Saw the remnants of our people
Sweeping westward, wild and woeful,
Like the cloud-rack of a tempest,
Like the withered leaves of autumn!"

XXII.

HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE.

By the shore of Gitche Gumec,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.

All the air was full of freshness,
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him, through the sunshine,
Westward toward the neighbouring forest
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,
Passed the bees, the honey-makers,
Burning, singing in the sunshine.

Bright above him shone the heavens,
Level spread the lake before him;
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon,
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine;
On its margin the great forest
Stood reflected in the water,
Every tree-top had its shadow,
Motionless beneath the water.

From the brow of Hiawatha
Gone was every trace of sorrow,
As the fog from off the water,
As the mist from off the meadow.
With a smile of joy and triumph,
With a look of exultation,
As of one who in a vision
Sees what is to be but is not,
Stood and waited Hiawatha.

Toward the sun his hands were lifted,
Both the palms spread out against it
And between the parted fingers
Fell the sunshine on his features,
Flecked with light his naked shoulders,
As it falls and flecks an oak-tree

Through the rifted leaves and branches.
O'er the water floating, flying,
Something in the hazy distance,
Something in the mists of morning,
Loomed and lifted from the water,

Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.

Was it Shingebis, the diver?
Was it the pelican, the Shada?
Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah?
Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa,
With the water dripping, flashing
From its glossy neck and feathers?
It was neither goose nor diver,
Neither the pelican, nor heron,
O er the water floating, flying,
Through the shining mist of morning,
But a birch canoe with paddles,
Rising, sinking on the water,
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine,
And within it came a people
From the distant land of Wabun,
From the farthest realms of morning
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,
He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face,
With his guides and his companions.
And the noble Hiawatha,
With his hands aloft extended,
Held aloft in sign of welcome,
Waited, full of exultation,

Till the birch canoe with paddles,
Grated on the shining pebbles,
Stranded on the sandy margin,

Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,
With the cross upon his bosom,
Landed on the sandy margin.
Then the joyous Hiawatha

Cried aloud and spake in this wise:
When you's the sun, O strangers,
All our town in peace to see us!
All our doors stand open for you;
You shall enter all our wigwams,
For the heart's right hand we give you.
Never bloomed the earth so gayly
Never shone the sun so brightly,
As to-day they shine and blossom
When you come so far to see us!
Never was our lake so tranquil,

Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars;
For your birch canoe in passing

Has removed both rock and sand-bar!
"Never before had our tobacco
Such a sweet and pleasant flavour,
Never the broad leaves of our corn-fields
Were so beautiful to look on,

As they seem to us this morning,
When you come so far to see us!"

And the Black-Robe chief made answer,
Stammered in his speech a little,
Speaking words yet unfamiliar:
"Peace be with you, Hiawatha.
Peace be with you and your people,
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon,
Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!"

Then the generous Hiawatha

Led the strangers to his wigwam,
Seated them on skins of bison,
Seated them on skins of ermine.

And the careful old Nokomis

Brought them food in bowls of bass-wood,
Water brought in birchen dippers,
And the calumet, the peace-pipe,

Filled and lighted for their smoking.
All the old men of the village,
All the warriors of the nation,
All the Josakeeds, the prophets,
The magicians, the Wabenos,
And the medicine-men, the Medas,
Came to bid the strangers welcome;
"It is well," they said, "O brothers,
That you come so far to see us!"

In a circle round the doorway,
With their pipes they sat in silence,
Waiting to behold the strangers,
Waiting to receive their message;
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,
From the wigwam came to greet them.
Stammering in his speech a little,
Speaking words yet unfamiliar:
"It is well," they said, "O brother,
That you come so far to see us!"

Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet,
Told his message to the people,
Told the purport of his mission,
Told them of the Virgin Mary,
And her blessed son, the Saviour,
How in distant lands and ages
He had lived on earth as we do;
How he fasted, prayed, and laboured;
How the Jews, the tribe accursed,
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him,
How he rose from where they laid him,
Walked again with his disciples,
And ascended into heaven.

And the chiefs made answer, saying:
"We have listened to your message,
We have heard your words of wisdom,
We will think on what you tell us.
It is well for us, O brothers,
That you come so far to see us!"

Then they rose up and departed
Each one homeward to his wigwam,
To the young men and the women
Told the story of the strangers
Whom the Master of Life had sent them
From the shining land of Wabun.
Heavy with the heat and silence
Grew the afternoon of Summer;
With a drowsy sound the forest

Whispered round the sultry wigwam,
With a sound of sleep the water
Rippled on the shrill and 'ceaseless
y the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena;
And the guests of Hiawatha,
Weary with the heat of Summer,
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.
Slowly o'er the simmering landscape
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness,
And the long and level sunbeams
Shot their spears into the forest,
Breaking through its shields of shadow,
Rushed into each secret ambush,
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow,
Still the guests of Hiawatha
Slumbered in the silent wigwam.

