52 BEVIEWS — HIAWATHA . 



tion of monotone and variety is effected by the recurrence of the same 

 idea, and of the words, in successive and in distant lines; sometimes 

 with a scarcely perceptible variation, like the first slight turn of the 

 kaleidoscope, the same and yet changed: a trick of art which — instead 

 of looking to ancient and foreign originals — we fancy to have its 

 model in another of America's own native poems, " The Raven," of 

 that reckless outcast genius, Edgar Allan Poe. To us at least, all 

 dissimilar as the two poems are, in rythm, and in idea, the music of the 

 one rings iu the ear with a memory of the other, as of changes rung 

 on the same village bells. 



The art with which all art is concealed is not the least source of 

 the charm of "Hiawatha." It has nothing artificial about it; none 

 of the modern drawing-room fopperies with which Macpherson over- 

 laid his Celtic " Ossian." Nothing incongruous brings the fashions 

 of Broadway into the forest glades; but all its metaphors and similes 

 take their tinge from the wilds of the far west, even when giving 

 form to thoughts which the Indian has scarcely realised. How 



graphic is this: — 



"As unto the bow the cord is, 

 So unto the man is woman ; 

 Though she bends him, she obeys him, 

 Though she draws him yet she follows, 

 Useless each without the other! " 



How finely, too, the very profoundness of the forethought of the 

 Indian Cadmus, who would teach his people letters and the art of 

 picture-writing, is tempered into consistent harmony with the forest 

 children and their simple arts, by the introductory illustrations; — 

 "In those days, said Hiawatha, 



Lo ! how all things fade and perish I 



From the memory of the old men 



Fade away the great traditions, 



The achievements of the warriors, 



The adventures of the hunters, 



All the wisdom of the Medas, 



All the craft of the Wabenos, 



All the marvellous dreams and visions 



Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets ! 

 Great men die and are forgotten, 



Wise men speak ; their words of wisdom 



Perish in the ears that hear them, 



Do not reach the generations 



That, as yet unborn, are waiting 



In the great mysterious darkness 



Of the speechless days that shall be I" 



