Mahng, the loon, the wild goose, Wawa, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa ! ” If still further should ask me, you Saying, "Who was Nawadaha? Tell us of this Nawadaha," I should answer your inquiries Straightway in such words as follow. "In the Vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley, By the pleasant water-courses, Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. Round about the Indian village Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, And beyond them stood the forest, Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, Green in Summer, white in Winter, Ever sighing, ever singing. "And the pleasant water-courses, You could trace them through the valley, By the rushing in the Spring-time, Sang the Song of Hiawatha, Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches, And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades of pine-trees, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries; Ye who love a nation's legends, Call to us to pause and listen, Listen to this Indian Legend, To this Song of Hiawatha ! Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature, Who believe, that in all ages Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms There are longings, yearnings, strivings That the feeble hands and helpless, Touch God's right hand in that darkness To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Hang their tufts of crimson berries Full of hope and yet of heart-break, Full of all the tender pathos |