Mtfcerstoe JLitfrature >erte0 THE CHILDREN S HOUR AND OTHER POEMS PAUL REVERE S RIDE AND OTHER POEMS BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW WITH A SKETCH OF LONGFELLOW IN HOME LIFE, AND NOTES HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO DALLAS ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO SEije JXibcwtof $rcss Cambridge HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY is the only authorized publisher of the works of LONGFELLOW, and this edition of the work, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, is the only form of the work authorized by the author, or his heirs, for school use and published with their assent. COPYRIGHT, 1872, 1873, 1875, 1878, AND iSSo, BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW COPYRIGHT, IpOO, 1901, 1903, 1906, 1908, 1914, 1915, 1917, AND 1920 BY ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN * CO. COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY ALICE M. LONGFELLOW ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Sntje JUbersffoc $re CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS PRINTED IN THE U . S . A M/HAJ CONTENTS. PAOB LONGFELLOW IN HOME LIFE . . . . .7 THE CHILDREN S HOUR . ..11 THE WINDMILL ....... . 13 MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK 14 DECORATION DAY . 15 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM ... 10 THE PHA.NTOM SHIP 18 PEGASUS IN POUND 20 THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS 23 WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID 24 SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT . 2f> VICTOR GALBRAITH 28 THE KOPEWALK . 3fJ SANTA FILOMENA .. c ..... 33 THE THREE KINGS . a 35 THE CASTLE BY THE SEA 37 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 39 THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ 45 MAIDENHOOD .......... 46 EXCELSIOR ..... .... 48 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 50 FROM MY ARM-CHAIR 52 SONG : " STAY, STAY AT HOME, MY HEART " . . .54 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 55 THE BELLS OF LYNN . 58 THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS .60 THE OPEN WINDOW v CO RESIGNATION ...... ..... 61 A DAY OF SUNSHINE . 63 DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT 84 TWILIGHT . 65 DAYBREAK ....., . . 60 CONTENTS THE CITY AND THE SEA 67 FOUK BY THE CLOCK 68 A PSALM OF LIFE 68 THE CASTLE-BUILDER fO THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE 70 THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE 72 PRELUDE ^ 4 THE BOY AND THE BROOK 75 THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS 76 A SONG FROM THE PORTUGUESE 76 Loss AND GAIN ... 77 To THE AVON 77 THE ARROW AND THE SONQ ... 76 THE CHALLENGE ... 79 THE DAY is DONE 80 To AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK .82 A.MALFI 85 THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORVH CAPB CURFKW . . 92 THE POBT AND HIS SONGS -93 JOje Jttoersfoe literature Aeries THE CHILDREN S HOUR AND OTHER POEMS LONGFELLOW IN HOME LIFE. BY ALICE M. LONGFELLOW. MANY people are full of poetry without, perhaps, recog nizing it, because they have no power of expression. Some have, unfortunately, full power of expression, with no depth or richness of thought or character behind it. With Mr. Longfellow, there was complete unity and harmony between his life and character ",<* *h ft (flftward Tna.niffistAt.inn of this in his poetry. It was not worked out from his brain, but was the blossoming of his inward life. His nature was thoroughly poetic and rhythmical, full of delicate fancies and thoughts. Even the ordinary details of existence were invested with charm and thoughtfulness. There was really no line of demarcation between his life and his poetry. One blended into the other, and his daily life was poetry in its truest sense. The rhythmical quality showed itself in an exact order and method, running through very detail. This was not the precision of a martinet ; but anything out of place distressed him, as did a faulty rhyme or defective metre. His library was carefully arranged by subjects, and, although no catalogue was ever made, he was never at a loss where to look for any needed volume. His books were deeply beloved and tenderly handled. Beautiful bindings were a great delight, and the leaves were cut with the utmost care and neatness. Letters and bills were kept in the same orderly manner. The latter were paid as soon as rendered, and he always personally attended to those in the neighborhood. An unpaid bill weighed on him like a night- 8 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. ; Letters were answered day by day, as they accumu lated, although it became often a weary task. He never failed, I think, to keep his account books accurately, and he also used to keep the bank books of the servants in hit employment, and to help them with their accounts. Consideration and thoughtfulness for others were strong characteristics with Mr. Longfellow. He, indeed, carried it too far, and became almost a prey to those he used to call the " total strangers," whose demands for time and help were constant. Fortunately he was able to extract much interest and entertainment from the different types of humanity that were always coming on one pretext or another, and his genuine sympathy and quick sense of humor saved the situ ation from becoming too wearing. This constant drain was, however, very great. His unselfishness and courtesy pre vented him from showing the weariness of spirit he often felt, and many valuable hours were taken out of his life by those with no claim, and no appreciation of what they were doing. In addition to the " total strangers " was a long line of applicants for aid of every kind. " His house was known to all the vagrant train," and to all he was equally genial and kind. There was no change of voice or manner in talking with the humblest member of society ; and I am inclined to think the friendly chat in Italian with the organ- grinder and the little old woman peddler, or the discussions with the old Irish gardener, were quite as full of pleasure as more important conversations with travelers from Europe. One habit Mr. Longfellow always kept up. Whenever he saw in a newspaper any pleasant notice of friends or acquaintances, a review of a book, or a subject in which they were interested, he cut it out, and kept the scraps in an envelope addressed to the person, and mailed them when several had accumulated. He was a great foe to procrastination, and believed in attending to everything without delay. In connection with HOME LIFE. this I may say, that when he accepted the invitation of his classmates to deliver a poem at Bowdoin College on the fiftieth anniversary of their graduation, he at once devoted himself to the work, and the poem was finished several months before the time. During these months he was ill with severe neuralgia, and if it had not been for this habit of early preparation the poem would probably never have been written or delivered. Society and hospitality meant something quite real to Mr. Longfellow. I cannot remember that there were ever any formal or obligatory occasions of entertainment. All who came were made welcome without any special preparation, and without any thought of personal inconvenience. Mr. Longfellow s knowledge of foreign languages brought to him travelers from every country, not only literary men, but public men and women of every kind, and, during the stormy days of European politics, great numbers of for eign patriots exiled for their liberal opinions. As one Eng lishman pleasantly remarked, " There are no ruins in your country to see, Mr. Longfellow, and so we thought we would come to see you." Mr. Longfellow was a true lover of peace in every way, And held war in absolute abhorrence, as well as the taking of life in any form. He was strongly opposed to capital punishment, and was filled with indignation at the idea of men finding sport in hunting and killing dumb animals. At the same time he was quickly stirred by any story of wrong and oppression, and ready to give a full measure of help and sympathy to any one struggling for freedom and liberty of thought and action. With political life, as such, Mr. Longfellow was not in full sympathy, in spite of his life-long friendship with Charles Sumner. That is to say, the principles involved deeply interested him, but the methods displeased him. He felt that the intense absorption in one line of thought pre vented a full development, and was an enemy to many of 10 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. the most beautiful and important things in life. He consid- m ered that his part was to cast his weight with what seemed |f to him the best elements in public life, and he never omitted ^ the duty of expressing his opinion by his vote. He always ( went to the polls the first thing in the morning on election -| day, and let nothing interfere with this. He used to say * laughingly that he still belonged to the Federalists. Mr. Longfellow came to Cambridge to live in 1837, when -,r be was thirty years old. He was at that time professor | of literature in Harvard College, and occupied two rooms in the old house then owned by the widow Craigie, formerly Washington s Headquarters. In this same old house he passed the remainder of his life, being absent only one year tj& in foreign travel. Home had great attractions for him. He ||< cared more for the quiet and repose, the companionship of ^ his friends and books, than for the fatigues and adventures y of new scenes. Many of the friends of his youth were the ra friends of old age, and to them his house was always open jf|[ with a warm welcome. Mr. Longfellow was always full of reserve, and never ^j talked much about himself or his work, even to his family, |l Sometimes a volume would appear in print, without his hav ing mentioned its preparation. In spite of his general inter* est in people, only a few came really close to his life. With these he was always glad to go over the early days passed M together, and to consult with them about literary work. The lines descriptive of the Student in the Wayside Inn fa might apply to Mr. Longfellow as well : " A youth was there, of quiet ways, A Student of old books and days, To whom all tongues and lands were known, And yet a lover of his own ; With many a social virtue graced, And yet a friend of solitude ; A man of such a genial mood The heart of all things he embraced, And yet of such fastidious taste, He never found the best too good." I THE CHILDREN S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the When the night is beginning to lower f Gomes a pause in the day s occupations, That is known as the Children s Hour* I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence : Yet I know by their merry eyes, They are plotting and planning togethet To take rne by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall ! By three doors left unguarded, They enter my castle wall I They climb up into my turret, O er the arms and back of my chair ; 12 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen* In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine I Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 2 Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache 3 as I am Is not a match for you all ? I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away I 1 Near Bingen on the Rhine is a little square Mouse-Tower, BO called from an old word meaning toll, since it was used as a toll-house ; but there is an old tradition that a certain Bishop liatto, who had been cruel to the people, was attacked in the tower by a great army of rats and mice. See Southey s famous poem, Bishop Hatto. 2 An Italian word for bands of robbers. 8 A translation of the French phrase vieille moustache, which Ml used of a veteran soldier. THE WINDMILL. THE WINDMILL. BEHOLD ! a giant am 1 1 Aloft here in my tower, With my granite jaws I devour The maize, and the wheat, and the rye. And grind them into flour. I look down over the farms ; In the fields of grain I see The harvest that is to be, And I fling to the air my arms, For I know it is all for me. I hear the sound of flails Far off, from the threshing-floors In barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails, Louder and louder roars. I stand here in my place, With my foot on the rock below, And whichever way it may blow I meet it face to face, As a brave man meets his foe. And while we wrestle and strive, My master, the miller, stands And feeds me with his hands For he knows who makes him thrive, Who makes him lord of lauds. On Sundays I take my rest ; Church-going bells begin 14 HENRY WADSWQRTH LONGFELLOW. Their low, melodious din ; I cross my arms on my breast, And all is peace within. MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK. MAIDEN. WEATHERCOCK on the village spire, With your golden feathers all on fire, Tell me, what can you see from your perch Above there over the tower of the church ? WEATHERCOCK. 1 can see the roofs and the streets below, And the people moving to and fro, And beyond, without either roof or street, The great salt sea, and the fisherman s fleet. I can see a ship come sailing in Beyond the headlands and harbor of Lynn, And a young man standing on the deck, With a silken kerchief round his neck. Now he is pressing it to his lips, And now he is kissing his finger-tips, And now he is lifting and waving his hand, And blowing the kisses toward the land. MAIDEN. Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, That is bringing my lover back to me, Bringing my lover so fond and true, W ho does not change with the wind like you. DECORATION DAY. 15 WEATHERCOCK. Jf I change with all the winds that blow. It is only because they made me so, And people would think it wondrous strange, If I, a Weathercock, should not change. O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, With your dreamy eyes arid your golden hair, When you and your lover meet to-day You will thank me for looking some other way* DECORATION DAY. SLEEP, comrades, sleep and rest On this Field of the Grounded Arms, Where foes no more molest, Nor sentry s shot alarms ! Ye have slept on the ground before, And started to your feet At the cannon s sudden roar, Or the drum s redoubling beat. But in this camp of Death No sound your slumber breaks ; Here is no fevered breath, No wound that bleeds and aches. All is repose and peace, Untrampled lies the sod; The shouts of battle cease, It is the Truce of God ! l * Early in the eleventh century, when war had brought great misery, and bad harvests had added to the desolation, the churc tt 16 HENRY WAVSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Rest, comrades, rest and sleep! The thoughts of men shall be As sentinels to keep Your rest from danger free. Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers ; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETH* LEHEM. AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl S BANNER. 1 WHEN the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint 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. And the nuns sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. proclaimed the Truce of God, by which it was forbidden to wage war on any private account between Wednesday night and Monday morning of each week during the whole of Advent, and from the Monday before Ash- Wednesday till Whit-Sunday, as also on all holidays and festivals. 1 It is said that the Polish Count Pulaski, who served in our army in the Revolution, visited Lafayette when he lay sick at Bethlehem, in Pennsylvania, and ordered a silk banner of the Moravian sisterhood there, who helped to support their housa by needlework. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS. 17 " Take thy banner ! May it wave Proudly o er the good and brave ; When the battle s distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion s music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the spear in conflict shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks. " Take thy banner ! and, beneath The battle-cloud s encircling wreath, Guard it, till our homes are free I Guard it ! God will prosper thee I In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will shield thee then. O " Take thy banner ! But when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him ! By our holy vow, By our prayers and many tears, By the mercy that endears, Spare him ! he our love hath shared \ Spare him ! as thou wouldst be spared! " Take thy banner ! and if e er Thou shouldst press the soldier s bier, And the muffled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 18 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The warrior took that banner proud, And it was liis martial cloak and shroud 1 * THE PHANTOM SHIP. IN Mather s Magrialia Christi, 2 Of the old colonial time, May be found in prcse the legend That is here set down in rhyme. A ship sailed from New Haven, And the keen and frosty airs, That filled her sails at parting, Were heavy with good men s prayers. " O Lord ! if it be thy pleasure " > Thus prayed the old divine " To bury our friends in the ocean, Take them, for they are thine I " 1 Pulaski was wounded at the siege of Savannah and, dying on one of the vessels of the fleet on his way north, was buried at sea. As a matter of historic fact, the banner is preserved in the cabinet of the Maryland Historical Society, at Baltimore. Its size, twenty inches square, would have precluded its use as a shroud. 2 The whole title of the book is Magnolia Christi Americana [Christ s mighty works in America] ; or, The Ecclesiastical His* tory of New England, from it* first Planting, in the year 1620, unto the year of our Lord 1698. It was first published in 1702, The story of the phantom ship is contained in it in the form of a letter from James Pierpont, a New Haven Minister. The letter occurs in Book I., chapter vi., and may also be found in TM podleys Afoot, page 175. THE PHANTOM SHIP. 18 But Master Lamberton muttered, And under his breath said he, "This ship is so crank and walty I fear our grave she will be I " And the ships that came from England, When the winter months were gone, Brought no tidings of this vessel Nor of Master Lamberton. This put the people to praying That the Lord would let them hear What in his greater wisdom He had done with friends so dear. And at last their prayers were answered : * It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset Of a windy afternoon, When, steadily steering landward, A ship was seen below, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, Who sailed so long ago. On she came, with a cloud of canvas, Right against the wind that blew, Until the eye could distinguish The faces of the crew. Then fell her straining topmasts, Hanging tangled in the shrouds, And her sails were loosened and lifted, And blown away like clouds. 20 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. And the masts, with all their rigging, Fell slowly, one by one, And the hulk dilated and vanished^ As a sea-mist in the sun ! And the people who saw this marvel Each said unto his friend, That this was the mould of their vessel, And thus her tragic end. And the pastor of the village Gave thanks to God in prayer, That, to quiet their troubled spirits, He had sent this Ship of Air. PEGASUS IN POUND. ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet s winged steed. 