets of the rich
cannot satisfy this craving: there are the simpler joys of the open
country in spring. But the fact is, no magnificence can save the body
from pain or the mind from apprehensions. The genuine remedy lies in
knowledge alone.

Not by the sunbeams nor clear shafts of day,
Needs then dispel this dread, this gloom of soul,
But by the face of nature and its plan.


PROPERTIES OF ATOMS

Particles are constantly being transferred from one thing to another,
though the sum total remains constant. In the light hereof may be
understood the uninterrupted waxing and waning of things, and the
perpetual succession of existence.

Full soon the broods of living creatures change,
Like runners handing on the lamp of life.

Greater or less solidity depends on the resilience of atoms. Their
ceaseless motion is illustrated by the turmoil of motes in a stream
of sunlight let into a dark room. As to their velocity, it greatly
exceeds that of the sun's rays. This welter of atoms is the product
of chance; the very blemishes of the world forbid one to regard it as
divine. But the atoms do not rain through space in rigidly parallel
lines. A minute swerve in their motion is essential to account for
clashings and production; and in the ethical sphere it is this swerve
which saves the mind from "Necessity" and makes free will possible.
Though the universe appears to be at rest, this is a fallacy of the
senses, due to the fact that the motions of "first bodies" are not
cognisable by our eyes; indeed, a similar phenomenon is the apparent
vanishing of motion due to distance; for a white spot on a far-off
hill may really be a frolicsome lamb.

Oft on a hillside, cropping herbage rich,
The woolly flocks creep on whithersoe'er
The grass bejewelled with fresh dew invites,
And full-fed lambs disport and butt in play--
All this to eyes at distance looks a blur;
On the green hill the white spot seems at rest.

The shapes of atoms vary; and so differences of species, and
differences within the same species, arise. This variety in shape
accounts, too, for the varying action and effects of atoms. Atoms
in hard bodies, for example, are mainly hooked; but in liquids
mainly smooth. In each thing, however, there are several kinds,
which furnish that particular thing with a variety of properties.
Furthermore, atoms are colourless, for in themselves they are
invisible; they never come into the light, whereas colour needs
light--witness the changing hues of the down on a pigeon's neck, or
of a peacock's tail. Atoms are themselves without senses, though they
produce things possessed of senses. To grasp the origin of species
and development of animate nature, one must realise the momentous
importance of the arrangement and interconnection of atoms. Wood
and other rotting bodies will bring forth worms, because material
particles undergo, under altered conditions, fresh permutations and
combinations. One may ask, what of man? He can laugh and weep, he
can discuss the composition of all things, and even inquire into the
nature of those very atoms! It is true that he springs from them. Yet
a man may laugh without being made of laughing atoms, and a man may
reason without being made of reasonable atoms!


EPICURUS AND THE GODS

O thou that from gross darkness first didst lift
A torch to light the path to happiness,
I follow thee, thou glory of the Greeks!
And in thy footsteps firmly plant my steps,
Not bent so much to rival as for love
To copy. Why should swallow vie with swan?
Thou, father, art discoverer of things,
Enriching us with all a father's lore;
And, famous master, from thy written page,
As bees in flowery dells sip every bloom,
So hold we feast on all thy golden words--
Golden, most worthy, aye, of lasting life.
Soon as thy reasoning, sprung from mind inspired,
Hath loud proclaimed the mystery of things,
The mind's fears flee, the bulwarks of the world
Part, and I see things work throughout the void.
Then Godhead is revealed in homes of calm,
Which neither tempests shake nor clouds with rain
Obscure, nor snow by piercing frost congealed
Mars with white fall, but ever cloudless air
Wraps in a smile of generous radiancy.
There nature, too, supplieth every want,
And nothing ever lessens peace of mind.


_III. --Of Mind and Soul and Death_

Mind and soul are portions of the body. While mind is the ruling
element, they are both of the nature of the body--only they are
composed of exceedingly minute and subtle atoms capable of marvellous
speed. Therefore, when death deprives the body of mind and soul, it
does not make the body appreciably lighter.

It is as if a wine had lost its scent,
Or breath of some sweet perfume had escaped.

Mind and soul consist of spirit, air, heat, and an elusive fourth
constituent, the nimblest and subtlest of essences, the very "soul of
the soul. " It follows that mind and soul are mortal. Among many proofs
may be adduced their close interconnection with the body, as seen
in cases of drunkenness and epilepsy; their curability by medicine;
their inability to recall a state prior to their incarnation;
their liability to be influenced by heredity like corporeal seeds.
Besides, why should an immortal soul need to quit the body at death?
Decay surely could not hurt immortality! Then, again, imagine souls
contending for homes in a body about to be born! Consequently, the
soul being mortal, death has no sting.

To us, then, death is nothing--matters naught,
Since mortal is the nature of the mind,
E'en as in bygone time we felt no grief
When Punic conflict hemmed all Rome around.
When, rent by war's dread turbulence, the world
Shuddered and quaked beneath the heaven's high realm,
So when we are no more, when soul and frame
Of which we are compact, have been divorced,
Be sure, to us, who then shall be no more,
Naught can occur or ever make us feel,
Not e'en though earth were blent with sea and sky.

Men in general forget that death, in ending life's pleasures, also
ends the need and the desire for them.

"Soon shall thy home greet thee in joy no more,
Nor faithful wife nor darling children run
To snatch first kiss, and stir within thy heart
Sweet thoughts too deep for words. Thou canst no more
Win wealth by working or defend thine own.
The pity of it! One fell hour," they say,
"Hath robbed thee of thine every prize in life. "
Hereat they add not this: "And now thou art
Beset with yearning for such things no more. "

The dead are to be envied, not lamented. The wise will exclaim: "Thou,
O dead, art free from pain: we who survive are full of tears. "

"What is so passing bitter," we should ask,
"If life be rounded by a rest and sleep,
That one should pine in never-ending grief? "

Universal nature has a rebuke for the coward that is afraid to die.