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Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est filmA A partir da I'angia supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite, et de haut an bas, an prenant la nombre d'images n^cessaira. Las diagrammas suivants illustrant la mAthoda. I by errata mad to nant une pelure, fapon A I. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 PR1173.PMSX V. 7 a31187 003250725b UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO LIBRARY CALL No. THE MASTERPIECE LIBRARY. VII. -EVANGELINE, AND OTHER POEMS. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. CONTENTS. I.— EVANGBLINB ." 7 3 II — Sblrctions :-* The Skeleton in Armour . The Wreck of the Hesperus The Luck of Edenhali . Paul Revere's Ride . . The Arsenal at Springfield The Old Clock on the Stairs The Challenge .... The LiM^end Beautiful. . Seaweed The Norman Baron . . Victor Galbraith . . . The Cumberland • • . The Beleaguered City . Hymn of the Moravian N The VUlage Blacksmith . Excelsior . . . . , My Lost Youth . t . uns 31 33 34 35 37 38 38 39 40 4« 4a 42 43 43 44 45 45 The Slave's Dream 47 Th« Slave in the Dismal Swamp . . 47 The Quadroon Girl 48 The Warning 48 Robert Bums 49 A Psalm of Ufe 49 The Ladder of St Augustine ... 50 Sandalphon 50 The Day is Done 51 The Goblet of Life 51 Footsteps of Angels 53 God's Acre 53 The Open Window . . . . . .53 Resignation ...,..., 53 Haunted Houses 54 The Bells of Lynn . . . . . .55 The Belfry of Bruges 55 The Building of the Ship . . , . 56 "REVIEW Vou II, LONDON: OF REVIEWS" /u/y i8/!4, 1895. OFFICE. PEEFACE. ■•o*- Of poets for the million, Longfellow, " the City Missionary of Humanity," as h\ has been called, stands easily first. He may be the poet of the Commonplace, the supercilious critics say ; he is certainly the poet of the Common people. It is probably an under-estimate to say that for one person, even in this countryl vrho has read Tennyson, there are one hundred to whom Longiellow is familiar a^ a household word. This is no doubt partly due to the fact that Lord Tennys^ was more anxious to make a handsome fortune out of his poetry than to scatter hi) verse far and wide among the masses of his fellow-men — a temptation from whicl the absence of Anglo-American copyrights happily saved the American bai But it is also to be attributed to the fact that the American poet selected as hi themes "All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end," while Tcaiiyson, as a scholar, wrote for a cultured audience. '^There is nothing id Longfellow to ba named in the same breath with " In Memoriam," but if yon take the first busful of people you meet in the BayswBter Road, you will probablj find that there are half-a-dozen who have been soothed and strengthened by thd shorter and less ambitious poems of Longfellow in the hours of darkness anq distress for one who has been ministered unto by the late Laureate. There hovdvcf, no need to defend Longfellov/ from the superfine reviewers. As Mii Bil( Kiberts so truly says, in Walter Scott's " Great Writers Series " : — "xie who has written verses that are committed to heart by millions for the r.'lac'jening of theiJ lives most 'have written much that is tme poetry ; and although he is not necboiu rily among thj twelve greatest poets of the world, he is incontestably a great benefactor and a great ma.\" Lowell's lines on Bums apply more appropriately to LongfeUow than any other modern poet outside Swtland : — Never did Poesy appear So full cf heaven to me as when I saw how it would pierce through pride arid fear To the lives of coarsest men. ; It may be glorious to write Thoughts that sWl glad, the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century. and But better far it is to speak One simple word which now then Shall waken their free nature in th^ weak And friendless sons of men. To write some earnest verse or line Which, seeking not. the praise of Ar^ Shall make a clearer faith and mani hood shine In the untutored heart Of Longfellow's longer pieces I select only "Evangeline," which is hv\ unquestioned masterpiece. I make no extracts from his dramatic pieces. I leavl "Hiawatha" severely alone, and do not quote a line from " Miles Standish.l There is ample material left even in his shorter po^^ms for another number of thJ Masterfieob Library. But the selections in the present niimber make th] reader acquainted with all the various kinds of Longfellow's verse except hi] dramas and " Hiawatha." } I have abandoned the usual method of printing the poems in the^rder of theiJ composition, and have attempted to arrange them with some reference to thei Bi^jects. . VII -EVANGELINE. 5 ®i^I^ ^f i^cabu. n^feKow than 30 nature in thi "November 28th, 1845. Set about 'Gabrielle,' my idyl in hexameters, in imest. I do not mean to let a day go by without adding something to it, if it but a single line. F. and Sumner are both doubtful of the measure. To me seems the only one for such a poem." This entry in Longfellow's journal chronicles the commencs nent of J Evangeline: a Tale of Acadie." The poem, at first called "Gabrievle/' was Ifterwards named "Celestine," but ultimately when published it was called 1 Evangeline." He laboured at it strenuously for nearly two years. He said, I * Evangeline ' is so easy for you to read, because it was so hard for mo to write." was published in 1847, and it was noted that the success of the poem was immediato and prodigious that thirty-seven thousand copies were sold in ten ^ars. I nope that three times that number of this issue of tlie Masterpiece [library will be sold in less than cen days. The theme of " Evangeline " was suggested by a hjgh-handod piece of State )licy which was adopted by the British Governor of Massachusetts in the iciflcation of Nova Scotia, then called Acadie. In 1755 the French attempted decide a frontier question relegated to the delimitation of a European Com- tission by erecting two forts on a neck of land at the head of the Bay of Fundy \a garrisoning them with three hundred natives of Nova Scotia. These men rere of French origin, who were known in those days as French neutrals, as ley were exempted from military service under France. Three thousand men from Massachusetts captured the forts, and finding them irrisored by Nova Scotian Frenchmen, it was decided by the Governor of Nova 3tia, in council with the Chief Justice and two British admirals, to make a )re than Cromwellian transplantation of the whole yopulation. Governor kwrence issued a proclamation ordering all the males of the colony, ** both old id young men, as well as al ' the lads of ten years of age," to assemble at the lurch of Grand-Pre on a ceri';ain Friday, to learn His Majesty's pleasure, " on i>in of forfeiting goods and chattels in default of real estate." On the Friday )pointed, September. \ 1755, four hundred and eighteen unarmed men met Within the church. The doors were closed ujx)n them, and guarded by soldiers ; id then this mandate was read to the snared farmers: "It is His Majesty's ierfi, and they are peremptory, that tho whole French inhabitants of these listrictfi b^ removed. Your lands and tenements, cattle of p11 kinds, and live ck of all sorts, are forfeited to the Crown, with all your other effects, saving four money and household goods ; and you yourselves are to be removed from this Irovince. I shall do everything in my power that your goods be secured to you, id that you are not molested in carrying them off ; also, that whol^ families ill go in the same vessel, and that this removal be made as easy as His [ajesty's service will admit. And I hope that, in whatever part of the world you ly fall, you may bo faithful subjects, a peaceful and heppy people. Meanwhile rou are the king's prisoners, and will remain in security under the inspection and [irection of the troops I have the honour to command." Five days later 1,920 of the inhabitants of Grand-Pre' were conducted at the )int of the bayonet to the ships that lay in the bay. Families were in many Vol. II. V 2 119 HENRY WADSWORTH LONOl'ELLOW. cases eeparated, and it was not till December that the laet remnant of t! unfortunate Acadians wero carried off to tbeir places of exile. It was an ha: arbitrary measure, only too much in keeping with the barbarity of the times, hud only one justification, the justification of success. Nova Scotia is to this di as British as Newfoundland. On to this grim tale of colonial frontier war Longfellow grafted a tradition to Jiim by Hawthorne, which described the fate of a fair Acadian maid, who, beio separated from her lover in the enforced emigration, wandered for many yea seeking him, to find him at last under the circumstances described in the poem. This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic^ 8tand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean bpeaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped lik( the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman "Where is the thatched-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands. Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever departed! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and spiinkle them far o'er the ocean; Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion. List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest: List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, homo of the happy. Part the First. L In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, Distant, secluded, stiil, the little village of Grand-Pre' Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward. Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labour incessant. Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. "Wnest and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. Strongly buiit were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock. Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. There in the trana^iiil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset Lighted the village street and gilded the venes on the chimneys. Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles 120 t remnant of tl It was an han| r of tho timoB. x)tia is to this do ed a tradition toll 1 maid, who, beii id for many yea^ )ed in tho poem. hemlocks, twilight, US. Bean forest. t beneath it of the huntsman armers, — ads, saven ? parted 1 ctober ' the ocean; nd-Pre. 9 patient, fion, forest ; stward, mber. nceesant, ^fttes iows. rnfields northward » tic nded. ilock, enries. ojecting sunset 7 fiVAKOELlNK. 6 rlet and blue and green, with listaffH t>pinning tho gulden lax for the gossiping looms, whoso noisy shuttles within doors ilingled their sound with tho wliir of tho wheels and the songs of tho maidens. Bolemnly down tho street came the parish priest, and the children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bloss them. Keverend walked he among tliem ; and up rose matrons and maidens. Hailing his slow approach with words of aflfectiouato welcome. Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank Down to his rest, aud twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry Softly the Angelua sounded, and over the roofs of the village Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, Kose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — Dwelt in tho love of God and of man Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, tho vice of republics. Neither locks Imd they to their doors, nor bars to their windows ; But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners ; There the richest v;as poor, and tho poorest lived in abundance. Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pr^, Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, dircting his household, Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the priae of the village. Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snowtlakes ; White as tho snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside. Black, yet how softly, they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses ! weet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows, hen in the harvest heat she bore to tho reapers at noontide lagons of home-brewed ale, ah t fair in sooth was the maiden, airer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret prinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop prinkles the congregation and scatters blessings upon them, own the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal "earing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and her ear-ring:*, rought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, anded down from mother to child, through long generations, ut a celestial brightness — a more ethci-eal beauty — hone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, "omeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. 'hen she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the h«use of the farmer toed on the side of a hill commanding the eea ; and a shady ycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. Uudely carved was tho porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, i^uch as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside. Built o*er a box for the poor or the blessed image of Mary. Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. Bhielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard. 121 HENIIY WADSWORTII LONOPELLOW. T]ior<<. stood tlio broad-wheoled wains and the antiquo ploughs and the harrows; Tliore were tho folds fur tho sheep ; and thcro, iu his feathered seraglio, Htrutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with tho selfaame Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. ]5ur8ting with hay were tho barns, thomsclvcs a village. In each ono Far o'er the gable projected a roof df thatch ; and a staircase. Under tho sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. There too tho dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates ]VIur.muring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pro Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. Many a youth, as ho knelt in tho church and opened his missal. Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion ; Happy was ho who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment I Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended. And, as he knocked and waited to liear the sound of her footsteps, Knew not which beat tho loud(!r, his heart or the knocker of iron; Or at tho joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village. Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of tho music. But, among all who camp, young Gabriel only was welcome; Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil tho blacksmith, Who was a mighty man in the village and honoured of all men; For, since tlu birth of time, throughout all ages and nations. Has the craft of tho smith been held in repute by tho people. Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician, Priest and pedago*gue both in the village, had taught them their letters Out of the self^same book, with tho hymns of the church and the plain-sonf^. But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed. Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him Take in his leather lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything. Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness Bursting with light seemed t]ie smithy, through every cranny and crevice, "Warm % the forge within they watched the labouring bellows. And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes. Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. Oft in the bams they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings: Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow I Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the '^^.oming, Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. "Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples: She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 122 £VANO£LINB. II. y Tow had the aeaaon returned, when tho nights grow colder and longer, knd the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. linla of passage sailed through tho leaden air, from tho ice-bound, )eHolate northern bays to the shoros of tropical islands, tiarvests wore gathered in ; and wild witli the winds of Soptembar "restled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with tho angel. ill the signs foretold a winter long and intdemont. Bees, with prophotio instinct of want, had hoarded their honey |Till tho hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters asserted )ld would the winter be, for thick was tho fur of tho foxes. iuch was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, Ualled by tho pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints I billed was tho air with a dreamy and magical light; and tho land.scnpo jay as if new-created in all the freshness of chilJhood. 'eace seemed to reign upon oarth, and tho restless heart of the occau "^as for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. ''oices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farmyards, ''hir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, l11 were subdued and low as tho murmurs of love, and the great sun looked with the eye of love through the golden vapours around him; '"hile arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, Bright with the sheen of tho dew, each glittering tree of the forest 'i'lashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. Now recommenced tho reign of rest and affection and stillness, ay with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending rought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to tho homu^tcad. awing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, nd with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening, bremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, roud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, uietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. ~ en came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from tho seaside, here was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog, atient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, alking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly aving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers: ' egent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector, hen from the foyest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled, ate, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, aden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour, heerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, hile aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, ainted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms, atiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders nto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence Into the sounding pails the foatning streamlets descended. Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farmyard, Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness ; Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, Battled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. Indoors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths 123 HENRY WAD8W0RTH LONGFELLOW. Struggled together liko foes in a burning city. Behind him, Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair Laughed In the Hickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner bel^nd her. Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe. Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases. Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altnr. So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion thfi clock clicked. Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, sviddenly lifted, Sounded the wooden latch, and thi door swung back on its hinges. Benedict knew by the hob-nailed 8hoes it was Basil the blacksmith, And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. " Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the thrcshoUlj "Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take Ihy place on the settle Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco; Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling SiQoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams Round and rod «.& the harvest moon throagh the mist of the marshes." Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil tho blacksmith, Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside: — "Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad I Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, wisn others are filled with (rloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadsL picked up a horseshoe.'* Pausing a moment, to take the pipe thai Evangeline brought hira, And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued : — "Four days now are passed sinco the English ships at their anchors Bide in the Gaspercau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded On. Vie morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alasl in the meantime Many eurmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." Then made answer the farmer: — "Perhaps some friendlier purpose Brings these ships to jur shores. Perhaps the harvests in England By untimely rains oi untimelier heat have been blighted. And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." "Not so thmketh the folk in the village," said, warmlv, the blacksmith, Shakirg his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued: — " Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts. Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds; Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the ecytho of the mower," Then with a pleasant smile made answer tho jovial farmer; 124 IC, ness. ;he dreaser nshine. nas. iyards. » her. itle, F a bagpipe, sther. mses, the altflr, ock clicked. ily lifted, hinges, icksmith, tiim. i on the thrcsholdl settle thee ; ceo; ig I gleams marshes." iksmitii, lad I ith Nifor are we Unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and oitr cornfields, for within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the o<;oan, lan our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. ftr no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow il on this house and hearth; for tliis is the night of the contract. lilt are the house and the barn. The merry larls of the village rongly have built them and well; and, breaking iie glebe round about them, lied the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. )ne' Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. all we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?" ' I apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, ushing Evangeline heard tlie words that her father had spoken, id, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. •seshoe." him, itinued : — anchors gainst us. led nandato imo urpose ngland d children." blacksmith, tinued : — (ta, inds ; tho mower,' III. bowa nt like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of tlio ocean, nt, but not broken, by ago was the form of the notary public; ocka of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung er his shoulders; his forehead wjas high; and glasses with horn |t astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal, ther of twenty ohildren was he, and more than a hundred ildren's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick, ur long years in the times of tho war had he languished a captive, "ering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. w. though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike, was beloved by all, and most of all by the children; he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, d of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, d of the white Le'tiche, the ghost of a child who unchristencd d, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children; d how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, d how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, d of the n^arvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes, th whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village, en up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, ocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, ather Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village, d, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand." en with modest demeanour made answer tho notary public, — oasip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser; d what their errand may be I know not better thnn others. am I not of those who imagine some evil intention nga them here, for we are at peace ; and why then moleat us ? " od'a name 1 " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith ; "ust we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore? ily injustice is done, and might is tho right cf the strongest ! " t, without heeding his warmth, continued tho notary public, — ~an is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice umphs ; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, en as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Koyal." ia was the old man's favourite tale, and he loved to repeat it len his neighbours complained that any injustice was done them, nee in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, iaed aloft on a column, a braz«ii statue of Juatica 12& 10 IIENRY WAD8W0BTH LONGFELLOW. m stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided Over the laws of the land, and the hearts ana homes of the people. Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mightjj Eulcd with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace That a necklace of pearls -was lout, and ere long a suspicion Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold. Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thimder Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language; All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapours Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table. Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre: While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhom. Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed. And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table Three times the old man's fee in solid piecos of silver; And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom. Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed. While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside. Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its comer. Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre, Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row. Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. Silently one by one, i^ the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. Thus was the evening passed. Anon tho bell from the belfry Bang out the hour of nine, the -"illa^o curfew, and straightway Bose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household. Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the doorstep Lingered long in Evangeline's hom^ and filled it with gladness. Carefully then were covered the emoers that glowed on the hearthstone. And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer, goon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 126 EVANGELINE. 11 Up tlio staircaso moved a luminous epace in the darkness, Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage, Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. Ah I she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber! Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard. Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. Yet ■^ere her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar I IV. Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre. Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labour Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. Now from the country around, from the farms and neighbouring hamlets, Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows. Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward. Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labour were silenced. Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy groups at the house-doors Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. • Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted; For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant : For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father; Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness Fell from her beautiful lipR, and blessed the cup as she gave it. Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. There in the shade of the porch werc the priest and the notary seated There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-whito Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the fiddler Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. 127 12 HEKRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle. T0U8 les Bourgeois de Chartres^ and Le Carillon de Dunkerque, And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter! Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith! So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Tlironged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant glangour Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement, — • Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. T'hen uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. "You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders. ' Clement and kind has he been: but how yon have answered his kindness. Let your own hearts reply. To my natural make and my temper Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch; Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty's pleasure 1 " As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer. Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones Beats down the farmer's com in the field and shatters his windows, Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures; So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose Louder and even louder a wail of sorrow and anger. And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the doorway. Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations Bang thi'ough the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads of the others 1?080, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly ho shouted, — " Down with the tyrants of England ! we never have sworn them allegiance 1 Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!" More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed iptc silence All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people; 128 EVANGELIJfE. 13 Up were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful ike he, as, after the tocsin'o alarum, distinctly the clock stiikes. ''hat is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you? iy years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught you, It in word alone, but in deed, to love one another! [this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations? Lve you so soon forgotten all lessons of lovo and forgiveness ? [is is the house of the Princd of Peace, and would you profane it lus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred? I ! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon you ! I in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion! [rk! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father forgive them!* us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, us repeat it now, and say, ' O Father, forgive them 1 ' " |w were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people ik they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, lile they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!" ?hen came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar, j-vent and deep was the voice of the priest, and ttie people responded, \t with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Aye Miaria ig they, and fell on their knees, and their souls^ with' devotion translated se on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to'tfieaven. [eanwhile had spread in the village the tidings bf 'fll,* ftnd on all sides indered, wailing from house to house the women Sriid. children. Dg at her father's door Evangeline stood, with hei' right hand ielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,' ^hted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed each isant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows, ig within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table; [ere stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers; [ere stood the tankard of ale, and tlie cheese fresh brought from the dairy ; [d, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer. [us did Evangeline wait at her father's dcor, as the sunset [rew the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, |d from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended, — irity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience! [en, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, jering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women, o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, jed by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. Jwn sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapours jiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. teetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. i i{ [eanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered, was silent within : and in vain at the door and the windows )od she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion, iabriel I " cried she aloud with tremulous voice ; but no answer jme irom the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. )wly at length she returned to the tenantloss house of her father, ^ouldercd the fire on the hearth, on the Iward was the supper untaste ', ipty and drear waq each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. 129 14 HENRY WADS^OHTU LONGFELLOW. 1;; i Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world He created ! Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven ; Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. V. Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth day Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore. Pausing pud looking back to gazej once more on their dwellings, Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. Close at their sides their children ran, and i;iged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beachj Filed in confusion lay the househol'd goods of the peasants. All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; All day long the waijos came labouring down from the village. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting. Echoed far o'er the fields came the. roll of drums i from the churchyard. Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden th3 church- doors Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession Followed the long-imprisoned but patient Acadian farmers. Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn. So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together their voices, Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions :— "Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain! Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!" Then the old men, as tliey marched, and the women that stood by the waysidj Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in tlie sunshine above them Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. Halfway down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached hor, And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him. Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on bis shoulder, and whispered *' Gabriel ! be of good cheer I for if wo love one another Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen ! " Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her father Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect! Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his foolBtcj Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. But with a. smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him. Speaking vrords of endearment where words of comfort availed not. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. 130 lere sily plij ives wei [ft on tl unto 8^ Ihile iu alf the Bepened led awaj |)vered irther bl like to a| 11 esca, %j encai ck to il But on ^uilt of aund th loices of )nward f '^anderec Like untc ^hus he id in tl Laggard S'en as t Tainly E '^ainly oi Jut, witl ' Benedic lore he ''altered [ushed silently, taising [oved i?hen sa Sudde [oon cl ?itan-li] Seizing Jroader l^leamei alumn ?hruBt ma EVANQELINfi. 15 md whispered — lero disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. jily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusi-jn ives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children fft on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, [bile iu despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father, ilf the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight 3tipened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean led away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach pvered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed, irther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, ^ke to a {2:ipsy oamp, or a leaguer after a battle, 11 escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, ly encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 3k to its nethermost caves recreated the bellowing ocean, [ragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving iland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors, jhen, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; feet was the moist still air with the odour of milk from their udders; 3wing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farmyard, — raited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid, ilence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded, [oee no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no light from the windows. But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, fuilt of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. )und them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, foices of women v/ere heard, and of men, and the crying of children, pward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, Pandered the faithful priest, consoling and blcbsing and cheering. Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore, .hus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, id in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, [aggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, 'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken, ''ainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, ^ainly offered him food; yet he moved not, ho looked not, he spake not, Jut, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering firelight. Benedicite ! " murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. [ore he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents i'altered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, lushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, laising his tearful eyes to tbo silent stars that above them i loved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and scrows of mortals. ?hen sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. Suddenly rose from the s^iuth a light, as in autumn the blood-red [oon climbs the crystal wails of heaven, and o'er the horizon fritan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, Seizing the rooks and tho rivers, and piling huge shadows together. Iroader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, l^leamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. )lumns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were ?hruBt through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. 131 - S| 16 HilNUY WADSWOllTIl LONGFELLOW. '"III Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred housetops Started the sheeted smoke w'th flashes of flamo intermingled. These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipbonrd. S))eechles8 at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, "We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Prdl" lioud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farmyards. Thinking the day had dawned ; aTid anon the lowing of cattle Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of doga interrupted. Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebrapka, When the wild horses aflfrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind, Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses Broke througli their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechlesi, the priest and the maiden Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them ; And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, Lo 1 from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore, Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber : And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, Beddened tho sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her. And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — *' Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile. Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the seasi o, Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pr^, And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation. Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean. With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbour. Leaving behind them ther dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. Part the Second. I. Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Prd, When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed. Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile. Exile without an end, and without an example in story. Far asunder, on separate coasts, tlie Acadians landed; Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the north-eafit 132 tVAI^GELll^E. IT be north-eaBt rikeg aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland, icndless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, 3m the cold lakes of the Nortli to sultry Southern savannas, — am the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters |zes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, )ep in their sands to bury !ho scatteretT bones of the maminotii. [lends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken, Iked of tlie earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. Iritten their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. Wv: among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, ^ly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things, tir was she and young; but alas! before her extended, ^eary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway irked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, [ssions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, the emigrant's way o'er the Western di ert is marked by inap-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. |mething there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished; if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, kddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Ito the east again, from whence it late had arisen. Imetimes Bhe lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, Vged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, ke would commence again her endless search and endeavour; [metimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones, [t by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. Imetimes a rumour, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper. We with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward, fmetlmes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him, it it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said they ; *• O yes ! we have seen him. ) was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies ; kireurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers." rabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; " O yes 1 we have seen him. is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." iea would they say, "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer? I'e there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others [ho have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal? ire is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee [any a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy I lou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses." lien would Evangeline auswer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot! [hither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. )r when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, [any things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." jiiereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, lid, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee! ilk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning ick to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; ^at which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain, itience: accomplish thy labour; accomplish thy work of affection! >rrow and silenoe are strong, and patient endurance is godlike, fherefore aooomplish th^ labour of love, till the heart is made godlike, 133 'f'll I' 'I'll 18 HKNRY WAD8W0RTH LOSGKELLOW. ,» Purified, sirongthcncd, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!'* Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline laboured and waited. Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, "Despair not!' Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, Bleeding, barelboted, over the shards and thorns of existence; Let mo essay, O Muse I to follow the wanderer's footsteps: — Not through each devious path, each changeful y existence ; But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course th. . ^ . the valley : Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only; Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan gloomg that conceal it| Though he tehold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur; Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. n. It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, I Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together. Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune; Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, Bought for their kith and their kin among the few-aored farmerd On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. With them. Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Feliciail. Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests, Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river; Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, Then emerged into brbad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer. Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange' and citron, v Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemino,^ Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters. Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypl'ess Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at stmset. Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed oA the water, Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them ; And o'er their 9pirits there came a folding of woB^r and eadn^s,-- 134 u of PlaquemineJ EVANOELINE. 19 Itrange forobodings of ill, unsoen and that cannot bo compassed. L8, at tho tramp of a lioiso's hoof on tho turf of the prairies, ^ I'ar in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, riel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil lowed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. letimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-firo in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall, m they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, ^e still guided them on, as the magic Fata-Morgana jed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them. ice, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered the little cimp an Indian woman, whose features ^e deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. was a Shawnee "'<> jan returning home to her people, the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Comanches, 3re her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. jhed were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome \e they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them [the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, [n with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, Itched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light med on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapt up in their blankets, |n at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated ^ly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, jthe tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses, p Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another Wess heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed, red to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, in turn related her love and all its disasters, te with wonder the Shawneo sat, and when she had ended |1 was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror Bed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis; fis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, ling and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, she behold him no more, though she followed far into the forest. m, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, |d she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, it, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight, ^athed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden, she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, never more returned, nor was seen again by her people. 141 26 HENRY WADS'TOBTH LONGFELLOW. 'lill ■■ir"fl Im U y\ Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guect the enchantress. ^owly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the'^ioon rose, Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendour Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret, Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt for a moment That, like the Inditin maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. Early upon the uiorrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee Said, us they journeyed along, " On the western slope of these mountains Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus; Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him.'j Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!" Thither they turned their steeds ; a,nd behind a spur of the mountains. Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, Knelt the Black Robe chief witu his children. A crucifix fastened High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines. Looked with its agonised face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching. Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sowerj Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression. Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest. And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam. There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered: — "Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his journey ! ** Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness j But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. " Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest ; " but in autumn, When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission.'* Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, •*Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." 142 but a secret, fiVAlWEUKE. 27 lemed it wise and well unto all : and betimes on the morrow, }ting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, iward Basil returned, and £vangelino stayed at the Mission. |wly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — and weeksj and months; and the fields of maize that were springing from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her, Id their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming jters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens icd at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, |at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field. the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover, tience ! " the priest would say ; " have faith, and thy prayer will bo mswered ! at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, low its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; ' is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passioi:, [and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odour in deadly. this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter us wi+h asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe." came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet Gabriel came not: )med the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird led sweet upon weld and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. m the breath of the suiiimer winds a rumoiu* was wafted Iter than song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom. \o the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, pel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River, with returning .u;uides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, ig a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission, over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, Id she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin 1 [us did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places rs and distant far was seen the wandering maiden; — in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions, in the noisy camps and the battlefields of the army, in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; ^d was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. succeeding year stole something fft^ay from her beauty, [ing behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead, of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. V. lat delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, ling in sylvan shades the name of Fenu the apostle, 143 28 HENRY WADSWORTH LOl^GFELLOW. I I Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, As u they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. There old Bene Leblanc had died ; and when he departed, Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city. Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger; And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, "Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. So, when the fruitless search, tha disappointed endeavour, Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining. Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footstej As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us. Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image. Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, Only more beautiful, made by his deathlike silence and absence. Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. Over him years had no power ; he was not changed, but transfigured ; He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, — This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekiy, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her t^aviour. Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes .of the city. Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight. Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city. High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, Darkening the snn in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acoiij And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, ilooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, So death flooded life, and, o'erthrowing its natural margin. Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor; But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, 144 Ltchman repeated £VANG£LlK£. 29 }t away to die in the alinhouse, home of the homeless, fn in the guburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands :- the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wick'T''; )k, in the midst of splendour, its humble walls seem to echo Jtly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye always have with you." jther, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying |ked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there tms of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour, Ih as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, [such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. p their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter. [hns, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets deserted and silent, iding her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse, [et on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden; she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, U the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. |n, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind, iut and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, fie, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted ids of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco. as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit ; jthing within her said, " At length thy trials are ended ! " with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness, blessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Btening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence mg the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, bre on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. |y a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, led on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, |ng his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever. familiar forms had disappeared in the night time; ^nt their places were, or filled already by strangers. [ddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers, from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning, there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, the dying lieard it, and started up from their pillows, khe pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. f, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples; as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment led to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; re wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying, jand red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, life, like the Hebrew, witli blood had besprinkled its portals, the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over, mless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted led to be sinking down through inflnite depths in the darkness, less of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking, through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, H5 80 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Heard be that cry of pain, and througli the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, "Gabriel I O my beloved I" and died awav into silence. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them^ Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spokc^ Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him. Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness. As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. All was ended now, — the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom. Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank thee 1 *' Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow. Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. Under tlie humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard. In the heart of the city, th6y lie, unknown and unnoticed. Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing ' beside them, — Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever. Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy. Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labours. Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey i Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of it«) branches Dwells another race, with other customs and language. Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; ' Maidens still wear their Norman caps end their kirtles of homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story. While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. [ay 24 imerit lleton I -Lor len. ^ 14d SELECTIONS. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. [ay 24th, 1839. Told Felton of my plan of a heroic poom on the Discovery iLinerica by the Northmen, in which the Round Tower at Newport and the [leton in Armour have a part to play. The more I think of it, the more I like -Longfellow's Diary. it? branches [SpeakI speak! thou fearful guest! ^ho, with thy hollow breast till in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me ! /rapt not in Eastern balms, lut with thy fleshless palms tretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?" len, from those cavernous eyes jtle flashes seem to rise, [s when the Northern skies j Gleam in December ; jd like the water's flow Inder December's snow, jEime a dull voice of woe [From the heart's chamber. wp-s a Viking old! [y deeds, though manifold. Skald in song has told, I No Saga taught thee I ike heed, that in thy verso lou dost the talc rehearse, Ise dread a dead man's curse; iFor this I sought thee. ^ar in the Northern Land, the wild Baltic's strand, with my childish hand, j Tamed the gerfalcon; |nd, with my skates fast-bound, dmmed the half- frozen Sound, lat the poor whimpering houndS Trembled to walk on. [Oft to his frozen lair racked I the grisly bear, '^hile from my path the hare led like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark allowed the were-wolfs bark, [ntil the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. "But when I older grew, Joinitig a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led ; Many the souls that sped. Many the hearts that bled. By our st6ni orders. "Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing; As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale. Draining the oaken pail. Filled to o'erflowing. "Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea. Soft eyes did gaze on me. Burning yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mino Fell their soft splendour. "I wooed the blue-eyed maid. Yielding, but half afraid. And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. "Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall. Loud sang the minstrels all. Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. 147 Ii! iiiili III! 'i|;! 'i ;l ! II n 32 HENRT WAD8W0BTH LONQFELLOW. *' While the hrown ale ho quaffed, Loud then the champion lauglied, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the lend laugh of scorn. Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. "She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild. And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded? "Scarce had I put to sea. Bearing the maid with mc. Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen! When on the white sea-strand, Wa ving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. "Then launched they to the b^ast, Bent like a reed each mast. Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Game round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. "And as to catch the galo Bound veered the flapping sail, Death! was the helmsman's hail, Death without quarter! Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water ! "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant. Seeking some rocky haunt. With his prey laden. So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. "Three weeks we westward bor And when the storm was o'er. Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower. Which, to this very hour. Stands looking seaward. " There lived we many years ; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears. She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue cycaj Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another! "Still grew my bosom t,hen, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men. The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here. Glad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, O, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scarJ Bursting these prison bars. Up to its native stars My soul ascended ! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Shoal! to the Northland! 8koal\ — Thus the tale ended. THE WREGK OF THE "HESPERUS." "I have broken ground in a new fleld, namely, ballads, beginning with| * Wreck of the Schooner Hesperus^ on the reef of Norman's Woe, in the storm of a fortnight ago. I shall send it to some newspaper. I think I shall ^ more. The national ballad is a virgin soil here in New England ; and therel great materials. Besides, I have a great notion of working upon the pco| feelings." — Longfellow's Diary. Norman's Woe is a forbidding mass of rock standing out in the sea not far I Gloucester. On this rock, towards the c)ose of 1840, a schooner called the Ees^ 148 TUB WUKCK OF TlIK " UESl-EUUa.** 33 to pieces. Not long after the event the poet conceived a notion of writing a 1 on the gubject, and rising from the fireside ho began and completed the the same night. :s we westward borj le storm was o'er, 3 saw the shoro to leeward; f lady's bower ofty tower, is very hour, cing seaward. ^as the schooner Hesperus, lat sailed the wintry sea; the skipper had taken his little laughter, bear him company. • were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 3r cheeks like the dawn of day, her bosom white as the hawthorn [buds lat op6 in the month of May. skipper he stood beside the helm, \& pipe was in his mouth, he watched how the veering flaw [did blow le smoke now west, now south. up and spake an old Salloi*, id sailed the Spanish Main, )ray thee put into yonder port, E>r I fear a hurricane. >t night the moon had a golden id il»-night no moon wo see ! " skipper he blew a whiff from his )ipe, id a scornful laugh laughed he. |er and louder blew the wind, gale from the north-east, snow fell hissing in the brine, id the billows frothed like yeast. came the storm, and smote amain le vessel in its strength; shuddered and paused, like a [frighted steed, len leaped her cable's length. Ime hither 1 come hither 1 my little I daughter, id do not tremble so; I can weather the roughest gale "lat ever wind did blow." (Trapped her warm in his seaman's [coat gainst the stinging blast; [cut a rope from a broken spar, id bound her to the mast. TOL. n. "O father 1 I hoar the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?" *"Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast 1 " — And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?" " Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry seal" " O father ! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleam- m.^ snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear. Through the whistling sleet and snow. Like a uheeted ghost the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The broakers were right beneath her bows, She driiteu a dreary wreck. And a whoopin ? billow swept the crew Like icicle? Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!"! As the goblet ringing flies apart, Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; And through i.ue rift the wild flan start; The guests in dust are scattered all,] With the breaking Luck of Edenhalf In storms the foe with fire and sword He in the night bad scaled the wall Slain by the sword lies the youthf^ Lord, But holds in his hand the crystal talj The shattered Luck of Edenhall., On the morrow the butler gropes aloii| The graybeard in the desert hall. He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.! "The stone wall," saith he, "dot| fall aside, Down must the stately columns fall;! Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride { In atoms shall fall this earthly ball One day like the Luck of Edenhall! • ii; PAUL REVEBB's ride. 35 fall and rise. Norman's Woe I k of Edenhall. ick of Edenhall ! " bntler gropes alonej he desert hall, burnt skeleton, imal ruin's fall uck of Edenhall.l saith he, "do^ PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. lis is the Landlord's tale in the " Talcs of a Wayside Inn," flrflt sarios, published t8C3. It is founded npnn^ an incident in the war of the Revolutiou, niid [pares naturally with Browning's " How they Brought the Good News from mt." TEN, my children, and you shall hear jthe midnight ride of Patd Revere, the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- live ; rdly a man is now alive remembers that famous day and year. said to his friend, " If tho British march land or sea from the town to-night, ig a lantern aloft in the belfry arch [the North Church tower as a signal light,— 5, if by land, and two, if by sea ; I on the opposite shore will be, idy to ride and spread the alarm trough every Middlesex village and farm, the country folk to be up and to arm." 3n ho said, " Good night I " and with muffled oar tntly rowed to the Charlestowu shore, bt as the moon rose over iiue bay, ^re swinging wide at her moorings lay Somerset, British man-of-war: [phantom ship, with each mast and spar 3S the moon like a prison bar, Id a huge black hmk, that was magnified its own reflection in the tide. mwhile, his friend, through alley and street, mders and watches with eager ears, 11 in the silence around him he hears 10 muster of men at the barrack door, le sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, id the measured tread of the grenadiers, irching down to their boats on the shore. G J Then he climbed tho tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread. To tho belfry-chamber overhead. And startled the pigeons from thoir perch On tho sombre rafters that ruuud him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, — By the trembling ladder, steep and tall. To the highest window in the wall. Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence bo deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread. The watchful night-wind, as it w^ent Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! '* A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and tho hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away. Where the river widens to meet the bay,— A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge] of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, * Now gazed at the landscape far and near. Then, impetuous, stamped the earthy 151 ■'iiiiiii'ii 36 HENRY WADSWOIiTU LONGFELLOW. \ ' ' f And turned aikd tightened his saddle- girth ; But mostly he watched with eager The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, .Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo ! ap, he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in . th« belfry burns I A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed Hying fearless and fleet : That was all! And yet through the gloom and the light. The fate of a nation was riding that night ! And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep. And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep. Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; And under the alders, that skirt its edge. Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge. Is hearl the tramp of his steed as he Tidie It was twelve by the village clock When ho crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of tlie cock, i^id the barking of the farmer's dog. And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock 152 among Swim in the moonlight as' he passi .And the meeting-house windows, bli and bare. Gaze at him with a spectral glare As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would l| upon. It was two by the village clock. When he came to the bridge in cord town. He heard the bleating of the flockj And the twitter of birds trocs, And felt the breath of the morut breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in hisl Who at the bridge would be first to fl Who that day would be lying deaf Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books have read. How the British Regulars fired fled,— How the farmers gave them ball I ball, Frckn behind each fence and farmyij wall. Chasing the red-coats down the lam Then crossing the fields to emeil again Under the trees at the turn of road. And only pausing to fire and load. So the night rode n through Revere ; And so through the night went hisi of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm] A cry of defiance and not of foar, A voice in the darkness, a knock the door. And a word that shall echo for e^ more I For, borne on a night-wind of the Puj Through all our hif^tory, to the last! lu tho hour of darkness and peril nj need, The people will waken and listen hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that stc And tho midnight message of Pal Revere, * ' oonligbt as" he passd ig-house windows, bli ith a spectral glare | ady stood aghast work they would THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 37 leating of the flockj r of birds amonjr areath of the mora' le meadows brown. fe and asleep in his 1 ge would be first to f| vould bo lying det •itish musket-ball. est. In the books h Regulars fired •a gave them ball 5h fence and farmyij coats down the Ian ho fields to emej night rode Psl ho night went his i shall echo for evj g:ht-wiud of the Pa mtory, to the last! rkness and peril aj rakon and listen -beats of that stc t messaq^e of Pd [is the Arsenal. From floor to ceilinjJT, [e a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; ^rom their silent pipes no anthem pealing rtles the villages with strange alarms. ^hat a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, len the death-angel touches those swift keys! loud lament and dismal Miserere [I mingle with their awful sym- phonies ! ^r even now the infinite fierce chorus, cries of agony, the endless groan, I, through the ages that have gone before us, fong reverberations reach our own. }lra and harness rings the Saxon hammer, )U)2^h Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, loud, amid tho universal clnmour, |r distant desi-rts sounds the Tartar gcng. \T the Florentine, who from hij! palace iecla out his battle-bell with dread- ful din, [Aztec iriests upon their tcocallis tt the "wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; Itumult of each sacked and burn- ing village; ' \o shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; soldiers' revels in tho midst of pilbgo; \e wail of famine in beleaguered toirns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder. The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these. Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices. And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? Were half the power that fills the world with terror. Were half the wealth bestowed ou camps and courts. Given to redeem the human mind from error. There were no need of arsenals or forts : Tho warrior's name would be a nama abhorred ! And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for everinore the curso of Cain! Down the dark future, through long generationp. The eclioing sounds grow fainttr and then cease ; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more tho voice of Christ say, " Peace 1 " P«^aco ! and no longer from its brnzen IKjrtttls The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies 1 But boautitul as songs of the immortals, The bolv melodies of love arise. 153 38 HENRY WAD8W0RTH LONGFELLOW. THE OLD CLOCK Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; And from its station* in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all,— "For ever — ^never! Never — ^for ever I'* Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak. Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, aiia sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — "For ever — never! Never — for ever I" By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall. Along the ceiling, along the floor. And seems to say, at each chamber- door, — "For ever — never! Never — ^for ever I" Through days of sorrow and of mirth. Through days of death and days of birth, 1'h rough every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, — "For ever — ^never! Never — ^for ever!** In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality ; His great fires up the chimney roared ; The stranger feasted at his board; ON THE STAIRS. But, like the skeleton at the id That warning timepiece never ce^ "For ever — never! Never — for everl'* There groups of merry children There youths and maidens dre strayed ; O precious hours! O golden priii And affluence of love and time![ Even as a miser counts his gold,! Those hours the ancient timj told,— "For ever — ^neverl Never — for ever!** From that chamber, clothed in The bride came forth on her wei night ; There, in that silent room belo^fJ The dead lay in his shroud of e] And in the hush that followe prayer. Was heard the old clock on the ^ "For ever — never! Never — for ever!" All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dea And when I ask, with throbs of| "Ah I when shall jthey all again ? " As in the days long since gone The ancient timepiece makes lej "For ever — ^never! Never — for everl" Never hero, for ever there. Where all parting, pain, and carj And death, and time shall disapp For ever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, — "For ever — never! Never — for ever!" THE I HAVE a vague remembrance Of a story that is told In some ancient Spanish legend Or chronicle of old. It was when brave King Sanchez Was before Zamora slain. And his great besieging army Lay encamped upon the plain. 