HIAWATHA.
(A Parody.)
DO you ask me what I think of
This new song of Hiawatha,
With its legends and traditions,
And its frequent repetitions
Of hard names which make the jaw ache,
And of words most unpoetic?
I should answer, I should tell you
I esteem it wild and wayward,
Slipslop metre, scanty sense,
Honour paid to Mudjekewis,
But no honour to the Muse.
* * * * *
"Honour to the Muddyminded!"
Who now wears the belt of Wampum,
He has stolen it from the Northmen,
And he wears it, and shall wear;
And hereafter, and for ever,
Shall he hold ungrudged dominion
Over all the winds that whistle;
Call him no more Muddyminded,
Call him Longfellow, the Yankee!
* * * * *
Forth upon a Pitchy Puddle,
Gleaming with a fitful phosphor;
In a bark of his own making,
With a line of his own twisting,
Forth to catch a fine new Poem
All alone went Muddyminded.
At the stern sat Muddyminded,
For 'twas windy, and he knew
He was heavy, and he trembled
Lest he'd sink his grand canoe;
Soon he came to where 'twas clearer,
And the bottom he could see,
So he looked, and saw the bottom,
Saw the bottom of the sea.
There he saw the song he wanted
Lying far beyond his reach,
Lying just within his vision,
But beyond the reach of boat-hook.
There it lay in all its armour,
Fenced about with ugly words,
Indian names and Indian notions,
Painted too, with various colours,
Earthy, very earthy, too.
Muddyminded cast about him,
How he'd bring this song to light:—
"Take my bait, you Indian Poem!"
Cried he down the depths below,
Then sat waiting for an answer,
For an answer from below.
Quiet lay the Indian Story,
Nor would listen to his clamour;
Turned he to another tale though,—
EUANGLEEN,—six-footed monster,
And he bade him take the bait, that
Still was dangling to and fro:
EUANGLEEN he rose to take it;
Muddyminded liked him not,
And he shouted through the water,
"Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you!
You are not a Poem at all,
You are one six-footed monster,
You are not the song I wanted."
Then went downward swift and certain
Down the depths of dark oblivion,
Disappointed EUANGLEEN.
Then the mighty Indian Poem
Said to GOLDEN LEG, another,
"Take the bait of this great boaster,
Break his line, and spoil his trade!"
But again did Muddyminded
Shout derision as he rose,
"Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you!
You are but a lame imposture,
Fame will never call you Poem,
You are not the song I wanted."
Then upleapt this Indian Story,
Legend rude, but fierce and strong—
High enough he leapt, to show us
What he might be could we tame him,
Could there but a real Magician
Disenchant him, and control.
His great jaws he op'ed, and swallowed
Both canoe and Muddyminded.
Down into that dark oblivion
Plunged the hapless Muddyminded,—
As a log on some black river
Down the rapids plunges soon,
Found himself in utter darkness,
Thought he had been there before,
Groped about, and groped, and wondered,
Wondered, groped, and groped the more.
J. W. M.
In 1856, a small shilling volume of 120 pages was published by George Routledge and Co., as a companion to Longfellow's Hiawatha. This was entitled, "The Song of Drop o' Wather, a London legend, by Harry Wandsworth Shortfellow," and is now scarce. It commences thus:—