1 It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves. 1 In classic mythology Pegasus was a winged horse belonging to Apollo and the Muses. Thus when a poet wrote he was said to mount Pegasus and ride ; the horse not only bore him swiftly, and by his canter gave rhythm to the verse, but by his wings bore UIG rider above the earth. PEGASUS IN POUND. 21 Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim ; T was the daily call to labor, Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapor veiled ; Not the less he breathed the odors That the dying leaves exhaled. Thus, upon the village common. By the school-boys he was found ; And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound. Then the sombre village crier, Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming There was an estray to sell. And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old Came in haste to see this wondrous Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapors cold and dim ; But ifc brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Patiently, and still expectant, Looked he through the wooden bara. Saw the moon rise o er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 22 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Till at length the bell at midnight Sounded from its dark abode, And, from out a neighboring farm-yard Loud the cock Alectryon l crowed. Then, with nostrils wide distended, Breaking from his iron chain, And unfolding far his pinions, To those stars he soared again. On the morrow, when the village Woke to all its toil and care, Lo ! the strange steed had departed, And they knew not when nor where. But they found, upon the greensward Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain 2 flowing From the hoof -marks in the sod. From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound. 1 Alectryon, in the old fables, was a youth who had been sta tioned by Mars to give notice when Apollo, the sun-god, was to appear. The boy fell asleep, and, for punishment, was turned by Mars into a cock, and ever since has remembered his duty and crows when the sun rises. 2 The poet Ovid says that, with a blow of his hoof, Pegasus opened the fountain of Hippocrene (horse-spring) on Mount Helicon, and that the Muses used to drink from it. Our poet has turned the pretty story into a fable of wider meaning, by reminding us that poetry, not appreciated by all people, is yet a never-failing source of pleasure in the toiling world. THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. 23 THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. UP soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a winged prayer, As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again* St. Francis 1 heard ; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim ; The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart s desire. Around Assisi s convent gate The birds, God s poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food. O brother birds," St. Francis said, " Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away. ** Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, With manna of celestial words; Not mine, though mine they seem to be, Not mine, though they be spoken through me. 46 O, doubly are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays ; * St. Francis of Assisi lived in Italy at the end of the twelfth and beginning of the thirteenth century, and was founder of the order of the Franciscans. There are many stories of his intiniac> with birds and beasts. 24 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. He giveth you your plumes of down, Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown, "He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care ! With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart ; Deep peace was in St. Francis heart. He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood ; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear. WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID. VOGELWEID the Minnesinger, 1 When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Wiirtzburg s minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest : They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest ; 1 The Minnesingers were German lyrical poets, who first sang about the middle of the twelfth century; their songs breathed of love and sweetness in woods, meadows, flowers, grass, rivers, birds, and women, while some had a religious character. Wal ter s name is pronounced Fogelvld. WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID. 25 Saying, " From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song ; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long." Thus the bard of love departed ; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir. Day by day, o er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air. On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place, On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet s sculptured face, On the cross-bars of each window, On the lintel of each door, They renewed the War of Wartburg, 1 Which the bard had fought before. There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side ; And the name their voices uttered Was the name of Vogelweid. Castle Wartburg was the residence of Landgrave Herrmana f Thiiringen, in Vogelweid s time, and a great resort of the Minnesingers. The Wartburg Minstrels War is the name of a pcem which celebrates the singing contests of that day. Long afterward Wartburg became famous as the place where Lutke* translated the Bible into German. 26 dENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, " Why this waste of food ? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our fasting brotherhood." Then in vain o er tower and turret, From the walls and v/oodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests. Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir. Time has long effaced the inscriptions On the cloister s funeral stones, And tradition only tells us Where repose the poet s bones. But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend s And the name of Vogelweid. SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. SOUTHWARD with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death j Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice Glisten in the sun ; SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 27 On each side, like pennons wide, Flashing crystal streamlets run> His sails of white sea-mist Dripped with silver rain ; But where he passed there were cast Leaden shadows o er the mam. Eastward from Campobello Sir Humphrey Gilbert l sailed ; Three days or more seaward he bore, Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. Alas ! the land-wind failed, A.nd ice-cold grew the night ; And nevermore, on sea or shore, Should Sir Humphrey see the light. He sat upon the deck, The Book was in his hand ; * Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," He said, " by water as by land ! " In the first watch of the night, Without a signal s sound, 1 Sir Humphrey Gilbert was half-brother to Sir Walter Raleigh, and came to America as leader of an expedition in Io83. It was when he was returning to England, after an un successful voyage in search of a silver mine, that he met his death as the poem tells. He was aboard the Squirrel, the smallest vessel of his little fleet, a boat of only ten tons burden. The historian of the expedition tells how the captain of one of the other vessels came near enough to see Sir Humphrey sitting in the stern with his book, and to hear his cheerful words. 28 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Out of the sea mysteriously, The fleet of Death rose all around. The moon and the evening star Were hanging in the shrouds ; Every mast, as it passed, Seemed to rake the passing clouds. They grappled with their prize, At midnight black and cold ! As of a rock was the shock ; Heavily the ground-swell rolled. Southward through day and dark, They drift in close embrace, With mist and rain, o er the open main ; Yet there seems no change of place. Southward, forever southward, They drift through dark and day ; And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream l Sinking, vanish all away. VICTOR GALBRAITK.a UNDER the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles begin to play, 1 The warm river in the midst of the ocean, with its banks of cold water, which we call the Gulf Stream, has an important influence upon the climate of the countries by which it flows. The icebergs, as they drift into it from the north, melt away like a dream. 2 "This poem," says Mr. Longfellow, "is founded on fact Victor Galbraith was a bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry, VICTOR GALBRAITH. 2& Victor Galbraith ! In the midst of the morning damp and gray> These were the words they seemed to say : " Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith ! " Forth he came, with a martial tread 5 Firm was his step, erect his head ; Victor Galbraith, He who so well the bugle played, Could not mistake the words it said: u Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith ! " He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, Victor Galbraith ! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 44 Take good aim ; I am ready to die 1 " Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith. Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped ; Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ; His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scath Victor Galbraith. nnd was shot in Mexico for some breach of discipline. It is a common superstition among soldiers, that no balls will kill them unless their names are written on them. The old proverb Every bullet has its billet " 30 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Three balls are in his breast and brain, But he rises out of the dust again, Victor Galbraith ! The water he drinks has a bloody stain ; 44 Oh, kill me, and put me out of my pain I " In his agony prayeth Victor Galbraith, Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, And the bugler has died a death of shame, Victor Galbraith ! His soul has gone back to whence it came, And no one answers to the name, When the Sergeant saith, Victor Galbraith ! " Under the walls of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play, Victor Galbraith ! Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say, " That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith 1 " THE ROPEWALK. IN that building, long and low, With its windows all a-row, Like the port-holes of a hulk, Human spiders spin and spin, Backward down their threads sc thin Dropping, each a hempen bulk. THE ROPE WALK. 31 At the end, an open aoor ; Squares of sunshine on the floor Light the long and dusky lane ; And the whirring of a wheel, Dull and drowsy, makes rne feel All its spokes a.re in my brain. As the spinners to the end Downward go and reascend, Gleam the long threads in the sun*, While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine By the busy wheel are spun. Two fair maidens in a swing, Like white doves upon the wing, First before my vision pass ; Laughing, as their gentle hands Closely clasp the twisted strands, At their shadow on the grass. Then a booth of mountebanks, With its smell of tan and planks, And a girl poised high in air On a cord, in spangled dress, With a faded loveliness, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, And a woman with bare arms Drawing water from a well ; As the bucket mount? apace, With it mounts her own fair face, As at some magician s spell. 82 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Then an old man in a tower, Kinging loud the noontide hour, While the rope coils round and round Like a serpent at his feet. And again, in swift retreat, Nearly lifts him from the ground. Then within a prison-yard, faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Laughter and indecent mirth ; An I it is the gallows-tree ! Breath of Christian charity, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a school-boy, with his kite Gleaming in a sky of light, And an eager, upward look ; Steeds pursued through lane and field ; Fowlers with their snares concealed ; And an angler by a brook. Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Wrecks that float o er unknown seas, Anchors dragged through faithless sand Sea-fog drifting overhead, And, with lessening line and lead, Sailors feeling for the land. All these scenes do I behold, These, and many left untold, In that building long and low ; While the wheel goes round and round, With a drowsy, dreamy sound, And the spinners backward go. SANTA FILOMENA, 83 SANTA FILOMENA.* WHENE ER a noble deed is wrought, Whene er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low ! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp, The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, 1 This poem is in honor of Miss Nightingale, an English lady t won the admiration of Christendom by her devotion to the ick and wounded in the Crimean War of 1854-55, when England and France were fighting Russia. Filomena [Latin, Philomela"} is the Italian for Nightingale, and by a singular fortune there is a Saint Filomena whose memory is honored, and at Pisa, in Italy, there is a chapel dedicated to her, and over the altar a picture " representing the Saint as a beautiful, nymph-like figure, float ing down from heaven attended by two angels bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are healed by her intercession." 84 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo ! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering glooua, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent. On England s annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood. Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear 9 The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore. THE THREE KINGS. 85 THE THREE KINGS. THREE Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar ; l Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day f For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. ^ The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coining was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys ; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well* 44 Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, " Good people, I pray you, tell us the news | For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews." 1 So, according to old tradition, were the Kings or Wise Men ef the East named. g6 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. And the people answered, " You ask in vain ; We know of no king but Herod the Great ! n They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait. And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them ; And said, " Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king." So they rode away ; and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn ; Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will. Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David where Christ was born. And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard ; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned. And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kin*,, The little child in the manger lay, The child, that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human but divine. His mother Mary of Nazareth Sat watching beside his place of rest, THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 37 Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast. They laid their offerings at his feet : The gold was their tribute to a King, The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, 1 The myrrh for the body s burying. And the mother wondered and bowed her head. And sat as still as a statue of stone ; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David s throne. Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array ; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way. THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 2 FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 3 " HAST thou seen that lordly castle, That Castle by the sea ? t The Paraclete is the Greek for Comforter, the name 6y Which the Holy Spirit is sometimes called in the New Testament. 2 The quotation marks will help the reader to see that the poem is a dialogue between one who knew only of the coming marriage of a princess, and one who knew of the calamity which pad interrupted the marriage. 8 Uhland was a German poet, who was born in 1787, a4. died fci 1862. 88 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. Golden and red about it The clouds float gorgeously. "And fain it would stoop downward To the mirrored wave below ; And fain it would soar upward In the evening s crimson glow." " Well have I seen that castle, That Castle by the Sea, And the moon above it standing, And the mist rise solemnly." ** The winds and the waves of ocean, Had they a merry chime ? Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers The harp and the minstrel s rhyme ? " ** The winds and the waves of ocean, They rested quietly, But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, And tears came to mine eye." " And sawest thou on the turrets The King and his royal bride ? And the wave of their crimson mantles? And the golden crown of pride ? ** Led they not forth, in rapture, A beauteous maiden there ? Resplendent as the morning sun, Beaming with golden hair ? " THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. " Well saw I the ancient parents, Without the crown of pride ; They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, No maiden was by their side 1 " THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 1 44 SPEAK ! speak ! thou fearful guest I Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Contest to daunt me ! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 2 But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me ? " Then, from those cavernous ejes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; * " This ballad was suggested to me," says Mr. Longfellow, * while riding on the sea-shore at Newport. A year or two pre vious a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armor ; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors." It is generally conceded that the Norsemen had nothing to do with the old mill at port, which is a close copy of one standing at Chesterton, te Warwickshire, England. The destruction of the armor shortly after it was found has prevented any trustworthy examination of it, to see if it was really Scandinavian or only Indian. The poet sings as one haunted by the skeleton, and able to call out its Voice. , * This old warrior was not embalmed \s an Egyptian mummy. 40 3ENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. And, like the water s flow Under December s snow. Came a dull voice of woe From the heart s chamber. * I was a Viking l old ! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald 2 in song has told, No Saga 3 taught thee I Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man s curse ; For this I sought thee. " Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic s strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon ; \nd, with my skates fast-bound, 3kimmed the half -frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. " Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow ; 1 The Vik-ings took their name from an old Norse word r wfc Still used in Norway, signifying creek, because these sea-piratef made their haunts among the indentations of the coast, and sallied out thence in search of booty. 