Then he sat down, still and speechless, On the bed of Minnehaha,
At the feet of Laughing Water,
At those willing feet, that never
More would lightly run to meet him;
Never more would lightly follow.
With both hands his face he covered,
Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a swoon he sat there,
Speechless, motionless, unconscious
Of the daylight or the darkness.
Then they buried Minnehaha;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest, deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Clothed her in her richest garments,
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, –
Covered her with snow, like ermine;
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
And at night a fire was lighted,
On her grave four times was kindled,
For her soul upon its journey
To the Island of the Blessed.
From his doorway Hiawatha
Saw it burning in the forest,
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;
From his sleepless bed uprising,
From the bed of Minnehaha,
Stood and watched it at the doorway,
146 MIGNON ASPIRING TO HEAVEN.
That it might not be extinguished,
Might not leave her in the darkness.
"Farewell," said he, "Minnehaha!
Farewell, O my Laughing Water!
All my heart is buried with you,
All my thoughts go onward with you;
Come not back again to labor,
Come not back again to suffer,
Where the famine and the fever
Wear the heart and waste the body.
Soon my task will be completed,
Soon your footsteps I shall follow
To the Island of the Blessed,
To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
To the Land of the Hereafter."
MIGNON ASPIRING TO HEAVEN.
SUCH let me seem till such I be;
Take not my snow-white robe away;
Soon from the dreary earth I flee,
Up to the glittering realms of day.
There first a little space I'll rest,
Then ope my eyes with joyful mind, In robes of lawn no longer dressed,
Girdle and garland left behind.
And those calm, shining sons of morn,
They ask not touching maid or boy;
No robes, no garments, there are worn;
The frame is purged from sin's alloy.
Through life, 'tis true, I have not toiled;
Yet anguish long my heart has wrung,
Untimely woe my cheek has spoiled:
Make me again forever young.
LET Fate do her worst; there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; And which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear ; Long, long be my heart with such memories filled; Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled, You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
WHEN Life his lusty course began,
And first I felt myself a man,
And Passion's unforeboded glow,
The thirst to feel, the will to know,
Gave courage, vigor, fervor, truth,
The glory of the heart of youth,
And each awaking pulse was fleet
A livelier march of joy to beat,
Presaging in its budding hour
The ripening of the human flower,
There came, on some divine intent,
One whom the Lord of life had sent,
And from his lips of wisdom fell
This fair and wondrous oracle:
Life's arching temple holds for thee
Solution quick, and radiant key
To many an early mystery;
And thou art eager to pursue,
Through many a dimly-lighted clew,
The hopes that turn thy blood to fire,
The phantoms of thy young desire;
Yet not to reckless haste is poured
The nectar of the generous lord,
Nor mirth nor giddy riot jar
The penetralia, high in air;
But steady hope, and passion pure,
And manly truth, the crown secure.
Within that temple's secret heart,
In mystic silence shrined apart,
There is a goblet, on whose brim
All raptures of creation swim.
No light that ever beamed in wine
Can match the glory of its shine,
Or lure with such a mighty art
The tidal flow of every heart.
But in its warm, bewildering blaze
An ever-shifting magic plays,
And few who round the altar throng
Shall find the sweets for which they long.
Who, unto brutish life akin,
Comes to the goblet dark with sin,
And with a coarse hand grasps, for him
The splendor of the gold grows dim;
The gems are dirt, the liquor's flame
A maddening beverage of shame;
And into caverns shut from day
The hot inebriate reels away.
For each shall give the draught he drains
Its nectar pure, or poison stains;
From out his heart the flavor flows
That gives him fury or repose;
And some will drink a tasteless wave,
And some increase the thirst they have;
And others loathe as soon as taste,
And others pour the tide to waste;
And some evoke from out its deeps
A torturing fiend that never sleeps —
For vain all arts to exorcise
From the seared heart its haunting eyes.
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