Laulu Hiawathasta
1885
Laulu Hiawathasta
1885
Translated by Ollilainen A. E.
The poem that defined America's romantic vision of Native American mythology. Longfellow crafted this epic in hypnotic trochaic tetrameter, a rolling four-beat rhythm that feels almost incantatory, drawing readers into a world where the forest speaks and spirits dwell in every waterfall. Hiawatha emerges as a figure of quiet power: a healer who can wring magic from medicinal roots, a warrior who defeats the sorcerer Megissogwon through courage and cunning, and a lover who wins the gentle Minnehaha through devotion. The poem traces his entire life, from his miraculous birth to his final departure, weaving together tales of friendship, warfare, nature, and the passage from youth to wisdom. Longfellow synthesized fragments of Ojibwe and other tribal legends into something that felt whole and timeless, for better and for worse. The poem shaped how generations of readers understood Native American culture, often more through longing and imagination than ethnographic accuracy. Its genuine power lies in the lush imagery of the natural world and its reverence for a worldview that sees humanity woven into the fabric of the earth rather than apart from it.
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“When thou are not pleased, beloved,Then my heart is sad and darkened,As the shining river darkensWhen the clouds drop shadows on it!When thou smilest, my beloved,Then my troubled heart is brightened,As in sunshine gleam the ripplesThat the cold wind makes in rivers.””
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.””
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“I am weary of your quarrels,Weary of your wars and bloodshed,Weary of your prayers for vengeance,Of your wranglings and dissensions””
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Straight between them ran the pathway,Never grew the grass upon it””
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us! Just when they have learned to help us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger!””
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“So disasters come not singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another’s motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.””
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, Through the tranquil air of morning, First a single line of darkness, Then a denser, bluer vapor, Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, Like the tree-tops of the forest, Ever rising, rising, rising, Till it touched the top of heaven, Till it broke against the heaven, And rolled outward all around it.””
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Poor, deluded Shawondasee! 'T was no woman that you gazed at, 'T was no maiden that you sighed for, 'T was the prairie dandelion That through all the dreamy Summer You had gazed at with such longing, You had sighed for with such passion, And had puffed away forever, Blown into the air with sighing. Ah! deluded Shawondasee!””
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“And he saw a youth approaching, Dressed in garments green and yellow, Coming through the purple twilight, Through the splendor of the sunset; Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, And his hair was soft and golden. Standing at the open doorway, Long he looked at Hiawatha, Looked with pity and compassion On his wasted form and features, And, in accents like the sighingOf the South-Wind in the tree-tops, Said he, "O my Hiawatha! All your prayers are heard in heaven, For you pray not like the others, Not for greater skill in hunting, Not for greater craft in fishing, Not for triumph in the battle, Nor renown among the warriors, But for profit of the people, For advantage of the nations. "From the Master of Life descending, I, the friend of man, Mondamin, Come to warn you and instruct you, How by struggle and by labor You shall gain what you have prayed for. Rise up from your bed of branches, Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me!””
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