2 The Skald was the Norse chronicler and pcet who sang of bra^e deeds at the feasts of the warriors. 8 The Saga was the saying or chronicle of the heroic deeds. There are many of these old sagas still preserved in Northern literature. THE SKELETON IN ARMOK. 41 Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf s 1 bark* Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. * But when I older grew, Joining 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 stern orders. * Many a wassail-bout Wore the long winter out ; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk s 2 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, 1 In the fables of Northern Europe there were said to be men who could change themselves into wolves at pleasure, and they Were called were-wolves. * There was a famous warrior in the fabulous history of Nois way who went into battle bare of armor (ber bare ; scerke a ghirt of mail), but possessed of a terrible rage ; he had twelve eons like himself, who were also called Berserks or Berserkers, and the phrase Berserker rage has come into use to express a oerrible fury which makes a man fearless and strong. 42 tlENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Burning, yet tender ; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor. a I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet 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. tt Bright in her father s hall O 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. "While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion Iaughed 5 And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 43 tt 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 me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen ! When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. " Then launched they to the blast Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us ; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. * And as to catch the gale Sound 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 I HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW " 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 bore, 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 eyes, Cinder that tower she lies ; Ne er shall the sun arise On such another I 11 Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen ! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful I In that vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, O, death was grateful! FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSI Z. 45 " Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended ! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior s soul, Skoal ! l to the Northland ! skoal ! " Thus the tale ended. THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 8 MAY 28, 1857. IT was fifty years ago In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 8 A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying : " Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee." " Come, wander with me," she said, " Into regions yet untrod ; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God." 1 " In Scandinavia," says Mr. Longfrellow, " this is the custom* nry salutation when drinking a health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word [skal] in order to preserve the cor rect pronunciation." 2 Louis John Rudolph Agassiz, the great naturalist and teacher, was horn in Switzerland, May 28, 1807, and died at Cambridge, Massachusetts, December 14, 1873. 8 Pronounced Pah ee de Vo. 46 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe. And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvellous tale. So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches l of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold ; And the mother at home says, " Hark I For his voice I listen and yearn ; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return I " MAIDENHOOD. MAIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies! 1 A melody played hy the Swiss mountaineers on the Alphorn, when leading the cows to pasture, or calling them home. Pro nounced Ranz da Vash. MAIDENHOOD. 47 Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run ! Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet 1 Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet s swift advance, On the river s broad expanse ! Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream. Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon s shadow fly ? Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract s roar ? O, thou child of many prayers ! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares ! Lrike the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June. 48 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; Age, that bough with snows encumbered. Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows. Bear a lily in thy hand ; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear tnrough sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art, EXCELSIOR. 1 THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! ir The original manuscript of this poem, showing 1 the various claanges made by the poet in the course of composition is in th EXCELSIOR. 49 His brow was sad ; his eye beneath Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior ! In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright 5 Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior ! Try not the Pass ! " the old man said ; " Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide I * And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior I Oh stay," the maiden said, " and rest Thy weary head upon this breast ! " A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior ! " Beware the pine-tree s withered branch I Beware the awful avalanche ! " This was the peasant s last Good-night, A. voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior ! library of Harvard University. Mr. Longfellow in a letter to a friend intimates his intention in the poem in these words : " This was no more than to display, in a series of pictures, the life of a. man of genius, resisting all temptations, laying aside all fears, heedless of all warnings, and pressing right on to accomplish his purposfl His uiotto is Excelsior higher. " 50 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard 1 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air 5 Excelsior ! A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half -buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior ! THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH, a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy 2 stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; * The monastery of St. Bernard high up in the Alps occupies a dangerous pass, and many travellers have found shelter there. It gave rise to the breed of St. Bernard dogs, famous for their intelligence and the aid they have given in rescuing travellers from the blinding snow. 2 The suggestion of the poem came from the smithy which the poet passed daily, and which stood beneath a horse-chestnut tree not far from his house in Cambridge. The tree, against the pre tests of Mr. Longfellow and others, was removed in 1876, on the ground that it imperilled drivers of heavy loads who passed under it. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 51 And the muscles of his brawny arms Are as strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, 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. O 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 catch 1 the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter s voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. 1 After this poem had been printed for some time, Mr. Long* fellow was disposed to change this word to " watch," but the riginal form had grown so familiar that he decided to leave it. 62 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. It sounds to him like her mother s voice, Singing in Paradise ! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night s repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught 1 Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. FROM MY ARM-CHAIR. TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE PRESENTED TO ME, ON MY SEVENTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, FEB* KUARY 27, 1879, THIS CHAIR MADE FROM THB WOOD OF THJi VILLAGE BLACKSMITH S CHESTNUT-TREE. AM I a king, that I should call my own This splendid ebon throne? Or by what reason, or what right divine, Can I proclaim it mine ? Only, perhaps, by right divine of song It may to me belong ; FROM MY ARM-CHAIR. 63 Only because the spreading chestnut-tree Of old was sung by me. ^ Well I remember it in all its prime, When in the summer-time The affluent foliage of its branches made A civern of cool shade. There, by the blacksmith s forge, beside the street, Its blossoms white and sweet Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive, And murmured like a hive. And when the winds of autumn, with a shout, Tossed its great arms about, The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath, Dropped to the ground beneath. And now some fragments of its branches bare, Shaped as a stately chair, Have by my hearthstone found a home at last, And whisper of the past. The Danish king could not in all his pride Repel the ocean tide, But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme Roll back the tide of Time. I see again, as one in vision sees, The blossoms and the bees, And hear the children s voices shout and call, And the brown chestnuts fall. 1 see the smithy with its fires aglow, I hear the bellows blow, 54 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat The iron white with heat I And thus, dear children, have ye made for me This day a jubilee, And to my more than threescore years and ten Brought back my youth again. The heart hath its own memory, like the mind T And in it are enshrined The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought The giver s loving thought. Only your love and your remembrance could Give life to this dead wood, And make these branches, leafless now so long, Blossom again in song. 1 SONG. STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care 5 To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, 1 Contributions for the purchase of the chair came from some seven hundred children of the public schools. Mr. Longfellcw had this poem, which he wrote on the day the chair was given dim. printed on a sheet, and was accustomed to give a copy to each child who visited him and sat in the chair. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 56 And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt ; To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and rest ; The bird is safest in its nest ; O er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky ; To stay at home is best. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. IT was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, * I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. *I<ast night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see 1 " 56 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe t And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steeds Then leaped her cable s length. * Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman s coat Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. * O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say, what may it be ? " * T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! ?? And he steered for the open sea, * O father ! I hear the sound of guns, Oh say, what may it be ? " * Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea ! " **O father! I see a gleaming light, Oh say, what may it be ? " THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 67 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 gleaming 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 sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow rds 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 breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board ; 68 HENRI WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow ! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman s Woe I l THE BELLS OF LYNN. HEARD AT NAHANT. 3 CURFEW of the setting sun ! O Bells of Lynn ! O requiem of the dying day ! O Bells of Lynn ! Prom the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn I It was the loss of a real schooner Hesperus, off the reef of Norman s Woe, near Gloucester, Massachusetts, which suggested this ballad to the poet. 2 Nahant, a promontory running out from Lynn beach, was long a summer home of Mr. Longfellow. Though there is no rhyme, the steady recurrence of the phrase, " O Bells of Lynn/ 1 gives both rhythmic swing and the effect of rhyme. THE BELLS OF LYNN. 59 Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twi light, O er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn ! The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the head land, Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn! Over the shining sands the wandering cattle home* ward Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn I The distant lighthouse hears, ard with his flaming signal Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn! And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn ! Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incanta tions, Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn I And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, Ye 3ry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn I 60 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS. THE tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls ; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls. Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls. The morning breaks ; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls ; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls. THE OPEN WINDOW. THE old house by the lindens l Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played. * The old house by the lindens is what was known as thu bechmere house which formerly stood on Brattle Street, covnei of Sparks Street, in Cambridge. It was in this house that Baron Riedesel was quartered as prisoner of war after the surrender of Burgoyne, and the window-pane used to be shewn on which the Baroness wrote her name with a diamond. RESIGNATION. 61 I saw the nursery windows Wide open to the air ; But the faces of the children. They were no longer there. The large Newfoundland house-dog Was standing by the door ; He looked for his little playmates, Who would return no more. They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall ; But 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 be heard in dreams alone I And the boy that, walked beside me, He could not understand Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand I RESIGNATION. 1 THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ! * Written in the autumn of 1848, after the death of his little daughter Fanny. There is a passage in the poet s diary, undet date of November 12, in which he says : " I feel very sad to-day I miss very much my dear little Fanny. An inappeasable long 1 * ing to see her comes over me at times, which I can hardly trol." 62 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. There is no fireside, liowsoe er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted I Let us he patient ! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. 4 We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven s distant lamps. 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. Pay after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 6{ Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold, her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her 5 For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a, child ; But a fair maiden, in her Father s mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul s expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean* That cannot be at rest, We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. A DAY OF SUNSHINE. O GIFT of God ! O perfect day : Whereon shall no man work, but play j Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be ! 64 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Through every fibre of my brain, Through every nerve, through every vein, I feel the electric thrill, the touch Of life, that seems almost too much. I hear the wind among the trees Playing celestial symphonies ; J see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument. And over me unrolls on high The splendid scenery of the sky, Where through a sapphire sea the sun Sails like a golden galleon f Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, Whose steep sierra far uplifts Its craggy summits white with drifts. Blow, winds ! and waft through all the rooms The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms ! Blow, winds ! and bend within my reach The fiery blossoms of the peach ! O Life and Love ! O happy throng Of thoughts, whose only speech is song I O heart of man ! canst thou not be Blithe as the air is, and as free ? DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. IN broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white, As a school-boy s paper kite, In broad daylight, yesterday, T read a Poet s mystic lay ; And it seemed to me at most As a phantom, or a ghost. But at length the feverish day Like a passion died away, And the night, serene and still, Fsll on village, vale, and hill. Then the moon, in all her pride, Like a spirit glorified, Filled and overflowed the nighc With revelations of her light. And the Poet s song again Passed like music through my Irain ; Night interpreted to me All its grace and mystery. TWILIGHT. THE twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, And like the wings of sea-birds Flash the white caps of the sea* But in the fisherman s cottage There shines a ruddier light, And a little face at the window Peers out into the night. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness To see some form arise. And a woman s waving shadow Is passing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low. "What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, bleak and wild> As they beat at the crazy casement, Tell to that little child? And why do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, wild and bleak. As they beat at the heart of the mother Drive the color from her cheek ? DAYBREAK. A WIND came up out of the sea, And said, " O mists make room for me." It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone." And hurried landward far away, Crying, " Awake ! it is the day." It said unto the forest, " Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out ! * THE CITY AND THE SEA. 67 it touched the wood-bird s folded wing, And said, " O bird, awake and sing." And o er the farms, " O chanticleer, Your clarion blow ; the day is near." It whispered to the fields of corn, * Bow down, and hail the coming morn." It shouted through the belfry tower, " Awake, O bell ! proclaim the hour." It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." THE CITY AND THE SEA. THE panting City cried to the Sea, " I am faint with heat, Oh breathe on me ! " And the Sea said, " Lo, I breathe ! but my breath To some will be life, to others death ! " As to Prometheus, bringing ease In pain, come the Oceanides, 1 So to the city, hot with the flame Of the pitiless sun, the east wind came. It came from the heaving breast of the deep, Silent as dreams are, and sudden as sleep. 