The Song of Hiawatha   ::   Longfellow Henry Wadsworth

Would you listen to his boasting,

Would you only give him credence,

No one ever shot an arrow

Half so far and high as he had;

Ever caught so many fishes,

Ever killed so many reindeer,

Ever trapped so many beaver!

None could run so fast as he could,

None could dive so deep as he could,

None could swim so far as he could;

None had made so many journeys,

None had seen so many wonders,

As this wonderful Iagoo,

As this marvellous story-teller!

Thus his name became a by-word

And a jest among the people;

And whene'er a boastful hunter

Praised his own address too highly,

Or a warrior, home returning,

Talked too much of his achievements,

All his hearers cried, "Iagoo!

Here's Iagoo come among us!"

He it was who carved the cradle

Of the little Hiawatha,

Carved its framework out of linden,

Bound it strong with reindeer sinews;

He it was who taught him later

How to make his bows and arrows,

How to make the bows of ash-tree,

And the arrows of the oak-tree.

So among the guests assembled

At my Hiawatha's wedding

Sat Iagoo, old and ugly,

Sat the marvellous story-teller.

And they said, "O good Iagoo,

Tell us now a tale of wonder,

Tell us of some strange adventure,

That the feast may be more joyous,

That the time may pass more gayly,

And our guests be more contented!"

And Iagoo answered straightway,

"You shall hear a tale of wonder,

You shall hear the strange adventures

Of Osseo, the Magician,

From the Evening Star descending."



XII

The Son of the Evening Star

Can it be the sun descending

O'er the level plain of water?

Or the Red Swan floating, flying,

Wounded by the magic arrow,

Staining all the waves with crimson,

With the crimson of its life-blood,

Filling all the air with splendor,

With the splendor of its plumage?

Yes; it is the sun descending,

Sinking down into the water;

All the sky is stained with purple,

All the water flushed with crimson!

No; it is the Red Swan floating,

Diving down beneath the water;

To the sky its wings are lifted,

With its blood the waves are reddened!

Over it the Star of Evening

Melts and trembles through the purple,

Hangs suspended in the twilight.

No; it is a bead of wampum

On the robes of the Great Spirit

As he passes through the twilight,

Walks in silence through the heavens.