The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      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,

      By the alders in the Summer,

      By the white fog in the Autumn,

      By the black line in the Winter;

      And beside them dwelt the singer,

      In the vale of Tawasentha,

      In the green and silent valley.

       "There he sang of Hiawatha,

      Sang the Song of Hiawatha,

      Sang his wondrous birth and being,

      How he prayed and how he fasted,

      How he lived, and toiled, and suffered,

      That the tribes of men might prosper,

      That he might advance his people!"

       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,

      And the thunder in the mountains,

      Whose innumerable echoes

      Flap like eagles in their eyries;—

      Listen to these wild traditions,

      To this Song of Hiawatha!

       Ye who love a nation's legends,

      Love the ballads of a people,

      That like voices from afar off

      Call to us to pause and listen,

      Speak in tones so plain and childlike,

      Scarcely can the ear distinguish

      Whether they are sung or spoken;—

      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

      For the good they comprehend not,

      That the feeble hands and helpless,

      Groping blindly in the darkness,

      Touch God's right hand in that darkness

      And are lifted up and strengthened;—

      Listen to this simple story,

      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

      Over stone walls gray with mosses,

      Pause by some neglected graveyard,

      For a while to muse, and ponder

      On a half-effaced inscription,

      Written with little skill of song-craft,

      Homely phrases, but each letter

      Full of hope and yet of heart-break,

      Full of all the tender pathos

      Of the Here and the Hereafter;—

      Stay and read this rude inscription,

      Read this Song of Hiawatha!