1 In the classic fable Prometheus was chained to a rock for punishment, and the daughters of Ocean came to console him. 68 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Life-giving, death-giving, which will it be ; O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea ? FOUR BY THE CLOCK. 1 by the clock ! and yet not day ; Bat the great world rolls and wheels away, With its cities on land, and its ships at sea, Into the dawn that is to be I Only the lamp in the anchored bark Sends its glimmer across the dark, And the heavy breathing of the sea Is the only sound that comes to me. A PSALM OF LIFE. THAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; i w Nahant, September 8, 1860, four o clock in the morning. 1 * A PSALM OF LIFE. 69 But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral inarches to the grave. In the world s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle I 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 overhead I Laves 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 pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. 20 HENRY WADSViORTH LONGFELLOW THE CASTLE-BUILDER. A GENTLE boy, with soft and silken locks, A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes, A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, And towers that touch imaginary skies. A fearless rider on his father s knee, An eager listener unto stories told At the Round Table 1 of the nursery, Of heroes and adventures manifold. There will be other towers for thee to build ; There will be other steeds for thee to ride ; There will be other legends, and all filled With greater marvels and more glorified. Build on, and make thy castles high and fair, Rising and reaching upward to the skies ; Listen to voices in the upper air, Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE. Is it so far from thee Thou canst no longer see, In the Chamber over the Gate, That old man desolate, Weeping and wailing sore For his son, who is no more? O Absalom, my son ! 1 In old English legend there was a famous order of knights called the Knights of the Round Table, with King Arthur at their head. THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE. 71 Is it so long ago That cry of human woe From the walled city came, Calling on his dear name, That it has died away In the distance of to-day? O Absalom, my son ! There is no far or near, There is neither there nor here, There is neither soon nor late, In that Chamber over the Gate, Nor any long ago To that cry of human woe, O Absalom, my son ! From the ages that are past The voice sounds like a blast, Over seas that wreck and drown, Over tumult of traffic and town ; And from ages yet to be Come the echoes back to me, O Absalom, my son ! Somewhere at every hour The watchman on the tower Looks forth, and sees the fleet Approach of the hurrying feet Of messengers, that bear The tidings of despair. O Absalom, my son ! He goes forth from the door, Who shall return no more. 72 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. With him our joy departs ; The light goes out in our hearts . In the Chamber over the Gate We sit disconsolate. O Absalom, my son I That t is a common grief Bringeth but slight relief ; Ours is the bitterest loss, Ours is the heaviest cross ; And forever the cry will be " Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son ! " 1 THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE, IN that desolate land and lone, Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone Roar down their mountain path, By their fires the Sioux Chiefs Muttered their woes and griefs And the menace of their wrath. * Revenge ! " cried Rain-in-the-Face, " Revenge upon all the race Of the White Chief with yellow hair! " 2 1 Suggested to the poet when writing a letter of condolence to the Bishop of Mississippi, whose son, the Rev. Duncan C. Green, had died at his post at Greenville, Mississippi, September 15, 1878, during the prevalence of yellow fever. The reader of the Bible does not need to be reminded of the touching story of David s lament over his son Absalom. 2 General George A. Ouster, who was surprised, and with his entire force put to death by the Sioux Indians, June 26, 1876. **the year of a hundred years." THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-I<AC& 73 And the mountains dark and high From their crags reechoed the cry Of his anger and despair. In the meadow, spreading wide By woodland and river-side The Indian village stood; All was silent as a dream s Save the rushing of the stream And the blue-jay in the wood. In his war paint and his beads, Like a bison among the reeds, In ambush the Sitting Bull Lay with three thousand braves Crouched in the clefts and caves, Savage, unmerciful ! Into the fatal snare The White Chief with yellow hail And his three hundred men Dashed headlong, sword in hand j But of that gallant band Not one returned again. The sudden darkness of death Overwhelmed them like the breath And smoke of a furnace fire : By the river s bank, and between The rocks of the ravine, They lay in their bloody attire. But the foemen fled in the night, And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Uplifted high in air As a ghastly trophy, bore The brave heart, that beat no more, Of the White Chief with yellow hair. Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song, With a voice that is full of tears, And say that our broken faith Wrought all this ruin and scathe, In the Year of a Hundred Years. PRELUDE. As treasures that men seek, Deep buried in sea-sands, Vanish if they but speak, And elude their eager hands, So ye escape and slip, O songs, and fade away, When the word is on my lip To interpret what ye say. Were it not better, then, To let the treasures rest Hid from the eyes of men Locked in their iron chest ? I have but marked the place, But half the secret told, That, following this slight trace, Others may find the gold,, 1 1 This poem was written to serve as a prelude to a, group of translations. The three poems which follow this are translations. THE BOY AND THE BROOK. 75 THE BOY AND THE BROOK. FROM THE ARMENIAN. DOWN from yon distant mountain height The brooklet flows through the village street ; A boy comes forth to wash his hands, Washing, yes, washing, there he stands, In the water cool and sweet. Brook, from what mountain dost thou come ? O my brooklet cool and sweet ! I come from yon mountain high and cold "Where lieth the new snow on the old, And melts in the summer heat. Brook, to what river dost thou go ? O my brooklet cool and sweet ! I go to the river there below Where in bunches the violets grow, And sun and shadow meet. Brook, to what garden dost thou go? O my brooklet cool and sweet I I go to the garden in the vale Where all night long the nightingale Her love-song doth repeat. Brook, to what fountain dost thou go ? O my brooklet cool and sweet ! I go to the fountain at whose brink Throughout his life Mr. Longfellow delighted in turning poetry from other languages into English verse, and his translations are sometimes more melodious than the originals. T6 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The maid that loves thee comes to drink, And whenever she looks therein, I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin, And my joy is then complete. THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE. THE sea hath its pearls, The heaven hath its stars ; But my heart, my heart, My heart hath its love. Great are the sea and the heaven, Yet greater is my heart ; And fairer than pearls and stars Flashes and beams my love. A SONG FROM THE PORTUGUESE. IF thou art sleeping, maiden, Awake, and open thy door. T is the break of day, and we must away, O er meadow, and mount, and moor. Wait not to find thy slippers, But come with thy naked feet s We shall have to pass through the dewy grass> And waters wide and fleet. TO THE AVON. 77 LOSS AND GAIN. WHEN I compare What I have lost with what I have grained, What I have missed with what attained, Little room do I find for pride, I am aware How many days have beon idly spent ; How like an arrow the good intent Has fallen short or been turned aside. But who shall dare To measure loss and gain in this wise? Defeat may be victory in disguise ; The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. TO THE AVON. FLOW on, sweet river ! like his verse Who lies beneath this sculptured hearse j Nor wait beside the churchyard wall For him who cannot hear thy call. Thy playmate once ; I see him now A boy with sunshine on his brow, And hear in Stratford s quiet street The patter of his little feet. I see him by thy shallow edge Wading knee-deep amid the sedge -, And lost in thought, as if thy stream Were the swift river of a dream. 78 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. He wonders whitherward it flows ; And fain would follow where it goes, To the wide world, that shall erelong Be filled with his melodious song. Flow on, fair stream ! That dream is o er; He stands upon another shore ; A vaster river near him flows, And still he follows where it goes. THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 1 I SHOT an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where ; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the an% It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song ? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke ; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. * " October 16, 1845. Before church, wrote The Arrow and the Song, which came into my mind as 1 stood with my back to the fire, and glanced on to the paper with arrow s speed. Literally an improvisation." Diary of H. W. THE CHALLENGE. THE CHALLENGE. 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. Don Diego de Ordonez 2 Sallied forth in front of all, And shouted loud his challenge To the warders on the wall. All the people of Zamora, Both the born and the unborn, As traitors did he challenge With taunting words of scorn. The living, in their houses, And in their graves, the dead! And the waters of their rivers, And their wine, and oil, and bread I There is a greater army, That besets us round with strife, A starving, numberless army, At all the gates of life. 1 Sanchath. Ordonyath. 80 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The poverty-stricken millions Who challenge our wine and bread, And impeach us all as traitors, Both the living and the dead. And whenever I sit at the banquet, Where 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 odors fill the air ; But without 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 1 THE DAY IS DONE. i [TV ritten in the fall of 1844 as proem to The Waif, a small volume of posms selected by Mr. Longfellow and published at Christmas ot that year.] THE day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. THE DAY IS DONE. 81 I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o er me That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Thair mighty thoughts suggest Life s endless toil and endeavor ; And to-night I long for rest. Read 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 labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. 82 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 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. the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, as silently steal away. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK. [Afrar reading Hans Andersen s Story of my Life, Longfellov notes m his diary : " Autumn always brings back very freshly my autumnal sojourn in Copenhagen, delightfully mingled with bracing air and yel low falling leaves. I have tried to record the impression in the song To an Old Danish Song Book: ] WELCOME, niy old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows. The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee. There are marks of a ere, O * There are thumb-marks on thy margin, TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK. 83 Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art ; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As the leaves with the libations Of Olympus. fet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic, When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian * Shouted from suburban taverns In the twilight. Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages. Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. See Longfellow s translation of this national song of Den* nark in Paul Revere s Ride and other Poems, Riverside Litera ture Series. No. 63. 84 HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. Once some ancient Scald, 1 In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves o these old ballads To the Vikings. Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Yorick and his boon companions Sang these ditties. Once Prince Frederick s Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks ; Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus I Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them. Thou hast been their friend ; They, alas ! have left thee friendless t Yet at least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome. And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering song shall nestle In my bosom, - Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel. 1 Scahld, AMALFL 85 AMALFL SWEET the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet, Where amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas. In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge. T is a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet. Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear; Sunburnt daughters of the soil, Stately figures tall and straight, What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil? Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands. On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands. Placid, satisfied, serene, 86 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof ; Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain, And as indolent as he. "Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west ? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast? Where the pomp of camp and court? Where the pilgrims with their prayers ? Where the merchants with their wares, And their gallant brigantines Safely sailing into port Chased by corsair Algerines ? Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, Are those splendors of the past, And the commerce and the crowd I Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, Swallowed by the engulfing waves ; Silent streets and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls j Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies : Even cities have their graves I This is an enchanted land I AMALFI. 81 Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sana : Further still and furthermost On the dim discovered coast Psestum with its ruins lies.> And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom. On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these. From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut-trees ; Nothing else he heeds or hears. All the landscape seems to swoon In the happy afternoon ; Slowly o er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, Into caverns cool and deep I Walled about with drifts of snow, Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, Seeing all the landscape white And the river cased in ice, Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea. 88 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED S OROSIUS. 1 OTHERE, 2 the old sea-captain, Who dwelt in Helgoland, To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, Which he held in his brown right hand. His figure was tall and stately, Like a boy s his eye appeared ; His hair was yellow as hay, But threads of a silvery gray Gleamed in his tawny beard. Hearty and hale was Othere, His cheek had the color of oak ; With a kind of a laugh in his speech, Like the sea-tide on a beach, As unto the King he spoke, And Alfred, King of the Saxons, Had a book upon his knees, And wrote down the wondrous tale Of him who was first to sail Into the Arctic seas. 44 So far I live to the northward, No man lives north of me ; 1 Orosius was a Spanish priest who lived in the fifth century and wrote a universal history which was translated by King Alfred the Great of England. THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 8* To the east are wild mountain-chains, And beyond them meres and plains; To the westward all is sea. ** So far I live to the northward, From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, If you only sailed by day, With a fair wind all the way, More than a month would you sail* u I own six hundred reindeer, With sheep and swine beside ; I have tribute from the Finns, Whalebone and reindeer-skins, And ropes of walrus-hide. * I ploughed the land with horses, But my heart was ill at ease, For the old seafaring men Came to me now and then, With their sagas of the seas; ** Of Iceland and of Greenland, And the stormy Hebrides, And the undiscovered deep ; Oh I could not eat nor sleep For thinking of those seas. ** To the northward stretched the desert) How far I fain would know ; So at last I sallied forth, And three days sailed due north, As far as the whale-ships go. flO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. * To the west of me was the ocean, To the right the desolate shore, But I did not slacken sail For the walrus or the whale, Till after three days more. The days grew longer and longer, Till they became as one, And northward through the haze I saw the sullen blaze Of the red midnight sun. C And then uprose before me, Upon the water s edge, The huge and haggard shape Of that unknown North Cape, Whose form is like a wedge. * The sea was rough and stormy, The tempest howled and wailed, And the sea-fog, like a ghost, Haunted that dreary coast, But onward still I sailed. * Four days I steered to eastward, Four days without a night : Bound in a fiery ring Went the great sun, O King, With red and lurid light." Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, Ceased writing for a while ; And raised his eyes from his book, With a strange and puzzled look. And an incredulous smile,. THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 91 But Othere, the old sea-captain, He neither paused nor stirred, Till the King listened and then Once more took up his pen, And wrote down every word. 84 And now the land," said Othere, " Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea. ** And there we hunted the walrus, The nar whale, and the seal ; Ha ! t was a noble game ! And like the lightning s flame Flew our harpoons of steel. ** There were six of us all together, Norsemen of Helgoland ; In two days and no more We killed of them threescore, And dragged them to the strand I * Here Alfred the Truth-teller Suddenly closed his book, And lifted his blue eyes, With doubt and strange surmise Depicted in their look. And Othere the old sea-captain Stared at him wild and weird, Then smiled, till his shining teeth Gleamed white from underneath His tawny, quivering beard. 