By WILLIAM Q. JUDGE
On the shore stood Hiawatha,
Turned and waved his hand at parting;
On the clear and luminous water
Launched his birch canoe for sailing,
From the pebbles of the margin
Shoved it forth into the water;
Whispered to it, „Westward! Westward!“
And with speed it darted forward.
And the evening sun descending
Set the clouds on fire with redness,
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
Left upon the level water
One long track and trail of splendor,
Down whose stream, as down a river,
Westward, Westward Hiawatha
Sailed into the fiery sunset,
Sailed into the purple vapors,
Sailed into the dusk of evening.
* * *
Thus departed Hiawatha,
Hiawatha the beloved, . . .
To the Islands of the Blessed.
Das Haupt der MEDUSA, ein
Ungünstige Umstände