154 CHALLENGE. Don Diego de Ordonez Sallied forth in front of all, And shouted Ir.d his challenge To the w&fiei"* on the wall. All the peopiC of Zamora, Both the Dom and the unbomj As traitors did ue challenge With taunting ^tords of scorn. THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 39 STAIRS. 3 skeleton at the feij ^ timepieoe never ce^ ir ever — never 1 jver — for ever I" lOurs! O golden prii( e of love and time!! iser counts his goldj I the ancient timl mmber, clothed in me forth on herwei le old clock on the r ever — never I vei — for everl" 76 long since gone imepiece makes rep ever — never 1 er — for ever I" 3r ever there, ■ting, pain, and cari d time shall disappj 5, but never here! of Eternity cessantly, — ever — ^never I Br — for ever I" Ordonez in front of all, .d his challenge en on the wall. of Zamora, T and the unbonij ue challenge »g ^ords of Boom. ig, in their houses, their graves, the dead! waters of their rivers, leir wine, and oil, and bread ! a greater army jesets us rounl with strife, ig, numberless army, the gates of life. ^9rty-stricken millions challenge our wine and bread, )each us all as traitors, bhe living and the dead. 3never I sit at the banquet, the feast and song are high, Amid the mirth and the music I can hear that fearful cry. And hollow and haggard faces Look into the lighted hall, And wasted hands are extended To catch the crumbs that fall. For within there is light and plenty. And odours fill the air; But witliout there is cold and darkness, And hunger and despair. And there in the camp of famine. In wind and cold and rain, Christ, the great Lord of the army, Lies dead upon the plain! THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. [thou stayed, I must have fled ! " [what the Vision said. haraber all alone, on the floor of stono, the Monk in deep contrition [sins of indecision, For greater self-denial ttion and in trial ; Noonday by the dial, Monk was all alone. r, as if it lightened, )uted splendour brightened Jin him and without him (narrow cell of stone : saw the Blessed Vision jrd, with light Elysian gesture wrapped about him, irment round him thrown, srucified and slain, kgonies of pain, bleeding hands and feet, Monk his Master see; the village street, louse or harvest-field, [d lamp and blind he healed, ^e walked in Galilee. [ttitude imploring, ipon his bosom crossed, Lng, worshipping, adoring, 'le Monk in rapture lost. 16 thought, iu heaven that Bst, I, that thus thou deignest To reveal thyself to me? Who am I, that from the centre Of thy glory thou Kliouldst enter This poor cell, my guest to be? Then amid his exaltation. Loud the convent bell apjmlling. From its beifry calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor With persistent iteration He had never heard before. It was now the appointed hour When alike in shine or shower. Winter's cold or summer's heat. To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame. All the beggars of the street. For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood: And their almoner was he Who upon his bended knee, Rapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender. Saw the Vision and the Splendour. Deen distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go, or should he stay ? Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate. Till the Vision passed away? Should he slight his radiant guest? Slight this visitant celestial. For a crowd of ragged, bestial Beggars at the convent gate? Would the Vision there remain? 155 40 HENBT WADBWOKTU LONGFELLOW. Would the Vision come again? Then a voice within his breast Whispt^red, audible and clear As if to the outward ear: ** Do thy dutv ! that is best ; Leave unto thy Lord the rest I " Straightway to his feet he started, And with longing look intent On the Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, sSlowly on his errand went. At the gate the poor were waiting, Lioking through the iron grating, "NVith tliat terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close, And of feet that pass them by; Grown familiar with disfavour, Grown familiar with the savour Of the bread by which men die! But to-day, they knew not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise. Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine. In his heart the Monk was praying. Thinking of the homeless poor. What they suffer and endure ; What we see not, what we se«* And the inward. voice was savi O • "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of mine and lowest,] That thou doest unto me I " Unto mel but had the Vision Come to him in beggar's clothingj Gome a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adorinl Or have listened with derision, And have turned away with loatL Thus hia conscience put the quesj Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Towards his cell he turned h's ftj And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light. Like a luminous cloud expanding] Over floor and wall and ceiling. But he paused with awe-struck k\ At the threshold of his door, For the Vision still was standinKi As he left it there before. When the convent bell appallingj From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor. Tlirough the long hour intervenin It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom bum. Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said, " Hadst thou stayed, I must have fl SEAWEED. When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox. Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges. Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bern'ida*8 reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges. In some far-off, bright Azore ; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas; — 156 Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main ; Till in sheltered coves, and reaclij Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strilce the ocean Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rooky fastoosj In its vastness. Floats some fragment of a song : From the far-off isles enchanted. Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth ; From the flashing surf, whose vis) Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth; THE NORMAN BARON. 41 bing thou doest f mine and lowest,! it unto me ! " had the Vision n beggar's clothing cant imploring, i have knelt adorinl 3d with derision, led away with loall] sience put the ques »some suggestion, with hurried pace, 3II he i,urned h^'a fti e convent bright atural light, us cloud expanding] wall and ceiling. with awe-struck ft] Id of his door, still was standin<;| ;here before, rent bell appallingj f calling, calling, 1 to feed the poor, ong hour intervenin his return, s bosom bum, all the meaning, ised Vision said, ayed, I must have H I of wild emotion ocean 3ul, ere long ) and rooky fastnesj iCBS, gment of a song : f isles enchanted, I planted II fruit of Truth ; ng surf, whose visj rsian ime of Youth; [the strong Will, and tho En- leavour lat for ever with the tides of Fate; the wreck of Hopes far-soattered, Impest-shattered, ^g waste and desolate; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the n stless heart ; Till at length in books recorded. They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart. THE NORMAN" BARON. ided on the custom not unusual in the Middle Ages, whereby the feudal lancipated his serf:) as he lay at the door of death. chamber, weak and dying, le Norman baron lying: [without, the tempest thundered, the castle-turret shook. fight was Death the gainer, ^f vassal and retainer, ^e lands his sires had plundered, 3n in the Doomsday Book. bed a monk was seated, humble voice repeated prayer and pater-noster, the missal on his knee ; [m'd tho tempest pealing, of bells came faintly stealing, that from the neighbouring bster for the Nativity. hall the serf and vassal that night, their Christmas ^ssail ; carol, old and saintly, the minstrels and the waits; loud these Saxon gleeraen slaves the songs of freemen, le storm was heard but faintly, [sking at the castle-gates. length the lays they chanted ^d the chamber terror-haunted, the monk, with accents holy, jered at the baron's ear. ipon his eyelids glistened, [paused awhile and listened, le dying baron slowly bd his weary head to hear. ♦'Wassail for the kingly stranger Bom and cradled in a manger ! King like David, priest like Aaron, Christ is born to set Uo free!" And the lightning showed tho sainted Figures on the casement painted. And exclaimed the shuddering barun, " Miserere, Domine ! " In that hour of deep contrition He beheld with clearer vision, Through all outward show and fashion. Justice, the Avenger, rise. All the pomp of earth had vanished, Falsehood and deceit were banished. Reason spake more loud than passicn, And the truth wore no disguise. Every vassal of his banner, Every serf bom to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures. By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal. Death relaxed his iron features. And the monk replied '* Amen ! " Many centuries have been numbore a far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. 168 Down upon us heavily riins, Silent and sullen the floating! Theii comes a puff of smoke fi[ guns. And leaps the terrible dealj With fiery breath. From each open port. We are not idle, but send her Defiance back in a full broadsij As hr*il rebounds from a roof olj Robounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster'^ hide. " Strike your flag ! " the rebel In his arrogant old plantation! HVMN Ob' THE MORAVIAN NUNti OF iJETllIiEUKM. •43 ground, but he is not! J&a not stamped onl lead, I they only scathe tor Galbraith. are in his breast and! I out of the dust as tor Galbraith 1 B drinks has a bloodjj tnd put me out of myl his agony prayeth tor Galbraith. mce more those tooj igler has died a del tor Galbraith! \s gone back to whJ answers to the naiij en the sergeant saitj ictor Galbraith ! " vails of Monterey bugle is heard to tor Galbraith I 5 mist of the yallei y Is hear the sound, bat is the wraith Victor Galbraith 1 "I id South was marke and the first ironcb mberlandf and ther us heavily runs, sullen the floating! a puff of smoke fif ps the terrible deatj iry breath, L open port. idle, but send her k in a full broadsij unds from a roof o| 8 our heavier hail oh iron scale n8ter*& hide. ' flag ! " the rebel )gant old plantation! our gallant Morris replies: is better to sink than to yield 1" the whole air pealed [the cheers of our men. ike a kraken huge and black, 5rushed our ribs in her iron rasp ! rent the Oumberland all a rrack, kh a sudden shudder of death, the cannon's breath ler dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay. Still floated our flag at the main- mast head. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day I Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer. Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave, hearts that went down in the seas ! Ye are at pence in the troubled stream ; Ho ! brave land 1 with hearts like those, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again. And without a seam ! THE BELEAGUERED CITY. read, in some old, marvellous legend strange and vague, midnight host of spectres pale ^guered the walls of Prague. [the Moldau's rushing stream, the wan moon overhead, stood, as in an awfui dream, [army of the dead. |as a sea-fog landward bound, spectral camp was seen, jrith a sorrowful, deep sound, (river flowed between. jr voice nor sound was there, [rum, nor sentry's pace; st-like banners clasped the air, louds with clouds embrace. len the old cathedral bell laimed the morning prayer, lite pavilions rose and fell le alarmed air. [the broad t alley fast and far troubled army fled; the glorious morning star, ghastly host was dead. I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll. That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light. Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through tlio night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectra] camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice nor sound is there. In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air. But the rushing of Life's wave. And when the solemn and deep church- bell Entreats the soul to pry. The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shinetti as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM. AT IHE CONSECRATION OF PDLUSKl's BANNER. SN the dying flame of day 3Ugh the chancel shot its ray, the glimmering tapers shed it light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung. Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. 159 44 IIENHY TPADSWORrH liONGFKLLOM'. And the nuDb' svset hymn was heard the while, Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. " Take thy banner I May it wave Proudly o'er the good and brave; When the battle's distant wail Breaks the Sabbath of our valo. "When the clarion's music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the epcar in conflict shakes. And the strong lance shivering breaks. "Take thy banner! and, beneath Tlie Ixittle-cloud's encircling wreath. Guard it, till Our homes are free ! Guard it ! God will prosper thee ! In the dark and trying hour. In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of stef^ds and men, His right hand will shield thee then. " Take thy banner ! But when l| Closes rounil the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him ! By our Jioly vow. By our prayers and many tearej By the ratrcy that eiidears. Spare him ! he our love hath si ail Sparc him I a«j thou wouldst be sp , "Take thy banner 1 and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldi bier, And the muffled drum should 1x1 To the tread of mournful feet. Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thcJ The warrior took that banner prou| And it was his martial cloak and shr THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. i« ijijjQ « yiiiage smithy ' stood in Brattle Street, Cambridge. There came a til when the chestnut tree that shaded it was cut down, and then the children of I place put their pence together and had a chair made for the poet from its wool niil Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is cribp, and black, and long ; His face is like the tan; Hia brow is wet with honest bweat. He earns whate'er he can. And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night. You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow. Like a sexton ringing the village bell. When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar. And catcl^ the burning sparks that fly Like chaif from a threshing-floor. 160 He goes on Sunday to the church,] And sits among his boys'; He hears the parson pray and prcaj He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her motlii voice Singing in Paradise! He needs mut.t think of her once mi How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand! wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing. Onward through life ho goes; Each morning sees some task begin Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something doij Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy frioij For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forgo of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. ITY LOST YOUTH. 