92 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. And to the King of the Saxons, In witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, " Behold this walrus-tooth I " CURFEW. I. SOLEMNLY, mournfully, Dealing its dole, The Curfew l Bell Is beginning to toll. Cover the embers, And put out the light ; Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night. Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire ; Sound fades into silence, All footsteps retire. No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hallJ Sleep and oblivion Reign over all 1 II. The book is completed, And closed, like the day; f The origin of this word is interesting, and the fifth Iin9 Huts at it. THE POET AND HIS SONGS. 93 And the hand that has written it Lays it away. Dim grow its fancies ; Forgotten they lie ; Like coals in the ashes, They darken and die. Song sinks into silence, The story is told, The windows are darkened, The hearth-stone is cokU Darker and darker The black shadows fall ; Sleep and oblivion Reign over all. THE POET AND HIS SONG& As the birds come in the Spring, We know not from where ; As the stars come at evening From depths of the air ; As the rain comes from the cloud, And the brook from the ground As suddenly, low or loud, Out of silence a sound ; As the grape comes to the vine, The fruit to the tree : As the wind comes to the pine, And the tide to the sea; 94 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. As come the white sails of ships O er the ocean s verge ; As comes the smile to the lips, The foam to the surge ; So come to the Poet his songs, All hitherward blown From the misty realm, that belongs To the vast Unknown. His, and not his, are the lays He sings ; and their fame Is his, and not his ; and the praise And the pride of a name. For voices pursue him by day, And haunt him by night, And he listens, and needs must obey. When the Angel says, " Write I " * * This poem was written to close the last volume of rerse pub lashed by Mr. Longfellow. 2Etje tttoersfoe literature PAUL REVERE S RIDE AND OTHER POEMS WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES CONTENTS. PAGE PAUL REVERE S RIDE . . . r . V -__ THE BRIDGE 6 THE CUMBERLAND CHRISTMAS BELLS 10 KILLED AT THE FORD IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY 13 RAIN IN SUMMER MY LOST YOUTH 17 CHANGED THE HAPPIEST LAND 21 THE EMPEROR S BIRD S-NEST THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 25 SONG OF THE BELL LADY WENTWORTH ... 28 MAD RIVER THE BUILDERS 37 ANNIE OF THARAW 38 THE BELL OF ATRI 40 THE BROOK AND THE WAVE THE RETURN OF SPRING THE BELEAGUERED CITY .. ^5 CASPAR BECERRA 47 To THE RIVER CHARLES 48 THREE FRIENDS OF MINE . 50 CHARLES SUMNER 52 OLIVER BASSELIN 54 NUREMBERG .56 THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS **9 THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH ... THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD 2 BAYARD TAYLOR \ TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE ... A BALLAD OF THE FBENCH FLEET .. 77 KING CHRISTIAN . JL -~ * iv CONTENTS. A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE ........ 80 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 83 THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE 85 HAWTHORNE . 87 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS 88 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL 90 AFTERMATH . . 91 PAUL REVERE S RIDE, AND OTHER POEMS. PAUL REVERE S RIDE. 1 LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five, Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, " If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church 2 tower as a signal light, 1 Mr. Longfellow imagined a party of friends met at a coun try inn, and telling tales before the fire. The first of these Tales of a Wayside Inn was by the landlord, and is this story oi Paul Revere. Revere was an American patriot, a silversmith and engraver by trade, whose tea-pots and cream jugs and tank ards may be found in old Boston families. He was a spirited man, and in- the secrets of the Boston patriots. 2 There has been some discussion as to the church tower from which the lanterns were hung, some claiming that the church was the old North Meeting-house in North Square, pulled down afterward for fuel, during the siege of Boston ; but the evidence points more clearly to Christ Church, still standing, and often spoken of as the North Church. The poet has departed some what from the actual historic facts, since Revere did not watch 2 PAUL KE VERB S RIDE. One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore will be, Heady to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm." XThen he said, " Good night ! " and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war ; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, for the lights, nor did he reach Concord. Since 1894, when April 19 was made a holiday in Massachusetts ("Patriots Day "), it has been customary to have some one impersonate Paul Revere and follow in detail the course of his famous ride. PA UL RE VERE S RIDE. 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, A/ And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the 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 earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; But mostly he watched with eager search 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 ! as he looks, on the belfry s height 4 PAUL RE VERB S RIDE. 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 the belfry burns ! 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 flying 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 heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And 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 Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, PAUL RE VERB S RIDE. I Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, | And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. know the rest. In the books you have read, / How the British Regulars fired and fled, / How the farmers gave them ball for ball. From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. 4 So through the night rode Paul Revere ; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore ! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, \ Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear THE BRIDGE. The hurrying hoof -beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. THE BRIDGE. 1 I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away ; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. 1 The poem when first published was entitled The Bridge wer the Charles, the river which separates Cambridge from Bos ton. THE BRIDGE. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o er me That filled my eyes with tears. How often, oh how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky 1 How often, oh how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O er the ocean wild and wide ! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea ; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then. THE CUMBERLAND. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow I And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes ; The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here. THE CUMBERLAND. AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war , And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship 1 of our foes " The iron ship was the United States Frigate Merrimac, cap tured by the Confederates, plated with railroad iron, and renamed the Virginia, which on March 8, 1862, came out of Gosport to attack the Union vessels in Hampton Roads. The next day the Monitor ironclad came upon the scene, and the two ironclads en gaged each other. The whole character of naval warfare waa changed from that day. THE CUMBERLAND. Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside ! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster s hide. " Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. " Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; " It is better to sink than to yield ! * And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon s breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 10 CHRISTMAS BELLS. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day I Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho I brave hearts that went down in the seas t Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seain ! CHRISTMAS BELLS. I HEARD the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men I Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men I KILLED AT THE FORD. 11 Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, 1 , And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! And in despair I bowed my head ; " There is no peace on earth," I said ; " For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! " Then pealed the bells more loud and deep : " God is not dead ; nor doth he sleep ! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men ! " KILLED AT THE FORD. HE is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, He, the life and light of us all, Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, Whom all eyes followed with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 1 This poem was wi-itteu December 25, 1864. 12 KILLED AT THE FORD. Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was humming the words of some old song: " Two red roses he had on his cap And another he bore at the point of his sword." Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still ; Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill ; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead ; But he made no answer to what I said. We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the Carried him back to the silent camp, And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; And I saw by the light of the surgeon s lamp Two white roses upon his cheeks, And one, just over his heart, blood-red ! And I saw in a vision how far and fleet That fatal bullet went speeding forth, Till it reached a town in the distant North, Till it reached a house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat Without a murmur, without a cry ; And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, For one who had passed from cross to crown, And the neighbors wondered that she should die. IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 13 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. No hay pharos en los nidos de antaiio. 1 Spanish Proverb. THE sun is bright, the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear The bluebird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows, It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. r All things are new; the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree s nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves ; There are no birds in last year s nest I All things rejoice in youth and love, The fulness of their first delight ! And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For oh, it is not always May ! Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, To some good angel leave the rest ; 1 The translation of this Spanish proverb will be found in tbo last line of the poein. 14 RAIN IN SUMMER. For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year s nest! RAIN IN SUMMER How beautiful is the rain ! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain ! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs ! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout ! Across the window-pane It pours and pours ; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain ! The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks ; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool ; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighboring school Come the boys, RAIN IN SUMMER. 15 With more than their wonted noise And commotion ; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool Ingulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean. In the country, on every side, Where far and wide, Like a leopard s tawny and spotted hide> Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain I In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man s spoken word. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops i6 RAIN IN SUMMER. Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, The Poet sees ! He can behold Aquarius old Walking the fenceless fields of air? And from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers under ground ; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colors seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, MY LOST YOUTH. 17 In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth | Till glimpses more sublime Of things unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning forevermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time. MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea ; 1 Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still : " A boy s will is the wind s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.** 1 During one of his visits to Portland in 1846, Mr. Long fellow relates how he took a long walk round Munjoy s hill and down to the old Fort Lawrence. " I lay down," he says, " in one of the embrasures and listened to the lashing, lulling sound of. *he sea just at my feet. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the harbor was full of white sails, coming and departing. Meditated a poem on the Old Fort." It does not appear that any poem was then written, but the theme remained, and in 1855, when in Cambridge, he notes in his diary, March 29 : "A day of pain ; cowering over the fire. At night, as I lie in bed, a poem conies into my mind, a memory of Portland, iny native town, the aty by the sea." 13 MY LOST YOUTH. I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still : " 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 slips, 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 youth are long, long thoughts." 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 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 l far away, How it thundered o er the tide ! 1 In 1813, when Longfellow was a boy of six, there was an engagement off the harbor of Portland between the American MY LOST YOUTH. 19 A.nd the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, overlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill : " A boy s will is the wind s will, A.nd 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 neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still : " A boy s will is the wind s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy s brain ; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still : " A boy s will is the wind s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." There are things of which I may not speak , There are dreams that cannot die ; brig Enterprise and the English brig Boxer. Both captains were slain, but the Enterprise won the day and after a fight of three quarters of an hour came into the harbor, bringing the Boxei frith her. 20 MY LOST YOUTH. There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill : " A boy s will is the wind s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts, 1 * 5 ! i Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town ; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o ershadow each well-known street* As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still : " A boy s will is the wind s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. * And Deering s Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still : " A boy s will is the wind s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.* THE HAPPIEST LAND. 21 CHANGED. the outskirts of the town, 1 Where of old the mile-stone stood* Now a stranger, looking down, I behold the shadowy crown Of the dark and haunted wood. Is it changed, or am I changed? Ah ! the oaks are fresh and green, But the friends with whom I ranged Through their thickets are estranged By the years that intervene. Bright as ever flows the sea, Bright as ever shines the sun, But alas ! they seem to me Not the sun that used to be, Not the tides that used to run. THE HAPPIEST LAND. THERE sat one day in quiet, By an alehouse on the Rhine, Four hale and hearty fellows, And drank the precious wine. The landlord s daughter filled their cups> Around the rustic board ; Then sat they all so calm and still, And spake not one rude word. 1 It was a walk in Portland, the poet s old home, which sug* gested this poem. a Translated from the German. THE HAPPIEST LAND. But when the maid departed, A Swabian raised his hand, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, " Long live the Swabian land I * The greatest kingdom upon earth Cannot with that compare ; With all the stout and hardy men And the nut-brown maidens there." " Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing, And dashed his beard with wine; ** I had rather live in Lapland, Than that Swabian land of thine ! " The goodliest land on all this earth, It is the Saxon land ! There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand ! " " Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! * A bold Bohemian cries ; * If there s a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies. * There the tailor blows the flute, And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle, Over mountain gorge and bourn." And then the landlord s daughter Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, " Ye may no more contend, There lies the happiest land ! " THE EMPEROR S BIRD S-NEST. 23 THE EMPEROR S BIRD S-NEST. ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain, With his swarthy, grave commanders, I forget in what campaign, Long besieged, in mud and rain, Some old frontier town of Flanders. Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These Hidalgos, dull and damp, Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Perched upon the Emperor s tent, In her nest, they spied a swallow. Yes, it was a swallow s nest, Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tail, or dragon s crest, Found on hedge-rows east and west, After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hildalgo said, As he twirled his gray mustachio, " Sure this swallow overhead Thinks the Emperor s tent a shed, And the Emperor but a Macho ! "* 1 Pronounced Macho. It signifies in Spanish a mule. 24 THE EMPEROR S BIRD S-NEST. Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, Half in anger, half in shame, Forth the great campaigner came Slowly from his canvas palace. " Let no hand the bird molest, * Said he solemnly, " nor hurt her I " Adding then, by way of jest, " Golondrina l is my guest, T is the wife of some deserter ! " Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, Through the camp was spread the rumor, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed At the Emperor s pleasant humor. So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow still and brooded, Till the constant cannonade Through the walls a breach had made, And the siege was thus concluded. Then the army, elsewhere bent, Struck its tents as if disbanding, Only not the Emperor s tent, For he ordered, ere he went, Very curtly, " Leave it standing ! " So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, * The feminine form of golondrino, a swallow, and also a Jocose name for a deserter. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 25 Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o er those walls of stone Which the cannon-shot had shattered. