THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. AN ENGLISH CRITICISM PUNCH.
You, who hold in grace and honor,
Hold, as one who did you kindness
When he publish'd former poems,
Sang Evangeline the noble,
Sang the golden Golden Legend,
Sang the songs the Voices utter
Crying in the night and darkness,
Sang how unto the Red Planet
Mars he gave the Night's First Watches,
Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen
(Coming awkward, for the accents,
Into this his latest rhythm)
Write we as Protracted Fellow,
Or in Latin, LONGUS COMES—
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.
Should you ask me, Is the poem
Worthy of its predecessors,
Worthy of the sweet conception,
Of the manly nervous diction,
Of the phrase, concise or pliant,
Of the songs that sped the pulses,
Of the songs that gemm'd the eyelash,
Of the other works of Henry?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You may wish that you may get it—
Don't you wish that you may get it?
Should you ask me, Is it worthless,
Is it bosh and is it bunkum,
Merely facile flowing nonsense,
Easy to a practiced rhythmist,
Fit to charm a private circle,
But not worth the print and paper
David Bogue hath here expended?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You're a fool and most presumptuous.
Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it?
Hath not PUNCH commanded "Buy it?"
Should you ask me, What's its nature?
Ask me, What's the kind of poem?
Ask me in respectful language,
Touching your respectiful beaver,
Kicking back your manly hind-leg,
Like to one who sees his betters;
I should answer, I should tell you,
'Tis a poem in this meter,
And embalming the traditions,
Fables, rites, and suspepstitions,
Legends, charms, and ceremonials
Of the various tribes of Indians,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fenlands,
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Finds its sugar in the rushes:
From the fast-decaying nations,
Which our gentle Uncle Samuel
Is improving, very smartly,
From the face of all creation,
Off the face of all creation.
Should you ask me, By what story,
By what action, plot, or fiction,
All these matters are connected?
I should answer, I should tell you,
Go to Bogue and buy the poem,
Publish'd neatly, at one shilling,
Publish'd sweetly, at five shillings.
Should you ask me, Is there music
In the structure of the verses,
In the names and in the phrases?
Pleading that, like weaver Bottom,
You prefer your ears well tickled;
I should answer, I should tell you,
Henry's verse is very charming;
And for names—there's Hiawatha,
Who's the hero of the poem;
Mudjeekeewis, that's the West Wind,
Hiawatha's graceless father;
There's Nokomis, there's Wenonah—
Ladies both, of various merit;
Puggawangum, that's a war-club;
Pau-puk-keewis, he's a dandy,
"Barr'd with streaks of red and yellow;
And the women and the maidens
Love the handsome Pau-puk-keewis,"
Tracing in him PUNCH'S likeness.
Then there's lovely Minnehaha—
Pretty name with pretty meaning—
It implies the Laughing-water;
And the darling Minnehaha
Married noble Hiawatha;
And her story's far too touching
To be sport for you, yon donkey,
With your ears like weaver Bottom's,
Ears like booby Bully Bottom.
Once upon a time in London,
In the days of the Lyceum,
Ages ere keen Arnold let it
To the dreadful Northern Wizard,
Ages ere the buoyant Mathews
Tripp'd upon its boards in briskness—
I remember, I remember
How a scribe, with pen chivalrous,
Tried to save these Indian stories
From the fate of chill oblivion.
Out came sundry comic Indians
Of the tribe of Kut-an-hack-um.
With their Chief, the clean Efmatthews,
With the growling Downy Beaver,
With the valiant Monkey's Uncle,
Came the gracious Mari-Kee-lee,
Firing off a pocket-pistol,
Singing, too, that Mudjee-keewis
(Shorten'd in the song to "Wild Wind,")
Was a spirit very kindly.
Came her Sire, the joyous Kee-lee,
By the waning tribe adopted,
Named the Buffalo, and wedded
To the fairest of the maidens,
But repented of his bargain,
And his brother Kut-an-hack-ums
Very nearly ohopp'd his toes off—
Serve him right, the fickle Kee-lee.
If you ask me, What this memory
Hath to do with Hiawatha,
And the poem which I speak of?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You're a fool, and most presumptuous;
'Tis not for such humble cattle
To inquire what links and unions
Join the thoughts, and mystic meanings,
Of their betters, mighty poets,
Mighty writers—PUNCH the mightiest;
I should answer, I should tell you,
Shut your mouth, and go to David,
David, MR. PUNCH'S neighbor,
Buy the Song of Hiawatha,
Read, and learn, and then be thankful
Unto PUNCH and Henry Wadsworth,
PUNCH and noble Henry Wadsworth,
Truer poet, better fellow,
Than to be annoyed at jesting,
From his friend, great PUNCH, who loves him.
COMFORT IN AFFLICTION. WILLIAM AYTOUN.
"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord?
Why this anguish in thine eye?
Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord
Had broken with that sigh!
"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,
Rest thee on my bosom now!
And let me wipe the dews away,
Are gathering on thy brow.