Longfellow experimented with many different writing styles. He is mainly known for lyric poetry, but he has also written in hexameter and free verse. Evangeline is actually written in hexameter. Longfellow would look at the main character before deciding the right metrical form for it. He experimented with different meters for poems.
![Picture](/uploads/2/9/0/0/29008337/1399475955.png)
The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul
Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now
alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town
to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church
tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on
the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through
every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the
Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging
wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom
ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a
huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with
eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at
the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the
measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs,
with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the
pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him
made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep
and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen
and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing
over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the
hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a
sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from
tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he
feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the
lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a
shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A
line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of
boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy
stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his
horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then,
impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle
girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the
Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and
spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's
height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle,
the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A
second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in
the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out
by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the
gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the
spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame
with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath
him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean
tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand,
now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford
town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's
dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes
down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He
saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the
meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral
glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look
upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord
town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among
the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the
meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge
would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a
British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars
fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
>From
behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the
lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the
turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his
cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance,
and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word
that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the
Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and
peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying
hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul
Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now
alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town
to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church
tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on
the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through
every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the
Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging
wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom
ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a
huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with
eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at
the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the
measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs,
with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the
pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him
made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep
and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen
and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing
over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the
hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a
sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from
tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he
feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the
lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a
shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A
line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of
boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy
stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his
horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then,
impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle
girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the
Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and
spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's
height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle,
the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A
second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in
the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out
by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the
gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the
spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame
with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath
him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean
tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand,
now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford
town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's
dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes
down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He
saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the
meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral
glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look
upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord
town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among
the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the
meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge
would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a
British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars
fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
>From
behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the
lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the
turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his
cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance,
and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word
that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the
Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and
peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying
hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
![Picture](/uploads/2/9/0/0/29008337/1399476225.png)
The Song of Hiawatha (part)
On the shores of Gitche Gumee,
Of the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood Nokomis, the old woman,
Pointing with her finger westward,
O'er the water pointing westward,
To the purple clouds of sunset.
Fiercely the red sun
descending
Burned his way along the heavens,
Set the sky on fire behind
him,
As war-parties, when retreating,
Burn the prairies on their
war-trail;
And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward,
Suddenly starting from
his ambush,
Followed fast those bloody footprints,
Followed in that fiery
war-trail,
With its glare upon his features.
And Nokomis, the old
woman,
Pointing with her finger westward,
Spake these words to
Hiawatha:
"Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather,
Megissogwon, the
Magician,
Manito of Wealth and Wampum,
Guarded by his fiery
serpents,
Guarded by the black pitch-water.
You can see his fiery
serpents,
The Kenabeek, the great serpents,
Coiling, playing in the
water;
You can see the black pitch-water
Stretching far away beyond
them,
To the purple clouds of sunset!
"He it was who slew my
father,
By his wicked wiles and cunning,
When he from the moon
descended,
When he came on earth to seek me.
He, the mightiest of
Magicians,
Sends the fever from the marshes,
Sends the pestilential
vapors,
Sends the poisonous exhalations,
Sends the white fog from the
fen-lands,
Sends disease and death among us!
"Take your bow, O
Hiawatha,
Take your arrows, jasper-headed,
Take your war-club,
Puggawaugun,
And your mittens, Minjekahwun,
And your birch-canoe for
sailing,
And the oil of Mishe-Nahma,
So to smear its sides, that swiftly
You may pass the black pitch-water;
Slay this merciless magician,
Save
the people from the fever
That he breathes across the fen-lands,
And
avenge my father's murder!"
Straightway then my Hiawatha
Armed himself
with all his war-gear,
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing;
With his palm
its sides he patted,
Said with glee, "Cheemaun, my darling,
O my
Birch-canoe! leap forward,
Where you see the fiery serpents,
Where you see
the black pitch-water!"
Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting,
And the noble
Hiawatha
Sang his war-song wild and woful,
And above him the
war-eagle,
The Keneu, the great war-eagle,
Master of all fowls with
feathers,
Screamed and hurtled through the heavens.
Soon he reached the
fiery serpents,
The Kenabeek, the great serpents,
Lying huge upon the
water,
Sparkling, rippling in the water,
Lying coiled across the
passage,
With their blazing crests uplifted,
Breathing fiery fogs and
vapors,
So that none could pass beyond them.