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. SOMEWHAT back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 1 Across its antique portico Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all, " Forever never ! Never forever 1 " 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, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, " Forever never ! Never forever ! " 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, 1 The house thus described was that now known as the Plun* fcett mansion in Pittsfield, once the home of Mrs. Longfellow r s maternal grandfather. In the poet s own house in Cambridge there also stood a tall old clock on the stairs. 26 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. " Forever never ! Never forever ! " Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through 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, " Forever never ! Never forever ! " In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality ; His great fires up the chimney roared ; The stranger feasted at his board ; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased, " Forever never ! Never forever ! " There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; O precious hours ! O golden prime, And affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told, " Forever never ! Never forever ! " From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night ; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; SONG OF THE BELL. 27 And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair, " Forever never ! Never forever ! " All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead ; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, " Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? * As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply,- " Forever never ! Never forever ! " Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear,-* Forever there, but never here ! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, " Forever never ! Never forever ! " SONG OF THE BELL. 1 BELL ! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie ! Bell ! thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie ! * Translation of a Swiss poem. 28 LADY WENTWORTH. Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; Tellest thou at evening, Bed-time draweth nigh ! Bell ! thou soundest mournfully Tellest thou the bitter Parting hath gone by ! Say! how canst thou mourn? How canst thou rejoice ? Thou art but metal dull ! And yet all our sorrowings, And all our rejoicings, Thou dost feel them all ! God hath wonders many, Which we cannot fathom, Placed within thy form ! When the heart is sinking, Thou alone canst raise it, Trembling in the storm I LADY WENTWORTH. 1 ONE hundred years ago, and something more, In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door $ Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, Just as hex- cuckoo-clock was striking nine. Above her head, resplendent on the sign, 1 This is another of the Tales of a Wayside Inn. It is a poet* eal rendering of an actual fact. LADY WENT WORTH. 29 The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, 1 In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, And half resolved, though he was past his prime- And rather damaged by the lapse of time, To fall down at her feet, and to declare The passion that had driven him to despair. For from his lofty station he had seen Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green, Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, Down the long lane, and out into the land, And knew that he was far upon the way To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay ! 2 Just then the meditations of the Earl Were interrupted by a little girl, Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare, A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, 1 The inn bore the name of the Earl of Halifax. It was com mon before the Revolution to name taverns after the king or some notable, and the Earl of Halifax was a prominent English states- man, who had been prime minister of George I. 2 Once a week the Flying Stage-coach was driven by John Stavers, the inn-keeper, from Portsmouth to Boston. " The car riage," says Mr. T. B. Aklrich in his pleasant book, An Old Town by the Sea, " was a two-horse curricle, wide enough to accommodate 4hree passengers. The fare was thirteen shillings and sixpence sterling per head. The curricle was presently superseded by a series of fat yellow coaches, one of which nearly a century later, and long after that pleasant mode of travel had fallen obsolete was the cause of much mental tribulation to the writer of this chronicle." Readers of The Story of a Bad Boy will guess t rhat Mr. Aldrich refers. 80 LADY WENTWORTH. A creature men would worship and adore, Though now in mean habiliments she bore A pail of water, dripping through the street, And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. It was a pretty picture, full of grace ; The slender form, the delicate, thin face j The swaying motion, as she hurried by ; The shining feet, the laughter in her eye, That o er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced., As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced : And with uncommon feelings of delight The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say These words, or thought he did, as plain as day. " O Martha Hilton ! Fie ! how dare you go About the town half dressed, and looking so ! " At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied : " No matter how I look ; I yet shall ride In my own chariot, ma am." And on the child The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, As with her heavy burden she passed on, Looked back, then turned the corner, and was What next, upon that memorable day, Arrested his attention was a gay And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun, The silver harness glittering in the sun, Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, - Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank, While all alone within the chariot sat A portly person with three-cornered hat, A crimson velvet coat, head high in air, Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, LADY WENT WORTH. 31 And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast; For this was Governor Wentworth * driving down To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, A goodly place, where it was good to be. It was a pleasant mansion, an abode Near and yet hidden from the great high-road, Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, Baronial and colonial in its style, Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, And stacks of chimneys rising high in air, Pandean pipes, on which all winds that blew Made mournful music the whole winter through. Within, unwonted splendors met the eye, Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry ; Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs ; Doors opening into darkness unawares, Mysterious passages, and nights of stairs; And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names. 3 Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt, A widower and childless ; and he felt 1 Governor Benning Wentworth of New Hampshire. His Great House at Little Harbor is still standing, about a mile and a half below Portsmouth, and at this writing (1894) is owned and occupied by a son-in-law of Parkman the historian. 2 These family mementos were long ago removed, but some thing of the old-time dignity remains to the house. One may still see in the passageway outside the old council-chamber, racka for the twelve muskets of the governor s guard. 82 LADY WENTWORTH. The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, That like a presence haunted every room ; For though not given to weakness, he could feel The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal. The years came and the years went, seven in all, And passed in cloud and sunshine o er the Hall ; The dawns their splendor through its chambers shed, The sunsets flushed its western windows red ; The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain ; Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again ; Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died, In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide, Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea, And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. And all these years had Martha Hilton served In the Great House, not wholly unobserved : By day, by night, the silver crescent grew, Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining through ; A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, A servant who made service seern divine ! 1 Through her each room was fair to look upon ; The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone, The very knocker on the outer door, If she but passed, was brighter than before. And now the ceaseless turning of the mill Of time, that never for an hour stands still, 1 George Herbert, the poet, has a verse in one of his poem* reads " A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine ; Who sweeps a room as by Thy laws Makes that and th action fine." LADY WENTWORTH. 38 Ground out the Governor s sixtieth birthday, 1 And powdered his brown hair with silver-gray* The robin, the forerunner of the spring, The bluebird with his jocund carolling, The restless swallows building in the eaves, The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, All welcomed this majestic holiday 1 He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate, Such as became the Governor of the State, Who represented England and the King, And was magnificent in everything. He had invited all his friends and peers, The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, 2 and the rest ; For why repeat the name of every guest ? But I must mention one in bands and gown, The rector there, the Eeverend Arthur Brown Of the Established Church , with smiling face He sat beside the Governor and said grace ; And then the feast went on, as others do, But ended as none other I e er knew. When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer, The Governor whispered in a servant s ear, Who disappeared, and presently there stood Within the room, in perfect womanhood, A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. Can this be Martha Hilton ? It must be 1 Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she ! 1 In point of fact, Governor Wentworth was born July 24, 1696^ and his marriage was on March 15, 1760. * All Portsmouth names. 34 LADY WENTWORTH. Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, How ladylike, how queenlike she appears ; The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by Is Dian now in all her majesty ! Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there, Until the Governor, rising from his chair, Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down, And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown : " This is my birthday : it shall likewise be My wedding-day; and you shall marry me ! " The listening guests were greatly mystified, None more so than the rector, who replied : " Marry you? Yes, that were a pleasant task, Your Excellency ; but to whom ? I ask." The Governor answered : u To this lady here ; " And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. The rector paused. The impatient Governor cried " This is the lady ; do you hesitate ? Then I command you as Chief Magistrate." The rector read the service loud and clear : " Dearly beloved, we are gathered here," And so on to the end. At his command On the fourth finger of her fair left hand The Governor placed the ring ; and that was all: Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall! MAD RIVER. 35 MAD RIVER. IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. TRAVELLER. dost thou wildly rush and roar, Mad River, Mad River ? l Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o er This rocky shelf forever ? What secret trouble stirs thy breast? Why all this fret and flurry? Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest From over- work and worry ? THE RIVER. What wouldst thou in these mountains seek^ O stranger from the city? Is it perhaps some foolish freak Of thine, to put the words I speak Into a plaintive ditty ? TRAVELLER. Yes ; I would learn of thee thy song, With all its flowing numbers, And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long, And hear it in my slumbers. * There are doubtless more rivers than one of this name in the White Mountains, but there is one, at least, about which the poem might have been written, issuing from the woods behind Water* Ville, and flowing into the Pemigewasset. 36 MAD RIVER. THE RIVER. A brooklet nameless and unknown Was I at first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, Irresolute and trembling. Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wide world I panted ; Out of the forest, dark and dread, Across the open fields I fled, Like one pursued and haunted. I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, My voice exultant blending With thunder from the passing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending. I heard the distant ocean call, Imploring and entreating ; Drawn onward, o er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall Made answer to the greeting. And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow ; Compelled to carry from the hills These logs to the impatient mills Below there in the hollow. Yet something ever cheers and ehartnS The rudeness of my labors ; Daily I water with these arms THE BUILDERS. 3T The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors. Men call me Mad, and well they may, When, full of rage and trouble, I burst my banks of sand and clay, And ^weep their wooden bridge away, Like withered reeds or stubble. Now go and write thy little rhyme, As of thine own creating. Thou seest the day is past its prime ; I can no longer waste my time ; The mills are tired of waiting. THE BUILDERS. ALL are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time ; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low ; Each thing in its place is best ; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled ; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these ; Leave no yawning gaps between ; 8 ANNIE OF THARAW. Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part ; For the Gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen ; Make the house, where Gods may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean. Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb. Build to-day, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base ; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach 01 sky. ANNIE OF THARAW. 1 ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. 1 Translated from the Gerinau of Siuaon Dach. ANNIE OF THARAW. 39 Annie of Tharaw her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood ! Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow We will stand by each other 5 however it blow. Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. As the palm-tree stand eth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall, So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. Shonldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known, Through forests I 11 follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes, Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one. Whate er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. How in the turmoil of life can love staad, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand ? 40 THE BELL OF ATRI. Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife ; Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love ; Thou art iny lambkin, my chick, and my dove. Whatever my desire is, in thine may be seen ; j. am king of the household, and thou art its queen, It is this, O my Annie, my heart s sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. THE BELL OF ATRI. 1 AT Atri in Abruzzo, 2 a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown., One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, And then sat down to rest, as if to say, " I climb no farther upward, come what may," The Re Giovanni, 3 now unknown to fame, So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place, Beneath a roof, projecting some small space By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train, 1 One of the Tales of a Wayside Inn, supposed to be told by a Sicilian in the party. 2 Pronounced A h brut so. 8 Pronounced Ra Geovan m; the translation will be found i the 18th line of the poem. THE BELL OF ATRL 41 And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John. How swift the happy days in Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not here be said, Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer s hand, Till one, who noted this in passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts ; Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold. He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Eented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a naked stall, And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. 42 THE BELL OF ATRL At length he said : " What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and provender is dear? Let hirn go feed upon the public ways ; I want him only for the holidays." So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street ; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the summer time, With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed ; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarum of the accusing bell ! The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great bell upon its cross-beams swung, Reiterating with persistent tongue, In half-articulate jargon, the old song : " Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong ! * But ere he reached the belfry s light arcade He saw or thought he saw, beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born, But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at the vines of briony. " Domeneddio ! " l cried the Syndic straight, . * An Italian exclamation which may be translated, Good Lord ! THE BELL OF ATRL 43 " This is the Knight of Atri s steed of state I He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best." Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned ; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in an angry undertone, That he should do what pleased him with his own. And thereupon the Syndic gravely read The proclamation of the King ; then said : " Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way ; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds ! These are familiar proverbs ; but I fear They never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honor, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute ? He who serves well and speaks not, merits more Than they who clamor loudest at the door. Therefore the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take hee<J To comfort his old age, and to provide Shelter in stall, and food and field beside." 