Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer, 25 Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress 30 Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. -- Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. 35 Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water, Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them; And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness, 40 Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. 45 But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly 50 Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 55 Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches: But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness; And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. 60 Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight, Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs, Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers, While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert, Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the forest, 65 Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before them Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus 70 Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. 80 Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD. [From The Song of Hiawatha, III, II. 97-234 (1855)] At the door on summer evenings Right against the moon he threw her; Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pinetrees, Heard the lapping of the water, 5 Sounds of music, words of wonder; 'Minne-wawa!' said the pine-trees, 'Mudway-aushka!' said the water. Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, 10 With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes; And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: 'Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, 15 Little, flitting, white-fire insect, "Tis her body that you see there.' Saw the rainbow in the heaven, so When he heard the owls at mid- secrets, 95 40 45 How they built their nests in Summer, 50 Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them 'Hiawatha's Chickens.' Of all beasts he learned the language, 55 Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was to timid, 60 Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them 'Hiawatha's Brothers.' Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the traveller and the talker, 65 He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha; From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak-bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, 70 And the cord he made of deerskin. Forth into the forest straightway 80 'Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!' Up the oak-tree, close beside him, 85 Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, In and out among the branches, Coughed and chattered from the oak 90 tree, Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter, 'Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!' But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer; 95 100 On their tracks his eyes were fastened, As the deer came down the pathway. 120 Scarce a twig moved with his motion, 115 From the red deer's hide Nokomis Laughed, and said between his laugh- All the village came and feasted, ing, 'Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!' And the rabbit from his pathway Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches, All the guests praised Hiawatha, Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge taha! Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-gotaysee! 125 130 135 5 KILLED AT THE FORD. He is dead, the beautiful youth, He, the life and light of us all, Hushed all murmurs of discontent. Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, 10 To visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was humming the words of some old song: "Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of JOHN his sword.' And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 35 And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. He OHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807 -1892), the 'Quaker Poet', was the son of a poor farmer in the neighbourhood of Haverhill, Mass., and, like Burns, did farm-work in his youth, but managed to obtain a fairly good education. early sent contributions to magazines, entered upon a journalistic career, and became editor of several political papers. He took an active part in politics and passionately engaged in the anti-slavery cause. In 1840 he retired to the seclusion of Amesbury, a village near his birthplace, which he made his home for the rest of his life. He died at Hampton Falls, N.H. Whittier holds his place in literature as a very prolific and facile writer of lyrical and epic verse. His lyric poetry is full of didactic and descriptive elements, and is mainly concerned either with slavery (The Slave-Ships; Massachusetts to Virginia; Ichabod), religion (My Psalm; The Eternal Goodness; Our Master), or nature (Hampton Beach; A Dream of Summer). He proved himself a master of pastoral poetry in a number of exquisite lyrics, like Maud Muller (1854), The Barefoot Boy, Telling the Bees, My Playmate, and in the magnificent domestic idyl of Snow-Bound (1866), his greatest and most characteristic work, which gives a graphic picture of his parental home and splendid descriptions of American winter scenery. His fine narrative gift is shown by a great many exquisite ballads on the early history or legendary lore of New England, such as Cassandra Southwick (1843), Skipper Ire 4 8 12 16 20 son's Ride (1857), Mabel Martin (1857), Barbara Frietchie (1863), How the Women went from Dover (1883), and by a collection of verse-tales entitled The Tent on the Beach (1867). Whittier is often considered the most 'national' or 'representative' of America's poets. TELLING THE BEES. [From Home Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics (1860)] Here is the place; right over the hill You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, 28 32 Since we parted, a month had passed, To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. |