But the fearless
Hiawatha
Cried aloud, and spake in this wise:
"Let me pass my way,
Kenabeek,
Let me go upon my journey!"
And they answered, hissing
fiercely,
With their fiery breath made answer:
"Back, go back! O
Shaugodaya!
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!"
Then the angry
Hiawatha
Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree,
Seized his arrows,
jasper-headed,
Shot them fast among the serpents;
Every twanging of the
bow-string
Was a war-cry and a death-cry,
Every whizzing of an
arrow
Was a death-song of Kenabeek.
Weltering in the bloody
water,
Dead lay all the fiery serpents,
And among them
Hiawatha
Harmless sailed, and cried exulting:
"Onward, O Cheemaun, my
darling!
Onward to the black pitch-water!"
Then he took the oil of
Nahma,
And the bows and sides anointed,
Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly
He might pass the black pitch-water.
All night long he sailed
upon it,
Sailed upon that sluggish water,
Covered with its mould of
ages,
Black with rotting water-rushes,
Rank with flags and leaves of
lilies,
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal,
Lighted by the shimmering
moonlight,
And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined,
Fires by ghosts of dead men
kindled,
In their weary night-encampments.
All the air was white with
moonlight,
All the water black with shadow,
And around him the
Suggema,
The mosquito, sang his war-song,
And the fire-flies,
Wah-wah-taysee,
Waved their torches to mislead him;
And the bull-frog, the
Dahinda,
Thrust his head into the moonlight,
Fixed his yellow eyes upon
him,
Sobbed and sank beneath the surface;
And anon a thousand
whistles,
Answered over all the fen-lands,
And the heron, the
Shuh-shuh-gah,
Far off on the reedy margin,
Heralded the hero's
coming.
Westward thus fared Hiawatha,
Toward the realm of
Megissogwon,
Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather,
Till the level moon
stared at him,
In his face stared pale and haggard,
Till the sun was hot
behind him,
Till it burned upon his shoulders,
And before him on the
upland
He could see the Shining Wigwam
Of the Manito of Wampum,
Of the
mightiest of Magicians.
Then once more Cheemaun he patted,
To his
birch-canoe said, "Onward!"
And it stirred in all its fibres,
And with one
great bound of triumph
Leaped across the water-lilies,
Leaped through
tangled flags and rushes,
And upon the beach beyond them
Dry-shod landed
Hiawatha.
Straight he took his bow of ash-tree,
On the sand one end he
rested,
With his knee he pressed the middle,
Stretched the faithful
bow-string tighter,
Took an arrow, jasper-headed,
Shot it at the Shining
Wigwam,
Sent it singing as a herald,
As a bearer of his message,
Of his
challenge loud and lofty:
"Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather!
Hiawatha waits your coming!"
Straightway from the Shining
Wigwam
Came the mighty Megissogwon,
Tall of stature, broad of
shoulder,
Dark and terrible in aspect,
Clad from head to foot in
wampum,
Armed with all his warlike weapons,
Painted like the sky of
morning,
Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow,
Crested with great
eagle-feathers,
Streaming upward, streaming outward.
"Well I know you,
Hiawatha!"
Cried he in a voice of thunder,
In a tone of loud
derision.
"Hasten back, O Shaugodaya!
Hasten back among the women,
Back
to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!
I will slay you as you stand there,
As of old
I slew her father!"
But my Hiawatha answered,
Nothing daunted, fearing
nothing:
"Big words do not smite like war-clubs,
Boastful breath is not a
bow-string,
Taunts are not so sharp as arrows,
Deeds are better things
than words are,
Actions mightier than boastings!"
Then began the
greatest battle
That the sun had ever looked on,
That the war-birds ever
witnessed.
All a Summer's day it lasted,
From the sunrise to the
sunset;
For the shafts of Hiawatha
Harmless hit the shirt of
wampum,
Harmless fell the blows he dealt it
With his mittens,
Minjekahwun,
Harmless fell the heavy war-club;
It could dash the rocks
asunder,
But it could not break the meshes
Of that magic shirt of
wampum.
Till at sunset Hiawatha,
Leaning on his bow of
ash-tree,
Wounded, weary, and desponding,
With his mighty war-club
broken,
With his mittens torn and tattered,
And three useless arrows
only,
Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree,
From whose branches trailed the
mosses,
And whose trunk was coated over
With the Dead-man's
Moccasin-leather,
With the fungus white and yellow.
