ye who love the haunts of nature,

love the sunshine of the meadow,

love the shadow of the forest

love the wind among the branches,

and the rain-shower and the snow-storm

and the rushing of great rivers

through their palisades of pine trees,

and the thunder in the mountains

whose innumerable echoes

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 a far off

call to us to pause and listen,

speak in tones so plain and child-like,

scarcely can the ear distinguish

whether they are sung or spoken—

listen to this indian legend,

to this song of hiawatha! 79

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 the 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 barbary bushes

hang their tufts of crimson berries

over stone walls gray with mosses,

pause by some neglected grave-yard

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!

—henry w. longfellow.