44 THE RETURN OF SPRING. The Knight withdrew abashed ; the people all Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, And cried aloud : " Right well it pleaseth me 1 Church-bells at best but ring us to the door ; But go not in to mass ; my bell doth more : It cometh into court and pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws ; And this shall make, in every Christian clime, The Bell of Atri famous for all time." THE BROOK AND THE WAVE, THE brooklet came from the mountain, As sang the bard of old, Running with feet of silver Over the sands of gold I Far away in the briny ocean There rolled a turbulent wave, Now singing along the sea-beach, Now howling along the cave. And the brooklet has found the billow, Though they flowed so far apart, And has filled with its freshness and sweetness That turbulent, bitter heart I THE RETURN OF SPRING. 1 Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, 1 Translated from the French of Charles d Orle aus. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 45 And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings ; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. River, and fount, and tinkling brook Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry ; In new-made suit they merry look ; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau s rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead. White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry s pace ; 46 THE BELEAGUERED CITY. The mist-like banners clasped the air As clouds with clouds embrace. But when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air. Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled ; Up rose the glorious morning star, The 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 the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral 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 pray. CASPAR BECERRA. 47 fhe midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled ; Faith shineth as a morning Our ghastly fears are dead. GASPAR BECERRA. 1 BY his evening fire the artist Pondered o er his secret shame ; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. T was an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill ; But, alas ! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island Had the precious wood been brought; Day and night the anxious master At his toil untiring wrought ; Till, discouraged and desponding, Sat he now in shadows deep, And the day s humiliation Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master ? From the burning brand of oak 1 Pronounced Becherra. 48 TO THE RIVER CHARLES. Shape the thought that stirs within thee ! " And the startled artist woke, Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood 5 \nd therefrom he carved an image, And he saw that it was good. O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! Take this lesson to thy heart : That is best which lieth nearest ; Shape from that thy work of art. TO THE RIVER CHARLES. RIVER! that in silence wmclest Through the meadows, bright and free. Till fH length thy rest thou iindest In the bosom of the sea ! Four long years of mingled feeling, Half in rest, and half in strife, 1 have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life. 1 Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! Many a lesson, deep and long ; Thou hast been a generous giver ; 1 can give thee but a song. Oft in sadness and in illness, I have watched thy current glide, * r Fhe river Charles flows in view of the mansion in Cambridge Which Mr. Longfellow began to occupy in the summer of 1837. TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 49 Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide. And in better hours and brighter, When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter, And leap onward with thy stream. Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, And have made thy margin dear. More than this ; thy name reminds me Of three friends, 1 all true and tried ; And that name, like magic, binds me Closer, closer to thy side. Friends my soul with joy remembers ! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers On the hearthstone of my heart T is for this, thou Silent River ! That my spirit leans to thee ; Thou hast been a generous giver, Take this idle sonjr from me. 1 The three friends hinted at were Charles Sumner, Charles Folsom, and Charles Amory. 50 THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 1 I remember them, those friends of mine Who are no longer here, the noble three, Who half my life were more than friends to me, And whose discourse was like a generous wine, I most of all remember the divine Something, that shone in them, and made us see The archetypal man, and what might be The amplitude of Nature s first design. In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands ; I cannot find them. Nothing now is left But a majestic memory. They meanwhile W ander together in Elysian lands, Perchance remembering me, who am bereft Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile. II In Attica thy birthplace should have been, Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, 2 So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene ! 3 Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees ; Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. 1 These sonnets have to do with Cornelius Conway Feltou, once Professor of Greek, afterward President of Harvard Col lege, Louis Aga-ssiz and Charles Sumner. The second and third sonnets were written at Nahant, where both Longfellow and Agassiz had cottages. 2 Pronounced Sik la-des. 8 That is, a lover of Hellas, or Greece. THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 5l For thee old legends breathed historic breath ; Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, And in the sunset Jason s fleece of gold ! Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old! ill I stand again on the familiar shore, And hear the waves of the distracted sea Piteously calling and lamenting thee, And waiting restless at thy cottage door. The rocks, the seaweed on the ocean floor, The willows in the meadow, and the free Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me ; Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more? Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men Are busy with their trivial affairs, Having and holding ? Why, when thou hadst read Nature s mysterious manuscript, and then Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, Why art thou silent ? Why shouldst thou be dead f IV Kiver, that stealest with such silent pace Around the City of the Dead, 1 where lies A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes Shall see no more in his accustomed place, Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace, And say good night, for now the western skies Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise Like damps that gather on a dead man s face. Good night ! good night ! as we so oft have said Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days 1 Mount Auburn Cemetery liec near the river bank. 52 CHARLES SUMNER. That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed ; I stay a little longer, as one stays To cover up the embers that still burn. The doors are all wide open ; at the gate The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze, And seem to warm the air ; a dreamy haze Hangs o er the Brighton meadows like a fate, And on their margin, with sea-tides elate, The flooded Charles, as in the happier days, Writes the last letter of his name, and stays His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. I also wait ; but they will come no more, Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me ! They have forgotten the pathway to my door ! Something is gone from nature since they died, And summer is not summer, nor can be. CHARLES SUMNER. GARLANDS upon his grave And flowers upon his hearse, And to the tender heart and brave The tribute of this verse. His was the troubled life, The conflict and the pain, The grief, the bitterness of strife, The honor without stain. CHARLES SUMNER. 68 Like Winkelried, 1 he took Into his manly breast The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke A path for the oppressed. Then from the fatal field Upon a nation s heart Borne like a warrior on his shield ! So should the brave depart. Death takes us by surprise. And stays our hurrying feet ; The great design unfinished lies, Our lives are incomplete. But in the dark unknown Perfect their circles seem, Even as a bridge s arch of stone Is rounded in the stream. Alike are life and death, When life in death survives, And the uninterrupted breath Inspires a thousand lives. Were a star quenched on high, For ages would its light, 1 Arnold of Winkelried, a Swiss hero, who, as the story runs, when the Austrians four thousand strong met the Swiss, fifteen hundred in number, rushed forward, grasped with outstretched arms a? many Austrian pikes as he could reach, buried them in his own body and so fell forward to the earth. His companions threw themselves into the breach thus made and so won the day. The battle took place at Sempach in Switzerland, July 9, anr 1 it anniversary is still kept. 54: OLIVER BASSE LIN. Still travelling downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies, 1 For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men. OLIVER BASSELIN. IN the Valley of the Vire 2 Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, And beneath the window-sill, On the stone, These words alone : <* Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Chateau; Nothing but the donjon-keep Left for shelter or for show. Its vacant eyes Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Looked, but an ! it looks no more, From the neighboring hillside down On the rushing and the roar Of the stream 1 Simmer died March 11, 1874. * The pronunciation will be seen by the rhyme. OLIVER BASSELIN. Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, To the water s dash and din, Careless, humble, and unknown, Sang the poet Basselin Songs that fill That ancient mill With a splendor of its own. Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed ; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; No desire Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine ; Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine, Find an answer in each heart ; But the mirth Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, Opening on the narrow street, Came the loud, convivial din, Singing and applause of feet, The laughing lays 66 NUREMBERG. That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. 1 In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Watched and waited, spur on heel ; But the poet sang for sport Songs that rang Another clang, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. NUREMBERG. IN the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconiaii mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng : Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centu ries old; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, 1 Basselin called liis light, gay songs, Songs of Vaux de Vire that is, songs of the valleys of Vire, and the phrase became cor rupted into the modern Vaudeville. NUREMBERG. 57 That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. 1 In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cuni- gunde s hand ; On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian s praise. 2 Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art : Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart ; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted Sebald 3 sleeps enshrined his holy dust, 1 An old popular proverb of the town may be translated Nuremberg s Hand Goes through every land. 2 Melchior Pfinzing was a German poet of the sixteenth cen tury, and the Emperor (Kaiser in German) Maximilian was the hero of one of his best known poems. 8 " The tomb of St. Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, who labored upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one hundred figures, among which, those of the Twelve Apostles are conspicu ous for size and beauty." H. W. Longfellow. 58 NUREMBERG. And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust ; In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, ( Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, rev erent heart, Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of Art; 1 Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. Emigravit 2 is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies ; Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies. Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air ! 1 The father of wood-engraving. 9 That ils, he went away from iiis country. THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS. 59 THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS. 1 WHAT say the Belis of San Bias To the ships that southward pass From the harbor of Mazatlan ? To them it is nothing more Than the sound of surf on the shore, Nothing more to master or man. But to me, a dreamer of dreams, To whom what is and what seems Are often one and the same, The Bells of San Bias to me Have a strange, wild melody, And are something more than a name* For bells are the voice of the church ; They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old ; One sound to all, yet each Lends a meaning to their speech, And the meaning is manifold. They are a voice of the Past, Of an age that is fading fast, Of a power austere and grand ; When the flag of Spain unfurled Its folds o er this western world, And the Priest was lord of the land, i The last poem written by Mr. Longfellow. The last verse but one is dated March 12, 1882. The final verse was added March 15. Mr. Longfellow died March 24. The poem was suggested by an article, Typical Journeys and Country Life in Mexico, by W. H. Bishop, in Harper s Magazine, March, 1882, which the poet had just read. 60 THE BELLS OF SAJ\ BLAS. The chapel that once looked down On the little seaport town Has crumbled into the dust ; And on oaken beams below The bells swing to and fro, And are green with mould and rust * Is, then, the old faith dead," They say, " and in its stead Is some new faith proclaimed, That we are forced to remain Naked to sun and rain, Unsheltered and ashamed? a Once in our tower aloof We rang over wall and roof Our warnings and our complaints 5 And round about us there The white doves filled the air, Like the white souls of the saints. **The saints ! Ah, have they grown Forgetful of their own ? Are they asleep, or dead, That open to the sky Their ruined Missions lie, No longer tenanted ? * Oh, bring us back once more The vanished days of yore, When the world with faith was fillecl ? Bring back the fervid zeal. The hearts of fire and steel, The hands that believe and build. THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 5) "Then from our tower again We will send over land and main Our voices of command, Like exiled kings who return To their thrones, and the people learn That the Priest is lord of the land \ " O Bells of San Bias, in vain Ye call back the Past again I The Past is deaf to your prayer ; Out of the shadows of niffht O The world rolls into light ; It is daybreak everywhere. THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 1 LEAFLESS are the trees ; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, Rising silent In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. From the hundred chimneys of the village, Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, Smoky coj umns Tower aloft into the air of amber. At the window winks the flickering firelight ; Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, Social watch-fires Answering one another through the darkness. 1 Mr. Longfellow wrote in his diary, under date of December 20, 1854 : " The weather is ever so cold. The landscape looks dreary ; but the sunset and twilight are resplendent. Sketch out a poem, The Golden Mile-Stone." 62 THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, And like Ariel l in the cloven pine-tree For its freedom Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them* By the fireside there are old men seated, Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, Asking sadly Of the Past what it can ne er restore them. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Building castles fair, with stately stairways, Asking blindly Of the Future what it cannot give them. By the fireside tragedies are acted In whose scenes appear two actors only, Wife and husband, And above them God the sole spectator. By the fireside there are peace and comfort, Wives, and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching For a well-known footstep in the passage. Each man s chimney is his Golden Mile-Stone ; * Is the central point, from which he measures Every distance Through the gateways of the world around him. 1 See Shakespeare s The Tempest. * A stone column was set up by the Romans to mark each mile on their great military roads, and in the Forum in Rome, as at. the centre of the Empire, the Emperor Augustus erected a gilt bronza olumn. The base of the column is preserved. THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 63 In his farthest wanderings still he sees it ; Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, As he heard them When he sat with those who were, but are not, Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city, Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead, We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations ! THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTfl. 1 IT was the season, when through all the land The merle and mavis build, and building sing Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, Whom Saxon Caedmon 2 calls the Blithe-heart King ; When on the boughs the purple buds expand, The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, Arid rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, And wave their fl uttering signals from the steep. The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee ; 1 One of the Tales of a Wayside Inn, supposed to be told by the Poet of the company. Killingworth in Connecticut was named from the English town Kenilworth, but both in England and in Connecticut the name became changed into Killingworth in popular usage, and here that name has become the regulal Rame of the town. a 1* renounced Kedmon. 64 THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be ; * And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said : w Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily bread ! Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed The village with the cheers of all their fleet ; Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed Like foreign sailors, landed in the street Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ; And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, Pleard with alarm the cawing of the crow, That mingled with the universal mirth, Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds. And a town-meeting was convened straightway To set a price upon the guilty heads Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, Levied black-mail upon the garden beds And cornfields, and beheld without dismay The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; i See the Gospel of Matthew, x. 29-31. THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 65 The skeleton that waited at their feast, 1 Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. Then from his house, a temple painted white, With fluted columns, and a roof of red, The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! Slowly descending, with majestic tread, Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, Down the long street he walked, as one who said> " A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society ! " The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; The wrath of God he preached from year to year, And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will ; 2 His favorite pastime was to slay the deer In Summer on some Adirondac hill ; E en now, while walking down the rural lane, He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. From the Academy, whose belfry crowned The hill of Science with its vane of brass, Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, And all absorbed in reveries profound Of fair Almira in the upper class, Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As pure as water, and as good as bread. 