Suddenly from the
boughs above him
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker:
"Aim your arrows,
Hiawatha,
At the head of Megissogwon,
Strike the tuft of hair upon
it,
At their roots the long black tresses;
There alone can he be
wounded!"
Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper,
Swift flew
Hiawatha's arrow,
Just as Megissogwon, stooping,
Raised a heavy stone to
throw it.
Full upon the crown it struck him,
At the roots of his long
tresses,
And he reeled and staggered forward,
Plunging like a wounded
bison,
Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison,
When the snow is on the prairie.
Swifter flew the second arrow,
In the pathway of the other,
Piercing
deeper than the other,
Wounding sorer than the other;
And the knees of
Megissogwon
Shook like windy reeds beneath him,
Bent and trembled like the
rushes.
But the third and latest arrow
Swiftest flew, and wounded
sorest,
And the mighty Megissogwon
Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk,
Saw
the eyes of Death glare at him,
Heard his voice call in the darkness;
At
the feet of Hiawatha
Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather,
Lay the
mightiest of Magicians.
Then the grateful Hiawatha
Called the Mama, the
woodpecker,
From his perch among the branches
Of the melancholy
pine-tree,
And, in honor of his service,
Stained with blood the tuft of
feathers
On the little head of Mama;
Even to this day he wears
it,
Wears the tuft of crimson feathers,
As a symbol of his service.
Then he stripped the shirt of wampum
From the back of Megissogwon,
As a
trophy of the battle,
As a signal of his conquest.
On the shore he left
the body,
Half on land and half in water,
In the sand his feet were
buried,
And his face was in the water.
And above him, wheeled and
clamored
The Keneu, the great war-eagle,
Sailing round in narrower
circles,
Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer.
From the wigwam
Hiawatha
Bore the wealth of Megissogwon,
All his wealth of skins and
wampum,
Furs of bison and of beaver,
Furs of sable and of
ermine,
Wampum belts and strings and pouches,
Quivers wrought with beads
of wampum,
Filled with arrows, silver-headed.
Homeward then he sailed
exulting,
Homeward through the black pitch-water,
Homeward through the
weltering serpents,
With the trophies of the battle,
With a shout and song
of triumph.
On the shore stood old Nokomis,
On the shore stood
Chibiabos,
And the very strong man, Kwasind,
Waiting for the hero's
coming,
Listening to his songs of triumph.
And the people of the
village
Welcomed him with songs and dances,
Made a joyous feast, and
shouted:
"Honor be to Hiawatha!
He has slain the great
Pearl-Feather,
Slain the mightiest of Magicians,
Him, who sent the fiery
fever,
Sent the white fog from the fen-lands,
Sent disease and death among
us!"
Ever dear to Hiawatha
Was the memory of Mama!
And in token of
his friendship,
As a mark of his remembrance,
He adorned and decked his
pipe-stem
With the crimson tuft of feathers,
With the blood-red crest of
Mama.
But the wealth of Megissogwon,
All the trophies of the battle,
He
divided with his people,
Shared it equally among them.
On the shores of Gitche Gumee,
Of the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood Nokomis, the old woman,
Pointing with her finger westward,
O'er the water pointing westward,
To the purple clouds of sunset.
Fiercely the red sun
descending
Burned his way along the heavens,
Set the sky on fire behind
him,
As war-parties, when retreating,
Burn the prairies on their
war-trail;
And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward,
Suddenly starting from
his ambush,
Followed fast those bloody footprints,
Followed in that fiery
war-trail,
With its glare upon his features.
And Nokomis, the old
woman,
Pointing with her finger westward,
Spake these words to
Hiawatha:
"Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather,
Megissogwon, the
Magician,
Manito of Wealth and Wampum,
Guarded by his fiery
serpents,
Guarded by the black pitch-water.
You can see his fiery
serpents,
The Kenabeek, the great serpents,
Coiling, playing in the
water;
You can see the black pitch-water
Stretching far away beyond
them,
To the purple clouds of sunset!
"He it was who slew my
father,
By his wicked wiles and cunning,
When he from the moon
descended,
When he came on earth to seek me.
He, the mightiest of
Magicians,
Sends the fever from the marshes,
Sends the pestilential
vapors,
Sends the poisonous exhalations,
Sends the white fog from the
fen-lands,
Sends disease and death among us!