From his place rose Hiawatha,

Bade farewell to old Nokomis,

Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,

Did not wake the guests that slumbered: "I am going, O Nokomis,

On a long and distant journey,
To the portals of the Sunset,

To the regions of the home-wind,

Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin:
But these guests I leave behind me,
In your watch and ward I leave them;
See that never harm comes near them,
See that never fear molests them,
Never danger nor sucpicion,
Never want of food or shelter,
In the lodge of Hiawatha!"

Forth into the village went he,
Bade farewell to all the warriors,
Bade farewell to all the young men,
Spake, persuading, spake in this wise:
I am going, O my people,

On a long and distant journey;
Many moons and many winters
Will have come, and will have vanished,
Ere I come again to see you.
But my guests I leave behind me:
Listen to their words of wisdom,
Listen to the truth they tell you,

For the Master of Life has sent them

From the land of light and morning!"
On the shore stood Hiawatha,
Turned and waved his hand at parting;
On the clear and luminous water
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing,
From the pebbles of the margin
Shoved it forth into the water;

Whispered to it, "Westward! Westward!"
And with speed it darted forward.

And the evening sun descending
Set the clouds on fire with redness,
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
Left upon the level water

One long track and trail of splendour,
Down whose stream, as down a river,
Westward, westward Hiawatha
Sailed into the fiery sunset,
Sailed into the purple vapours,
Sailed into the dusk of evening.

And the people from the margin
Watched him floating, rising, sinking,
Till the birch-canoe seemed lifted
High into that sea of splendour,
Till it sank into the vapours

Like the new moon slowly, slowly
Sinking in the purple distance.

And they said, Farewell for ever!"
Said "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"

And the forests, dark and lonely,

Moved through all their depths of darkness,
Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the waves upon the margin
Rising, rippling on the pebbles,
Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From her haunts among the fen-lands,
Screamed, "Farewell, Ö Hiawatha!"
Thus departed Hiawatha,
Hiawatha the Beloved,

In the glory of the sunset,
In the purple mists of evening,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin,
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the kingdom of Ponemah,
To the land of the Hereafter!

VOCABULARY.

Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel.
Ahdeek', the reindeer.
Ahmeek', the beaver.
Annemee'kee, the thunder.
Apuk'wa, a bulrush.

Baim-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder.

Bemah'gut, the grape-vine.
Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior.
Cheemaun', a birch-canoe.
Chetowaik', the plover.
Chibia'bos, a musician; friend
of Hiawatha; ruler in the
Land of Spirits.
Dahin'da, the bull frog.
Dush-kwo-ne'she, or Kwo-ne'-
she, the dragon-fly.
Esa, shame upon you.
Ewa-yea', lullaby.

Gitch'e Gu'mee, the Big-Sea

Water, Lake Superior. Gitch'e Man'ito, the Great Spirit, the Master of Life. Gushkewan', the darkness. Hiawatha, the Prophet, the Teacher; son of Mudjekeewis, the West-Wind, and Wenonah, daughter of Nokomis. Ia'goo, a great boaster and storyteller.

Inin'e wug, men or pawns in the

Game of the Bowl.

Ishkoodah', fire; a comet. Jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit. Joss'akeed, a prophet. Kabibonok'ka, the North- Wind. Ka'go, do not.

Kahgahgee', the raven.

Kee'go, a fish.

the Home-wind.

Minneha'ha, Laughing Water;
a water-fall on a stream run-
ning into the Mississippi, be-
tween Fort Snelling and the
Falls of St. Anthony.
Minneha'ha, Laughing Water;
wife of Hiawatha.
Minnie-wa'wa, a pleasant sound,
as of the wind in the trees.
Mish'e-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear.
Mish'e-Nah'ma, the Great Stur-
geon.

Miskodeed', the Spring Beauty,
the Claytonia Virginica.
Monda'min, Indian corn.
Moon of Bright Nights, April.
Moon of Leaves, May.
Moon of Strawberries, June.
Moon of the Falling Leaves,
September.

Moon of Snow-shoes, November.
Mudjekeewis, the West- Wind;
Fathe of Hiawatha.
Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves
on a shore.
Mushkoda'sa, the grouse.
Nah'ma, the sturgeon.
Nah'ma-wusk, spearmint.
Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes
of Lake Superior.
Nee-ba-naw'-baigs, water-spirits
Nenemoo'sha, sweetheart.
Nepah'win, sleep.

Kena'beek, a serpent.

