events of the revolution The spacious old rooms now occupied by the poet were once, at a memorable time, the abode of America's most ilustrious son. The writer of lyrics has taken the place of the actor of epics. When, in the early days of the war of independence, Washington was elected by Congress to the command of the colonial army, English troops had possession of Boston. The siege was formed by concentrating the patriot troops in the neighbouring towns. Washington went to New England to direct their movements in person, and fixed his head-qarters in convenient Cambridge-in this same venerable mansion where Longfellow now lives. Thence he sent out his orders, general and special; here convened, in anxious deliberation, the little knot of patriot officers, unskilled in war, collected from farm-houses and laboratories, to drill by manual and learn the art of sieges. Within this door passed the wealthy merchant, Hancock, who had turned his

thoughts to "rules" and "orders of the day;" gruff Samuel Adams, a Puritan Mirabeau, putting his finger exactly on the pith of the trouble; rewards for the capture of those two had just been proclaimed over in Boston. In these quiet rooms, given up now these many years to the Muse, whence come out ever and anon gracefullest gems of the rhythmic art, a plan of campaign was drawn up, experienced ex-royal Lieutenant Washington supervising, ex-merchants, doctors, farmers, advising,-all agreeing, too, and at last succeeding; unity, a rare thing in revo lutionary councils, ever prevailing. Washington did not stir from this Longfellow's house till he could go in triumph. It is no wonder, then, that Americans visit this old place with mingled feel ings-that they find here a reminiscence as well as an attractive presence; and while gazing at the home of the first of native poets, revert to that troublous time when there was for Americe, but the grim poetry of war.

INTRODUCTION.

1. SHOULD you ask me, whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odours of the forest,
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,

10.

And their wild reverberations, 34' xx
As of thunder in the mountains?

I should answer, I should tell you,
"From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,

From the mountains, moors, and fenlands,
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,*
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them

From the lips of Nawadaha,

20. The musician, the sweet singer.'

Should you ask where Nawadaha
Found these songs, so wild and wayward,
Found these legends and traditions,
I should answer, I should tell you,
"In the bird's-nests of the forest,
In the lodges of the beaver,
In the hoof-prints of the bison,
In the eyrie of the eagle!

"All the wild-föŵl sang them to him,
30. In the moorlands and the fenlands,
In the melancholy marshes;

Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,
Mahng, the loon, the wild goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the gröuse, the Mushkodasa!".

If still further you should ask me,
Saying, "Who was Nawadaha?
Tell us of this Nawadaha,'
I should answer your inquiries
4Straightway 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,

sa 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,

* See Vocabulary, at the end of Poem.

And the rushing of great rivers

Through the palisades of pine-trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable ěchões
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 bärberry-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!