"Take your bow, O
Hiawatha,
Take your arrows, jasper-headed,
Take your war-club,
Puggawaugun,
And your mittens, Minjekahwun,
And your birch-canoe for
sailing,
And the oil of Mishe-Nahma,
So to smear its sides, that swiftly
You may pass the black pitch-water;
Slay this merciless magician,
Save
the people from the fever
That he breathes across the fen-lands,
And
avenge my father's murder!"
Straightway then my Hiawatha
Armed himself
with all his war-gear,
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing;
With his palm
its sides he patted,
Said with glee, "Cheemaun, my darling,
O my
Birch-canoe! leap forward,
Where you see the fiery serpents,
Where you see
the black pitch-water!"
Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting,
And the noble
Hiawatha
Sang his war-song wild and woful,
And above him the
war-eagle,
The Keneu, the great war-eagle,
Master of all fowls with
feathers,
Screamed and hurtled through the heavens.
Soon he reached the
fiery serpents,
The Kenabeek, the great serpents,
Lying huge upon the
water,
Sparkling, rippling in the water,
Lying coiled across the
passage,
With their blazing crests uplifted,
Breathing fiery fogs and
vapors,
So that none could pass beyond them.
But the fearless
Hiawatha
Cried aloud, and spake in this wise:
"Let me pass my way,
Kenabeek,
Let me go upon my journey!"
And they answered, hissing
fiercely,
With their fiery breath made answer:
"Back, go back! O
Shaugodaya!
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!"
Then the angry
Hiawatha
Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree,
Seized his arrows,
jasper-headed,
Shot them fast among the serpents;
Every twanging of the
bow-string
Was a war-cry and a death-cry,
Every whizzing of an
arrow
Was a death-song of Kenabeek.
Weltering in the bloody
water,
Dead lay all the fiery serpents,
And among them
Hiawatha
Harmless sailed, and cried exulting:
"Onward, O Cheemaun, my
darling!
Onward to the black pitch-water!"
Then he took the oil of
Nahma,
And the bows and sides anointed,
Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly
He might pass the black pitch-water.
All night long he sailed
upon it,
Sailed upon that sluggish water,
Covered with its mould of
ages,
Black with rotting water-rushes,
Rank with flags and leaves of
lilies,
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal,
Lighted by the shimmering
moonlight,
And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined,
Fires by ghosts of dead men
kindled,
In their weary night-encampments.
All the air was white with
moonlight,
All the water black with shadow,
And around him the
Suggema,
The mosquito, sang his war-song,
And the fire-flies,
Wah-wah-taysee,
Waved their torches to mislead him;
And the bull-frog, the
Dahinda,
Thrust his head into the moonlight,
Fixed his yellow eyes upon
him,
Sobbed and sank beneath the surface;
And anon a thousand
whistles,
Answered over all the fen-lands,
And the heron, the
Shuh-shuh-gah,
Far off on the reedy margin,
Heralded the hero's
coming.
Westward thus fared Hiawatha,
Toward the realm of
Megissogwon,
Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather,
Till the level moon
stared at him,
In his face stared pale and haggard,
Till the sun was hot
behind him,
Till it burned upon his shoulders,
And before him on the
upland
He could see the Shining Wigwam
Of the Manito of Wampum,
Of the
mightiest of Magicians.
Then once more Cheemaun he patted,
To his
birch-canoe said, "Onward!"
And it stirred in all its fibres,
And with one
great bound of triumph
Leaped across the water-lilies,
Leaped through
tangled flags and rushes,
And upon the beach beyond them
Dry-shod landed
Hiawatha.
Straight he took his bow of ash-tree,
On the sand one end he
rested,
With his knee he pressed the middle,
Stretched the faithful
bow-string tighter,
Took an arrow, jasper-headed,
Shot it at the Shining
Wigwam,
Sent it singing as a herald,
As a bearer of his message,
Of his
challenge loud and lofty:
"Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather!
Hiawatha waits your coming!"
Straightway from the Shining
Wigwam
Came the mighty Megissogwon,
Tall of stature, broad of
shoulder,
Dark and terrible in aspect,
Clad from head to foot in
wampum,
Armed with all his warlike weapons,
Painted like the sky of
morning,
Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow,
Crested with great
eagle-feathers,
Streaming upward, streaming outward.