Keneu', the great war-eagle.
Keno'zha, the pickerel.
Ko'ko-koʻho, the owl.

Kuntasoo', the Game of Plumstones.

Kwa'sind, the Strong Man.

Kwo-ne'-she, or Dush-kwo-ne'-
she, the dragon-fly.
Mahnahbe'zee, the swan.
Mahng, the loon.
Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted,
brave.

Mahnomo'nee, wild rice.
Ma'ma, the woodpecker,

Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshop

per.
Pan'guk, death.
Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome
Yenadizze, the Storm Fool.
Pe'boan, Winter.
Pem'ican, meat of the deer or
buffalo, dried and pounded.
Pezhekee', the bison.
Pishnekuh', the brant.
Ponemah', hereafter.
Puggawau'gun, a war-club,
Puk-Wudj'ies, Puk-Wudg-In-
in'ees, little wild men of the
woods; pigmies.
Sah-sah-je-wun, rapids.
Sah'wa, the perch.
Segwun', Spring.
Sha'da, the pelican.
Shahbo'min, the gooseberry.
Shah-shah, long ago.
Shaugoda'ya, a coward.
Shawgashee', the craw-fish.
Shawonda'see, the South-Wind.
Shaw-shaw, the swallow.
Shesh'ebwug, ducks; pieces in
the game of the Bowl.
Shin'gebis, the diver, or greebe.
Showain' neme'-shin, pity me.
Shuh-shuh'-gah, the blue heron.
Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted.
Subbeka'she, the spider.
Sugge'ma, the mosquito.
To'tem, family coat-of-arms.
Ugh, yes.

Ugudwash', the sun-fish.
Unktahee', the God of Water.
Wabas'so, the rabbit; the North.
Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler.
Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow.
Wa'bun, the East-Wind.
Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the
East, the Morning Star.
Wahono'min, a cry of lamenta-
tion.

Wah-wah-tay'sce, the fire-fly.
Waubewy 'on, a white skin wrap-
per.
Wa'wa, the wild-goose.
Waw'beek, a rock.

Waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose.
Wawonais'sa, the whippoor-will.
Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpit-
lar.

Weno'nah, the eldest daughter; Hiawatha's mother; daughter of Nokomis. Yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler; an Indian dandy.

I.

MILES STANDISHI.

IN the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive

dwelling,

Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,

Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.

Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing

Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,

Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,

Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence.

While underneath, in a corner, were fowlingpiece, musket, and matchlock.

Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,

Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron:

Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already

Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.

Tear him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,

Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon

complexion,

Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives

Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not Angles but Angels

Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May-Flower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent. scribe interrupting,

Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.

Look at these arms," he said, "the warlike weapons that hang here, Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!

This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,

Well I remember the day! once saved my life in

a skirmish;

Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet

Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.

Had it not been of sheer-steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish

Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.

Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:

"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;

He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"

Still the captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:

"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;

That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;

So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.

Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great invincible army,

Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock.

Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,

And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"

This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes as the sunbeams

Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.

Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:

"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted,

High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose,

Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irresistible logic,

Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen,

Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians;

Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better.

Let them come, if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow,

Aspinct, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!"

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on she landscape,

Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapoury breath of the east wind,

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean,

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.

Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape,

Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion, Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded:

"Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish;

Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside;

She was the first to die of all who came in the May-Flower! Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there. Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people,

Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!"

Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding.

Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cæsar,

Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London,

And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible,

Musing a moment before them. Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful

Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort,

Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans,

Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians.

Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman,

Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence

Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumbmarks thick on the margin

Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest.

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,

Busy writing epistles important, to go by the May-Flower,

Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing!

Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter,

Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla,

Full of the name and fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla!

II.

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

NOTHING was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,

Or an occasional sigh from the labouring heart of the Captain,

Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Cæsar.

After awhile he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards,

Heavily on the page: "A wonderful man was this Cæsar!

You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow

Who can both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful!" Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful:

"Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons.

Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate

Seven letters at once. at the same time writing his memoirs."

"Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other,

"Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cæsar!

Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village,

Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it.

Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after;

Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered;

He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded;

Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus!

Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders,

When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too,

And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together

Their was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier, Put himself straight at the head of the troops, and commanded the captains, Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns;

Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons;

So he won the day, the battle of something-orother.

That's what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done,

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!"

All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling

Writing epistles important to go next day by the May-Flower,

Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla;

Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,

Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret,

Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!

Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover,

Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket,

Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth :

"When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you.

Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!"

Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters,

Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:

"Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,

Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish."

Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:

"Tis not good for a man to be alone say the Scriptures.

This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it;

Every hour in the day I think it, and feel it, and say it.

Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary;

Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.

Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla.

She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother

Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming,

Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying,

Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever

There were angels on earth as there are angels in heaven,

Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla

Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.

Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it. Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.