The Epic Song of Hiawatha. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло
Издательство: Bookwire
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Жанр произведения: Языкознание
Год издания: 0
isbn: 4057664559982
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he smote him.

      With the heavy blow bewildered,

       Rose the Great Bear of the mountains;

       But his knees beneath him trembled,

       And he whimpered like a woman,

       As he reeled and staggered forward,

       As he sat upon his haunches;

       And the mighty Mudjekeewis,

       Standing fearlessly before him,

       Taunted him in loud derision,

       Spake disdainfully in this wise:—

      “Hark you, Bear! you are a coward,

       And no Brave, as you pretended;

       Else you would not cry and whimper

       Like a miserable woman!

       Bear! you know our tribes are hostile,

       Long have been at war together;

       Now you find that we are strongest,

       You go sneaking in the forest,

       You go hiding in the mountains!

       Had you conquered me in battle

       Not a groan would I have uttered;

       But you, Bear! sit here and whimper,

       And disgrace your tribe by crying,

       Like a wretched Shaugodaya,

       Like a cowardly old woman!”

      Then again he raised his war-club,

       Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa

       In the middle of his forehead,

       Broke his skull, as ice is broken

       When one goes to fish in Winter.

       Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa,

       He the Great Bear of the mountains,

       He the terror of the nations.

      “Honor be to Mudjekeewis!”

       With a shout exclaimed the people,

       “Honor be to Mudjekeewis!

       Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind,

       And hereafter and forever

       Shall he hold supreme dominion

       Over all the winds of heaven.

       Call him no more Mudjekeewis,

       Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!”

      Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen

       Father of the Winds of Heaven.

       For himself he kept the West-Wind,

       Gave the others to his children;

       Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind,

       Gave the South to Shawondasee,

       And the North-Wind, wild and cruel,

       To the fierce Kabibonokka.

      Young and beautiful was Wabun;

       He it was who brought the morning,

       He it was whose silver arrows

       Chased the dark o’er hill and valley;

       He it was whose cheeks were painted

       With the brightest streaks of crimson,

       And whose voice awoke the village,

       Called the deer, and called the hunter.

      Lonely in the sky was Wabun;

       Though the birds sang gayly to him,

       Though the wild-flowers of the meadow

       Filled the air with odors for him,

       Though the forests and the rivers

       Sang and shouted at his coming,

       Still his heart was sad within him,

       For he was alone in heaven.

      But one morning, gazing earthward,

       While the village still was sleeping,

       And the fog lay on the river,

       Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise,

       He beheld a maiden walking

       All alone upon a meadow,

       Gathering water-flags and rushes

       By a river in the meadow.

      Every morning, gazing earthward,

       Still the first thing he beheld there

       Was her blue eyes looking at him,

       Two blue lakes among the rushes.

       And he loved the lonely maiden,

       Who thus waited for his coming;

       For they both were solitary,

       She on earth and he in heaven.

      And he wooed her with caresses,

       Wooed her with his smile of sunshine,

       With his flattering words he wooed her,

       With his sighing and his singing,

       Gentlest whispers in the branches,

       Softest music, sweetest odors,

       Till he drew her to his bosom,

       Folded in his robes of crimson,

       Till into a star he changed her,

       Trembling still upon his bosom;

       And forever in the heavens

       They are seen together walking,

       Waban and the Wabun-Annung,

       Wabun and the Star of Morning.

      But the fierce Kabibonokka

       Had his dwelling among icebergs,

       In the everlasting snow-drifts,

       In the kingdom of Wabasso,

       In the land of the White Rabbit.

       He it was whose hand in Autumn

       Painted all the trees with scarlet,

       Stained the leaves with red and yellow;

       He it was who sent the snow-flakes,

       Sifting, hissing through the forest,

       Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers,

       Drove the loon and sea-gull southward,

       Drove the cormorant and curlew

       To their nests of sedge and sea-tang

       In the realms of Shawondasee.

      Once the fierce Kabibonokka

       Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts,

       From his home among the icebergs,

       And his hair, with snow besprinkled,

       Streamed behind him like a river,

       Like a black and wintry river,

       As he howled and hurried southward,

       Over frozen lakes and moorlands.

      There among the reeds and rushes

       Found he Shingebis, the diver,

       Trailing strings of fish behind him,

       O’er the frozen fens and moorlands,

       Lingering still among the moorlands,

       Though his tribe had long departed

       To the land of Shawondasee.

      Cried the fierce Kabibonokka,

       “Who is this that dares to brave me?

       Dares to stay in my dominions,

       When the Wawa has departed,