The Epic Song of Hiawatha. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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       Youth is lovely, age is lonely,

       Youth is fiery, age is frosty;

       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,

       Of his perilous adventures,

       His indomitable courage,

       His invulnerable body.

      Patiently sat Hiawatha,

       Listening to his father’s boasting;

       With a smile he sat and listened,

       Uttered neither threat nor menace,

       Neither word nor look betrayed him,

       But his heart was hot within him,

       Like a living coal his heart was.

      Then he said, “O Mudjekeewis,

       Is there nothing that can harm you?

       Nothing that you are afraid of?”

       And the mighty Mudjekeewis,

       Grand and gracious in his boasting,

       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,

       With a countenance paternal,

       Looked with pride upon the beauty

       Of his tall and graceful figure,

       Saying, “O my Hiawatha!

       Is there anything can harm you?

       Anything you are afraid of?”

      But the wary Hiawatha

       Paused awhile, as if uncertain,

       Held his peace, as if resolving,

       And then answered, “There is nothing,

       Nothing but the bulrush yonder,

       Nothing but the great Apukwa!”

      And as Mudjekeewis, rising,

       Stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush,

       Hiawatha cried in terror,

       Cried in well-dissembled terror,

       “Kago! kago! do not touch it!”

       “Ah, kaween!” said Mudjekeewis,

       “No indeed, I will not touch it!”

      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.

      And he cried, “O Mudjekeewis,

       It was you who killed Wenonah,

       Took her young life and her beauty,

       Broke the Lily of the Prairie,

       Trampled it beneath your footsteps;

       You confess it! you confess it!”

       And the mighty Mudjekeewis

       Tossed his gray hairs to the West-Wind,

       Bowed his hoary head in anguish,

       With a silent nod assented.

      Then up started Hiawatha,

       And with threatening look and gesture

       Laid his hand upon the black rock,

       On the fatal Wawbeek laid it,

       With his mittens, Minjekahwun,

       Rent the jutting crag asunder,

       Smote and crushed it into fragments,

       Hurled them madly at 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,

       With the breathing of his nostrils,

       With the tempest of his anger,

       Blew them back at his assailant;

       Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa,

       Dragged it with its roots and fibres

       From the margin of the meadow,

       From its ooze, the giant bulrush;

       Long and loud laughed Hiawatha!

      Then began the deadly conflict,

       Hand to hand among the mountains;

       From his eyry screamed the eagle,

       The Keneu, the great war-eagle,

       Sat upon the crags around them,

       Wheeling flapped his wings above them.

      Like a tall tree in the tempest

       Bent and lashed the giant bulrush;

       And in masses huge and heavy

       Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek;

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