4d EXCELSIOR. »gfollow one night, aftor a party, took up a New York newspaper bearing il of the Now York State — a uhield, with a ridng sun, and the motto isior.' At once he conceived the idea of his poem, and adopting tbe motto regard for anything but its suggestiveness, jotted a draft of his lines bftcl£ of a letter from Charles Sumner." — Robertson's Longfellow. n like her motlii lades of night were falling fast, rough an Alpine village passed ^th, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, ler with the strange device, Excelsior ! )W was sad; his eye beneath id like a falchion from its sheath, like a silver clarion rimg l^cocnts of that unknown tongue. Excelsior ! jpy homes he saw the light >u8ehold iires gleam warm and right; the spectral glaciers shone, rom his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior ! [not the Pass I " the old man said ; lowers tlie tempest overhead, jaring torrent is deep and wide ! " foud that clarion voice replied. Excelsior ! ly," the maiden said, "and rest reary head ujwn this breast 1" A tear stood in his bright blue eye. But still he answered, with a Eigb, Excelsior ! "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! Beware the awful avalanche 1" This was the peasant's last Good-night. A voice replied, far up the height. Excelsior ! At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air. Excelsior I A traveller, by the faithful hound. Half-buried in tlie snow was found. Still grasping in his hand of ice That oanner with the strange device, Excelsior I There in the twilight cold and gray. Lifeless, but boautiful, he lay. And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell like a falling star, Excelsior I MY LOST YOUTH. [ten Henry Longfellow was five years old, says Mr. Robertson, defensive wore garrisoned on Portland shore to repel the English. About this time India sea fight took place off the coast of Maine. The British brig SoxeVi lin S. Blythe, was captured by the American brig Enterprize, Lieutenant W. |W8. The victorious vessel towed its prize into Portland harbour, and the luders, who had both been killed in the fight, were buried side by side at )t of Munjoy Hill. I think of the beautiful town fct is seated by the sea; in thought go up and nown )leasant streets of that dear old town, my youth comes back to me. Lnd a verse of a Lapland song haunting my itiemory still : **A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are iong, long thoughts." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch in sudden gleams. The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And ieltinds that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. 161 46 UENllY WADdWOUTH LONGFELLOW. And tbo burden of that old Bong, It murmurs and whispers Rtill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the plips, And the sea-tides tossing free ; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of ycvih are long, long the ".ghts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore. And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er. And the bugle wild v and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still : "A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the sea-fight far away. How it thundered o'er the tide 1 And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o'erlooking the tran- quil bay, Where they in battl§ died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighbourhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song It flutters and murmurs still : 162 " A boy's will is the wind's will,' And the thoughts of youth are hi. long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooij that dart Across the schoolboy's brain; The song and the silence in the hea!J That in part are prophecies, and in Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful sosil Sings on, and is never still: A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are hii long thoughts." There are things of which I may speak; There are dreams that cannot disj There are thoughts that make ttj strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before tho eye. And the words of that fpLtal boi; Come over me like a chill : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are losj long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms] meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and swectj And the trees that o'ershadow eacg well-known street, As they balance up and down. Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and- whispering stilll **A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are lon^ long thoughts.'* And Deering^s Woods are fresh anf| fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, j And among the dreams of the day that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful songJ The groves are repeating it stillf "A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are long| long thoughts." is the wind's will, its of youth are lori jhts." gleams and glc oolboy's brain; le silence in the heaj prophecies, and in vild and vain. 36 of that fitful bodI d is never still: the wind's will, s of jouth are loil hts." of which I may ■ms that cannot dii fhts that make tj •t weak, pr into the cheek, 'ore the eye. is of that f(ital eoi^ e like a chill: s the wind's will, of youth are louj its." ow are the forma! le dear old town; ' is pure and sweeli lat o'ershadow eacf street, up and down, tie beautiful song, nd whispering stilll ttie wind's will, of youth are lonn ts." )ods are fresh i TOE SLATE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 47 )£ the ungathered rice ho lay, U sickle in his hand ; I breast was bare, his matted hair ras buried in the sand. in, in the mist and shadow of sleep, saw his Native Land. \e through the landscape of his dreams le lordly Niger flowed; 3ath the palm-trees on the plain ice more a king ho strode; heard the tinkling caravans 38cend the mountain-road. [saw once more his dark-eyed queen Imong her children stand; |y clasped his neck, thoy kissed hia l^cheeks, ley held him by the hand! — 3ar burst from the sleeper's lids id fell into the sand. then at furious speed he rode long the Niger's bank; bridle-reins were golden chains, id, with a martial clnnk, each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel liting his stallion's flank. Before him like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew; From mom till night he followed their flight. O'er plains where the tamarind grow. Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts. And the ocean rose to view. • At night he heard the lion roar. Ana the hyena scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues. Shouted of liberty ; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free. That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee. He did not feel the driver's whip. Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away I THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. lark fens of the Dismal Swamp fhe hunted Negro lay; saw the fire of the midnight camp, heard at times a horse's tramp id a bloodhound's distant bay. ^ere will-o'-the-wisps and glow- worms shine, bulrush and in brake; bre waring mosses shroud the pine, the cedar grows, and the poison- ous vine spotted like the snake; ^ere hardly a human foot could pass, n a human heart would dare, the /juaking turf of the green morass crouched in the rank and tangled grass, iike a wild beast in his lair. A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scnrs deformed his face; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame. And the rag9, that hid his mangled frame, Wrre the livery of disgrace. All things above were bright and fair. All things were glad and free; Lithe seyairrels darted here and there. And wild birds fllled the echoing air With songs cf Liberty 1 On him alon(< was the doom of pain. From the norning of his birth; On him aloiiie the curse of Cain Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, And struck him to the earth ! 163 48 lltNRY WADSWORTH IX)NGPELLOTir. THE QUADROON GIRL. The Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon And for the evening gale. Under the ehore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew Watched the gray alligator slide Into the still bavou. Odours of orange-flowers and spice Beached them from time to time, Liko airs that breathe from Farudise Upon a world of crime. The Planter, under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch. He seemed in haste to go. He said, "My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon; I only wait the evening tides And the rising of the moon.'* Before them, with her face upraised. In timid attitude, Ijil^e oDd half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood. Her eyes were large and full of light, Her arms and neck were bare; No garment she wore save a bright. And her own long, raven hair. And on her lips there played a sn As holy, meek, and ntint. As lights in some cathedral aislo The features of a saint. " Tho Boil is barren, — the farm is The thoughtful Planter said; Then looked upon the Slaver's goliij And then upon the maid. His heart within him was at strife] With such accursed gains: For he knew whose passions gavo life. Whose blood ran in her veins. But the voice of nature was too we He took the glittering gold! Then pale as death grew the maidej cheek. Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from tho door, | Ho led her by the hand. To be his slave and paramour In a strange and distant land! THE WARNING. Beware ! Tho Israelite of old, who tore I The poor, blind Slave, the sooif The lion in his path, — ^when, poor and blind,* He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be A pander to Philistine revelry, — Upon the pillars of the Temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Destroyed himself, and with him those who made A cruel mockery of his .'■ightless woe ; 104 jest of all. Expired, and thousands perished in i fall I There is a poor, blind Samson in land, Shorn of his strength and boundj bonds of steel. Who may, in some grim revel, his hand. And shake the pillars of this C(j monweal, Till the vast Temple of our libertij A shapeless mass of wreck and rubh lies. ▲ PBALM OF L.?E. 49 ROBERT BURNS. le wore save a Itji long, raven hair. s there played a so K and faint, Qe cathedral aisle of a saint. Ten, — the farm is oi ul Planter said; f on the Slaver's goll m the maid. I him was at strife! mrsed gains: loso passions gave ■an in her veins. ' nature wag too we littering goldl ath grew the maidJ ler from the doorj the hand, and paramour nd distant land! Slave, the scoff isands perished in i blind Samson in rength and houndl eel, me grim revel, pillars of this d iple of our libertij )f Wreck and rubb imid the fields of Ayr ighman, who, in foul and fair, Sings at his task tr, we know not if it is iverook's song we hear, or his. Nor care to ask. the ploughing of tiiose fields re ethereal harvest yields Than sheaves of grain ; flush with purple bloom the rye, plover's call, the curlew's cry, Sing in his brain. ^ed by his hand, the waysido weed les a flower; the lowliest reed Beside the stream ^hed with beauty ; gorse and grass leather, where his footsteps pass, The brighter seem. igs of love, whoso flame illumes jiarkness of lone cottage rooms; He feels the force, reacherous undertow and stress ^yward passions, and no less The keen remorse. >ment8, wrestling with his fate, )ice is harsh, but not with hate ; The brushwood, hung j Above the tavern door, lets fall Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall Upon his tongue. But still the music of his song Rises o'er all olate and strong; Its master-chords Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood, Its discords but an interlude Between the words. And then to die so young and leave Unfinished what he might achieve! Yet better sure Is this, than wandering up and down An old man in a country town. Infirm and poor. For now he haunts his native land As an immortal youth; his hand Guides every plough ; He sits beside each ingle-nook. His voice is in each ruahing brook, Each rustling bough. His presence haunts this room to-jiight, A form of mingled mist and light From that far coast. Welcome beneath this roof of mine I Welcome ! this vacant chair is thine, Dear guest and ghost! A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OP THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. me not, in mournful numbers, is but an empty dream! le soul is dead that slumbers, things are not what they seem. \b real ! Life is earnest I the grave is not its goal; [thou art, to dust returnest, not spoken of the soul. ^njoyment, and not sorrow, [)ur destined end or way ; act, that each to-morrow us farther than to-day. long, and Time is fleeting, our hearts, though stout and brave, like muffled drums, are beating leral marches to the grave. le world's broad field of battle, Ithe bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,— act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead I Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;— Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing. With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuiug, Learn to laoour and to wait. 165 60 HENBY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. " !!' Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Benea'th our feet each deed of shame ! All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess; The longing for ignoble things; The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the hea;t, that brings Irreverence for the dre^ims of youth ; All thoughts c^ ill; all evil deeds, That have their voot in thoughts of iU; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will;--i All these must first be tsaaiiplcd down Beneath our feet, if \'e -would gain In the bright fields of fair renovj The right of eminent doinnin. We have not wings, we cannot But we have feet to scale and ( By slow degrees, by more and The cloudy summits of our tin The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the airs. When nearer seen, and better ku Are but gigantic flights of 8taj| The distant mountains, that upret Their solid bastions to the skiej Are crossed by pathways, that a;| As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reache^ kept Were not attained by sudden But they, while their companions j Were toiling upward in the nij Standing on what too long we With shoulders bent and do^ eyes, Y/e may discern — unseen before- A path to higher destinies. Nor deem the irrevocable Past, As wholly wasted, wholly vain,[ If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.] SANDALPHON. Have you read in the Talmud of old. In the Legends the Eabbins have told, Of the limitless realms of the air, Have you read it, — the marvellous story Of Sandalphon,' the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits. With his feet on the ladder of light. That, crowded with angels unnumbered. By Jacob was seen as he slumbered Alone ^'n the desert at night? The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express. 166 But serene in the rapturous throij Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassioned and Among the dead angels, the deati Sandalphon stands listening breatl To sounds that ascond from beloj From the spirits on earth that adJ From the souls that entreat and| ploro In the fervour and passion of pnj From the hearts that are broken losses. And weary with dragging the cro Too heavy for mortals to bear. And he gathers the prayers aij stands. And they change into flowers in| hands. Into garlands of purple and redj THE OOBLGT OP LIFE. 61 ; wings, we cannot ve feet to scale and] rees, by more and r summits of our tin pyramids of stono ^e-like cleave the seen, and better kn, gantio flights of etaij mountains, that uprei . bastions to the skici yy pathways, that aj ligher levels rise. by great men reachei| attained by sudden ile their companions j g upward in the nij ivhat too long we :dors bent and dov jm — ^unseen before- aigher destinies. irrevocable Past, vasted, wholly vainj ts wrecks, at last g nobler we attain.! the rapturous throi he rush of the sonJ nimpassioned and J ad angels, the dea| mds listening brcat; at ascend from beloj ;s on earth that adi I that entreat and! r and passion of prsj s that are broken' 1 dragging the cro r mortals to bear. rs the prayers at ge into flowers in of purple and red ineath the great arch of the the streets of the City. Im- tal rted the fragrance they shed. a legend, I know, — a phantom, a show, (e ancient Kabbinical lore ; old mediseval tradition, tutiful, strange superstition, launts me and holds me the re. When I look from my window at night. And the welkin above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars. Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon the angel expanding His pinions in nebulous bars. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart. The frenzy and fire of the brain. That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet itr> fever and pain. THE DAY IS DONE. ^y is done, and the darkness from the wings of Night, father is wafted downward an eagle in his flight. le lights of the village tiiurough the rain and the ifeejing of sadness comes o'er me my soul cannot resist : \g of sadness and longing, is not akin to pain, sembles sorrow only le mist resembles the rain. 3ad to me some poem, simple and heartfelt lay, lall soothe this restless feeling, [banish the thoughts of day. ^m the grand old masters, from the bards sublimo,- distant footsteps echo igh the corridors of Time. ce strains of martial music, mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour; And to-night I long for rest. Bead from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart. As showers from the clouds of summer. Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labour, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care. And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music. And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. THE GOBLET OF LIFE. is Life's goblet to the brim; lOUgh my eyes with tears are sparkling bubbles swim, llant a melancholy hymn solemn voice and slow. liple flowers, — no garlands green the goblet's shade or sheen, Idening draughts of Hippo- [ie, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between Thick leaves of mistletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart^ Are running all to waste. And as it mantling passes round. With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, 107 52 HENU^ WAD8W0RTH LOKG^ELLOW. i I m\ M Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned Are in its waters steeped and drowned, And give a bitter taste. Above the lowly plants it towers, The fennel, with its yellow flowers, And in an earlier age than ours Was gifted with the wondrous powers, Lost vision to restore. It gave new strength, and fearless mood; And gladiators, fierce and rude, Mingled it in their daily food; And he who battled and subdued, A wreath of fennel wore. Then in Life's goblet freely press The leaves that give it bitterness, Nor prize the coloured waters less, For in thy darkness and distress New light and strength they give ! And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe With which its brim may ovorflovj He has not learned to live. The prayer of Ajai was for light; Through all that dark and despcJ fight. The blackness oi that noonday nij He asked but the return of sight, To see his foeman's face. Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Be, too, for light, — for strength to I Our portion of the weight of care That crushes into dumb despair One half the human race. O suffering, sad humanity 1 ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, and yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried I 1 pledge you in this cup of grief, Where floats the fennel's bitter lea The Battle of our Life is brief, The alarm, — the struggle, — th6 relid Then sleep we side by side. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered. To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lamps are lighted. And, like phantoms grim and tall. Shadows from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlour wall; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloired, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife. By the roadside fell and perished. Weary with the march of life I They, the holy ones and weakly. Who the cross of suffering bore. Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no morel 168 And with them the Being Beauteof Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiaeless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyed Like the stars, so still and saintlike| Looking downward from the skie Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. Breathing from her lips of air. ^* O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and die I brim may ovorfloj earned to live. oi that noonday nij he return of sight, eman'a face. ng, earnest prayer it, — for strength to I the weight of care ito dumb despair human race. this cup of grief, 3 fennel's bitter leal ur Life is brief, struggle,— th6 reli^ 3 side by side. the Being Beauteoj youth was given, lings else to love saint in heaven. noiseless footstep issenger divine, chair beside me, e hand in mine. gazes at me jp and tender eyes,! still and saintUkej irard from the skie )res8ed and lonely,] '6 laid aside, only lave lived and (iw llfcBlGlfATlOW. GOD'S-ACRE. 63 [g that ancient Saxon phrase, lich calls burial-ground God's-Acre! iii just; iseoratea each grave within its ills, breathes a bcnison o'er the leeping duat. ^Acre! Ye:-, that blessed name ^1 parts ifort to those who in the grave ith sown jed that they had garnered in leir hearts, ^ir bread of life, alas ! no more icir own. its furrows shall we all be cast, the sure faith that wo shall rise tin At the great harvest, when the arch- angel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom In the fair gardens of that secon.l birth. And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod. And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow ! THE OPE^ WINDOW. [)ld house by the lindens silent in the shade, )n the gravelled pathway light and shadow played. the nursery windows le open to the air; le faces of the < ildron, iy were no hmger there. large Newfoundland house-dog ^s standing by the door; )ked for his little playmates, 10 would return no more. They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall; 3ut shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone ; But the voices of the children Will bo heard. in dreams alone! And the boy that walked lieside me. He could not understand Why closer in mine, ahl closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand! RESIGNATION. IK is no fiock, however watched \nd tended, one dead lamb is there! is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, has one vacant cuair ! lir is full of farewells to the dying, mournings for the dead; f heart of Rachel, for her children U not be comforted! Let us bo patient! These severe afilictions Not from the ground arise. But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. Wo see but dimly through the mists and vapours ; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. 169 54 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. There is no Death! What seems so is transition : This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, the child of our affection, But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister^s stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led. Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution. She lives, .whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realmp of air ; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Benold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives. Thinking that our remembirance, tlioti| unspoken. May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again beho^ her; For when with raptures wild III our embraces we again enfold heij She will not be a child; But a fair maiden, in her Fatlicj mansion, Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful wit all the eon expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous yi\\ emotion And anguish long suppressed. The swelling heart heaves moaning lU the ocean. That cannot be at rest,—- We will be patient, and assuage feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealinj The grief that must have way. HAUNTED HOUSES. All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide. With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair. Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at tr.ble, than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts. As silent as the piotures on the wall. 170 The stranger at my fireside cannot The forms I see, nor hear the boud I hear; He but perceives what is; while me All that has been is visible clear. We have no title-deeds to house lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dufa From graves forgotten stretch thej dusty hands, And hold in mortmain still their df estates. The spirit world around this world ( sense Floats lilse an atmosphere, ail everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists as vapours dense A vital breath of mere ethereal THB BELFBT OF BBU6ES. iden, in her Fatbc [little lives are kept in equipoise opposite attractions and desiies ; [stmggle of the instinct that enjoys, id the more nobh instinct that aspires. 36 perturbations, thiB perpetual jar " earthly wants and aspirations >'igh, ^e from the influence of an imseen star, undiscovered planet in our sky. as the moon from some dark gate of cloud irows o*er the sea a floating bridge of light. 55 Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night,— So from the world of spirits there descends A bridge of light, connecting it with this. O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends. Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. THE BELLS OF LYNN. HEABD AT NAUANT. e-deods to house trtmain still their JRFEW of the setting sun 1 O Bells of Lynn! juiem of the dying day ! O Bells of Lynn! the df'mting with her hawk and hound; And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. I beheld the Flemish WeaverSj with Kamur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Gk)lden Dragon's nest. And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dyke of sand, **I am Bolandl I am Roland! there is victory in the land!" Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passed away like minutes: and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. . THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. '* Build me straight, O worthy Master ! Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at aJl disaster. And with wave and whirlwind wrestle I " The merchant's word Dcllfchted the Master heard; For his heart was im his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art. A quiet smile played round his lips. As the eddies and dimples of the tide Play round the bows of ships That steadily at anchor ride. 172 And with a voice that was full of glJ He answered, " Ere long we will launij A vessel as goodly, and strong staunch. As ever weathered a wintry sea!" And first with nicest skill and art, Perfect and finished in every part, A little model the Master wrought, Which should be to the larger planj What the child is to the man, Its counterpart in miniature; That with a hand more swift and bu The greater labour might be broughlj To answer to his inward thought. 7HE BVlLmNQ OF THE SHIP. 67 wUd and high; Lilt than the sky. 1 times, Loly chimes, sing in the choir; ig of a friar. my brain; h again; e Fer, re. I of old : the Fleece of Gold. jies; md ease. >und; hound ; ;h the queen, leathed between. bold, 3 of Gold ; ving west, 's nest. rror smote; iroat; f sand, mdl" ity's roar graves once more. aware, square. that was full of glJ re long we will launj )dly, and strong d a wintry sea ! " cest skill and art, led in every part, 3 Master wrought, to the larger plaDJ to the man, miniature ; more swift and sn, r might be broughj inward thought. he laboured, his mind ran o'er irions ships that were built of [re, )ye them all, and strangest of )d the Great Harry, crank and picture was hanging oq the 111, I bows and stem raised high in F ' balconies hanging here and there, ^ignal lanterns and Haga afloat, )ight round towers, like those kat frown isome old castle, looking down the drawbridge and the moat. le said with a smile, " Our ship, iwib, |be of another form than this 1 " of another form, indeed ; [for freight, and yet for speed, itiful and gallant craft; in the beam, that the stress of le blast, |ng down upon sail and mast, not the sharp bows overwhelm ; in the beam, but sloping aft [graceful curve and slow degrees, [she might be docile to the helm, that the current't of parted seas, fg behind, with mighty force, aid and not impede her course. ship-yard stood the Master, ^ ^h the model of the vessel, |should laugh at all disaster, with wave and whirlwind trestle 1 ling many a rood of ground, phe timber piled around; 3r of chestnut, and elm, and oak. scattered here and there, with 1680^ cnarred and crooked cedar knees; pht from regions far away, Pascagoula's sunny bay, the banks of the roaring toanoke ! rhat a wondrous thing it is ate how many wheels of toil [thought, one word, can set in )tion 1 ^'s not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil. Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall! The sun was rising o'er the sea. And long the level shadows lay, As if they, too, the beams would be Of some great, airy argosy. Framed and launched in a single day. That silent architect, the sun, Had hewn and laid them every one. Ere the work of man was yet begun. Beside the Master, when he spoke, A youth, against an anchor leaning. Listened, to catch his slightest mean- ing. Only the long waves, as they broke In ripples on the pebbly beach. Interrupted the old man's speech. Beautiful they were, in sooth. The old man and the fiery youth I The old man, in whose busy brain Many a siiip that sailed the main Was modelled o'er and o'er again; — The fiery youth, who was to bo The heir of his dexterity, Tbe heir of his house, and his daughter's hand. When he had built and launched from land What the elder head had planned. "Thus," said he, "will we build this ship! Lay square the blocks upon the slip, And follow well this plan of mine. Choose the timbers with greatest care ; Of all that is unsound beware ; For only what is sound and stro*:g To this vessel shall belong. Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine Here together shall combine. A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, And the Union be her name! For the day that gives her to the sea Shall give my daughter unto theel" The Master's word Enraptured the young man heard; And as he turned his face aside. With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, Standing before Her father's door. He saw the form of his promised bride. 178 58 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW* ■U' The sun shone on her golden hair, And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, With the breath of mom and the soft sea air. Like a beanteons barge was she, Slill at rest on the sandy beach, Just beyond the billow's reach; But he Was the restless, seething, stormy sea I Ah, how skilful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain. And he who foUoweth Love's behest Far cxcelleth all the restl Thus with the rising of the sun Was the noble task begun, And soon throughout the shipyard's bounds Were heard the intermingled sounds