"Well I know you,
Hiawatha!"
Cried he in a voice of thunder,
In a tone of loud
derision.
"Hasten back, O Shaugodaya!
Hasten back among the women,
Back
to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!
I will slay you as you stand there,
As of old
I slew her father!"
But my Hiawatha answered,
Nothing daunted, fearing
nothing:
"Big words do not smite like war-clubs,
Boastful breath is not a
bow-string,
Taunts are not so sharp as arrows,
Deeds are better things
than words are,
Actions mightier than boastings!"
Then began the
greatest battle
That the sun had ever looked on,
That the war-birds ever
witnessed.
All a Summer's day it lasted,
From the sunrise to the
sunset;
For the shafts of Hiawatha
Harmless hit the shirt of
wampum,
Harmless fell the blows he dealt it
With his mittens,
Minjekahwun,
Harmless fell the heavy war-club;
It could dash the rocks
asunder,
But it could not break the meshes
Of that magic shirt of
wampum.
Till at sunset Hiawatha,
Leaning on his bow of
ash-tree,
Wounded, weary, and desponding,
With his mighty war-club
broken,
With his mittens torn and tattered,
And three useless arrows
only,
Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree,
From whose branches trailed the
mosses,
And whose trunk was coated over
With the Dead-man's
Moccasin-leather,
With the fungus white and yellow.
Suddenly from the
boughs above him
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker:
"Aim your arrows,
Hiawatha,
At the head of Megissogwon,
Strike the tuft of hair upon
it,
At their roots the long black tresses;
There alone can he be
wounded!"
Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper,
Swift flew
Hiawatha's arrow,
Just as Megissogwon, stooping,
Raised a heavy stone to
throw it.
Full upon the crown it struck him,
At the roots of his long
tresses,
And he reeled and staggered forward,
Plunging like a wounded
bison,
Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison,
When the snow is on the prairie.
Swifter flew the second arrow,
In the pathway of the other,
Piercing
deeper than the other,
Wounding sorer than the other;
And the knees of
Megissogwon
Shook like windy reeds beneath him,
Bent and trembled like the
rushes.
But the third and latest arrow
Swiftest flew, and wounded
sorest,
And the mighty Megissogwon
Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk,
Saw
the eyes of Death glare at him,
Heard his voice call in the darkness;
At
the feet of Hiawatha
Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather,
Lay the
mightiest of Magicians.
Then the grateful Hiawatha
Called the Mama, the
woodpecker,
From his perch among the branches
Of the melancholy
pine-tree,
And, in honor of his service,
Stained with blood the tuft of
feathers
On the little head of Mama;
Even to this day he wears
it,
Wears the tuft of crimson feathers,
As a symbol of his service.
Then he stripped the shirt of wampum
From the back of Megissogwon,
As a
trophy of the battle,
As a signal of his conquest.
On the shore he left
the body,
Half on land and half in water,
In the sand his feet were
buried,
And his face was in the water.
And above him, wheeled and
clamored
The Keneu, the great war-eagle,
Sailing round in narrower
circles,
Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer.
From the wigwam
Hiawatha
Bore the wealth of Megissogwon,
All his wealth of skins and
wampum,
Furs of bison and of beaver,
Furs of sable and of
ermine,
Wampum belts and strings and pouches,
Quivers wrought with beads
of wampum,
Filled with arrows, silver-headed.
Homeward then he sailed
exulting,
Homeward through the black pitch-water,
Homeward through the
weltering serpents,
With the trophies of the battle,
With a shout and song
of triumph.
On the shore stood old Nokomis,
On the shore stood
Chibiabos,
And the very strong man, Kwasind,
Waiting for the hero's
coming,
Listening to his songs of triumph.
And the people of the
village
Welcomed him with songs and dances,
Made a joyous feast, and
shouted:
"Honor be to Hiawatha!
He has slain the great
Pearl-Feather,
Slain the mightiest of Magicians,
Him, who sent the fiery
fever,
Sent the white fog from the fen-lands,
Sent disease and death among
us!"
Ever dear to Hiawatha
Was the memory of Mama!
And in token of
his friendship,
As a mark of his remembrance,
He adorned and decked his
pipe-stem
With the crimson tuft of feathers,
With the blood-red crest of
Mama.
But the wealth of Megissogwon,
All the trophies of the battle,
He
divided with his people,
Shared it equally among them.