Hiawatha, longfellow

 

II
The Four Winds

“Honor be to Mudjekeewis!”

Cried the warriors, cried the old men,

When he came in triumph homeward

With the sacred Belt of Wampum,

From the regions of the North-Wind,

From the kingdom of Wabasso,

From the land of the White Rabbit.

This with joy beheld Iagoo

And he said in haste: “Behold it!

See the sacred Star of Evening!

You shall hear a tale of wonder,

Hear the story of Osseo,

Son of the Evening Star, Osseo!

“But Osseo turned not from her,

Walked with slower step beside her,

Took her hand, as brown and withered

As an oak-leaf is in Winter,

Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha,

Soothed her with soft words of kindness,

Till they reached the lodge of feasting,

Till they sat down in the wigwam,

Sacred to the Star of Evening,

To the tender Star of Woman.

“When her blood fell on the planet,

On the sacred Star of Evening,

Broken was the spell of magic,

Powerless was the strange enchantment,

And the youth, the fearless bowman,

Suddenly felt himself descending,

Held by unseen hands, but sinking

Downward through the empty spaces,

Downward through the clouds and vapors,

Till he rested on an island,

On an island, green and grassy,

Yonder in the Big-Sea-Water

When the noiseless night descended

Broad and dark o’er field and forest,

When the mournful Wawonaissa

Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks,

And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,

Shut the doors of all the wigwams,

From her bed rose Laughing Water,

Laid aside her garments wholly,

And with darkness clothed and guarded,

Unashamed and unaffrighted,

Walked securely round the cornfields,

Drew the sacred, magic circle

Of her footprints round the cornfields.

No one but the Midnight only

Saw her beauty in the darkness,

No one but the Wawonaissa

Heard the panting of her bosom

Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her

Closely in his sacred mantle,

So that none might see her beauty,

So that none might boast, “I saw her!”

On the morrow, as the day dawned,

Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens,

Then the Medicine-men, the Medas,

The magicians, the Wabenos,

And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets,

Came to visit Hiawatha;

Built a Sacred Lodge beside him,

To appease him, to console him,

Walked in silent, grave procession,

Bearing each a pouch of healing,

Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter,

Filled with magic roots and simples,

Filled with very potent medicines.

When he heard their steps approaching,

Hiawatha ceased lamenting,

Called no more on Chibiabos;

Naught he questioned, naught he answered,

But his mournful head uncovered,

From his face the mourning colors

Washed he slowly and in silence,

Slowly and in silence followed

Onward to the Sacred Wigwam.

“I myself, myself! the prophet!

When I speak the wigwam trembles,

Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror,

Hands unseen begin to shake it!

When I walk, the sky I tread on

Bends and makes a noise beneath me!

I can blow you strong, my brother!

Rise and speak, O Hiawatha!”

On that journey, moving slowly,

Many weary spirits saw he,

Panting under heavy burdens,

Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows,

Robes of fur, and pots and kettles,

And with food that friends had given

For that solitary journey.

“Ay! why do the living,” said they,

“Lay such heavy burdens on us!

Better were it to go naked,

Better were it to go fasting,

Than to bear such heavy burdens

On our long and weary journey!”

Forth then issued Hiawatha,

Wandered eastward, wandered westward,

Teaching men the use of simples

And the antidotes for poisons,

And the cure of all diseases.

Thus was first made known to mortals

All the mystery of Medamin,

All the sacred art of healing.