1 There is an old story that the Egyptians used to set up an image of a dead man at their feasts, to remind the guests of the saying, " Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." 2 Jonathan Edwards was a famous New England divine who lived in the former half of the eighteenth century, and wrote a great book on The Freedom of the Will. 66 THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH. And next the Deacon issued from his door, In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow ; A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; His form was ponderous, and his step was slow ; There never was so wise a man before ; He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told you so ! " And to perpetuate his great renown There was a street named after him in town. These came together in the new town-hall, With sundry farmers from the region round. The Squire presided, dignified and tall, His air impressive and his reasoning sound ; 111 fared it with the birds, both great and small ; Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, But enemies enough, who every one Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. When they had ended, from his place apart .Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, And, trembling like a steed before the start, Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng, Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, Alike regardless of their smile or frown, And quite determined not to be laughed down. 46 Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, From his Republic banished without pity The Poets ; in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a Committee, The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street-musicians of the heavenly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In OPT dark hours, as David did for Saul. THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 67 ** Tlie thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood ; The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 64 You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for the gain Of a $cant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 44 Do you ne er think what wondrous beings these ? Do you ne er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Atane are the interpreters of thought ? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e er caught 1 Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! " Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! l And when you think of this, remember too l Marlowe, an English poet of Shakespeare s time, has aline " Melodious birds sing madrigals." 68 THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. T is always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 44 Think of your woods and orchards without birds! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot s brain remembered words Hang empty mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? " What ! would you rather see the incessant stir Of insects in the windrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the grasshopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? Is this more pleasant to you than the whir Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? ** You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know, They are the winged wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvests keep a hundred harms ; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Benders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. tt How can I teach your children gentleness, And mercy to the weak, and reverence For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 69 Is still a gleam of God s omnipotence, Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less The selfsame light, although averted hence, When by your laws, your actions, and your speech^ You contradict the very things I teach ? " With this he closed ; and through the audience went A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves ; The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ; Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment Who put their trust in bullocks arid in beeves. The birds were doomed ; and, as the record shows, A bounty offered for the heads of crows. There was another audience out of reach, Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, But in the papers read his little speech, And crowned his modest temples with applause; They made him conscious, each one more than each, He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, O fair Almira at the Academy ! And so the dreadful massacre began ; O er fields and orchards, and o er woodland crests, The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts Or wounded crept away from sight of man, While the young died of famine in their nests ; A slaughter to be told in groans, not words. The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 1 i The Massacre of St. Bartholomew was the name given to the sudden destruction of Huguenots in France, by order of the 70 THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. The Summer came, and all the birds were dead ; The days were like hot coals ; the very ground Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed Myriads of caterpillars, and around The cultivated fields arid garden beds Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found No foe to check their march, till they had made The land a desert without leaf or shade. Devoured by worms, like Herod, 1 was the town, Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down The canker-worms upon the passers-by, Upon each woman s bonnet, shawl, and gown, Who shook them off with just a little cry ; They were the terror of each favorite walk, The endless theme of all the village talk. The farmers grew impatient, but a few Confessed their error, and would not complain, For after all, the best thing one can do When it is raining, is to let it rain. Then they repealed the law, although they knew It would not call the dead to life again ; As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. That year in Killingworth the Autumn came Without the light of his majestic look, ruling- sovereign, Charles IX., at the instance of his mother Cathe rine, begun on St. Bartholomew s Day, i. e. between the 24-th and 25th of August. The year was 1572. 1 The Herod thus devoured was the grandson of the Herod who ordered the massacre of the Innocents. THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 71 The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, The illumined pages of his Doom s-Day book. 1 A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, Lamenting the dead children of the air ! But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, A sight that never yet by bard was sung, As great a wonder as it would have been If some dumb animal had found a tongue I A wagon, overarched with evergreen, Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, All full of singing birds, came down the street, Filling the air with music wild and sweet. From all the country round these birds were brought, By order of the town, with anxious quest, And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought In woods and fields the places they loved best, Singing loud canticles, which many thought Were satires to the authorities addressed, While others, listening in green lanes, averred Such lovely music never had been heard ! But blither still and louder carolled they Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know It was the fair Almira s wedding-day, And everywhere, around, above, below, When the Preceptor bore his bride away, Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, 1 The original Doom s-Day or Domesday book was a regfTs- tration of all the lands in the kingdom of England, ordered by William the Conqueror. The term is also applied to the judg ement-book or book of the day of doom. 72 THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD. And a new heaven bent over a new earth Amid the sunny farms of Killing-worth. 1863. THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD, WARM and still is the summer night* As here by the river s brink I wander , White overhead are the stars, and white The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder. Silent are all the sounds of day ; Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, And the cry of the herons winging their way O er the poet s house in the Elm wood 1 thickets. Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, Sing him the song of the green morass, And the tides that water the reeds and rushes. Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking ; For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speaking. Sing of the air, and the wild delight Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists that enfold you; i Elmwood, a short distance from Longfellow s house, wat the home of his brother poet and friend, James Russell Lowell. BAYARD TAYLOR. 73 Of the landscape lying so far below, With its towns and rivers and desert places ; And the splendor of light above, and the glow Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, Sound in his ears more sweet than yours, And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and bet ter. Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, Where the boughs of the stately elms are meet ing. Some one hath lingered to meditate, And send him unseen this friendly greeting ; That many another hath done the same, Though not by a sound was the silence broken ; The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken. 1876. BAYARD TAYLOR. DEAD he lay among his books ! The peace of God was in his looks. As the statues in the gloom Watch o er Maximilian s tomb, 1 So those volumes from their shelves Watched him, silent as themselves. 1 In the cathedral at Innsbruck. T4 BAYARD TAYLOR. Ah ! his hand will nevermore Turn their storied pages o er ; Nevermore his lips repeat Songs of theirs, however sweet, Let the lifeless body rest ! He is gone, who was its guest ; Gone, as travellers haste to leave An inn, nor tarry until eve. Traveller ! in what realms afar, In what planet, in what star, In what vast, aerial space, Shines the light upon thy face? In what gardens of delight Rest thy weary feet to-night ? Poet ! thou, whose latest verse Was a garland on thy hearse ; Thou hast sung, with organ tone, In Deukalion s 1 life, thine own ; On the ruins of the Past Blooms the perfect flower at last. Friend ! but yesterday the bells Rang for thee their loud farewells ; 1 Prince Deukalion was the latest of Bayard Taylor s greaf poems. TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 75 And to-day they toll for thee, Lying dead beyond the sea ; 1 Lying dead among thy books, The peace of God in all thy looks! 187a TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 8 THE ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, Immovable for three days past, Points to the misty main. It drives me in upon myself And to the fireside gleams, To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, And still more pleasant dreams. I read whatever bards have sung Of lands beyond the sea, And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me. In fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent s roar, The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, The sea at Elsinore. 1 Taylor, the poet, the writer of travels and of stories, was toade Minister of the United States in Germany, and died m Berlin, December 19, 1878. 2 This poem was written as an introduction to a series of vol umes edited by Mr. Longfellow, entitled Poezis of Places. 76 TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. I see the convent s gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pine, And towers of old cathedrals tall, And castles by the Rhine. I journey on by park and spire, Beneath centennial trees, Through fields with poppies all on fira, And gleams of distant seas. I fear no more the dust and heat, No more I feel fatigue, While journeying with another s feet O er many a lengthening league. Let others traverse sea and land, And toil through various climes, I turn the world round with my hand Reading these poets rhymes. From them I learn whatever lies Beneath each changing zone, And see, when looking with their eyes, Better than with mine own. A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. 11 & BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. 1 OCTOBER, 1746. MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. A FLEET with flags arrayed Sailed from the port of Brest, And the Admiral s ship displayed The signal : " Steer southwest." For this Admiral D Anville Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town. There were rumors in the street, In the houses there was fear Of the coming of the fleet, And the danger hovering near. And while from mouth to mouth Spread the tidings of dismay, I stood in the Old South, Saying humbly : " Let us pray I " O Lord ! we would not advise ; But if in thy Providence A tempest should arise To drive the French fleet hence, 1 The capture of Louisburg, a stronghold of the French in Cape Breton, in 1745, by a combined land and sea force, organ ized by Governor Shirley of Massachusetts, greatly incensed the French, and in 1746 they sent over a fleet under command of the Admiral D Anville, with the special purpose of wreaking vengeance on Boston. The fleet met with a series of disasters, and nothing came of the attempt. The Reverend Thomas Prince Was minister of the Old South in Boston. 78 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea, We should be satisfied, And thine the glory be." This was the prayer I made, For my soul was all on flame, And even as I prayed The answering tempest came ; It came with a mighty power, Shaking the windows and walls. And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals. The lightning suddenly Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried : " Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord ! " The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail, And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale. The fleet it overtook, And the broad sails in the van Like the tents of Cushan shook, Or the curtains of Midian. Down on the reeling decks Crashed the o erwhelming seas ; Ah, never were there wrecks So pitiful as these ! Like a potter s vessel broke The great ships of the line ; KING CHRISTIAN. 79 They were carried away as a smoke, Or sank like lead in the brine. O Lord ! before thy path They vanished and ceased to be, When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the seaf KING CHRISTIAN. 1 A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast In mist and smoke ; His sword was hammering so fast, Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, In mist and smoke. * Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can I Who braves of Denmark s Christian The stroke ? " Nils Juel 2 gave heed to the tempest s roar, Now is the hour ! He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted loud, through the tempest s roar, " Now is the hour ! " " Fly! " shouted they, " for shelter fly I Of Denmark s Juel who can defy The power ? " 1 Written during a visit to Copenhagen in September, 1835. The poet first heard the air from some strolling musician in a coffee-house, and, looking up the words, translated them. fi A celebrated Danish admiral. 80 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel l rent Thy murky sky ! Then champions to thine arms were sent ; Terror and Death glared where he went ; From the waves was heard a wail, that rent Thy murky sky ! From Denmark thunders Tordenskiol , Let each to Heaven commend his soul, And fly! Path of the Dane to fame and might I Dark-rolling wave ! Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, Goes to meet danger with despite, Proudly as thou the tempest s might, Dark-rolling wave ! And amid pleasures and alarms, And war and victory, be thine arms My grave I A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed* Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The forms that once have been. The Past and Present here unite Beneath Time s flowing tide, Like footprints hidden by a brook, But seen on either side. 1 Peder Wessel was a vice-admiral, who, for his great prowess, received the title of Tordenskiold (pronounced Tordenshold) or Thundershield. A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 81 Here runs the highway to the town ; There the green lane descends, Through which I walked to church with thee 9 O gentlest of my friends ! 1 The shadow of the linden-trees Lay moving on the grass ; Between them and the moving boughs, A shadow, thou didst pass. Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they i One of God s holy messengers Did walk with me that day. I saw the branches of the trees Bend down thy touch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass Rise up to kiss thy feet. * Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born ! " Solemnly sang the village choir On that sweet Sabbath morn. Through the closed blinds the golden sun Poured in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen By Jacob in his dream. 1 The scene of this poem is mentioned in the poet s diary under date of August 31, 1846. " In the afternoon a delicious drive with F. and C. through Brookline, by the church and the green lane, and homeward through a lovelier lane, with bar* berries and wild vines clustering over the old stone walls." 82 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. And ever and anon, the wind Sweet-scented with the hay, Turned o er the hymn-book s fluttering leaves That on the window lay. Long was the good man s sermon, Yet it seemed not so to me ; For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, And still I thought of thee. Long was the prayer he uttered, Yet it seemed not so to me ; For in my heart I prayed with him, And still I thought of thee. But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; Thou art no longer here : Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear. Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine-trees dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh ; This memory brightens o er the past, As when the sun, concealed Behind some cloud that near us hangs, Shines on a distant field. THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 83 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 1 THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys I What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman s song, And loud, amid the universal clamor, O er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 1 On his wedding journey in the summer of 1843, Mr. Long fellow passed through Springfield, Massachusetts, and visited the United States arsenal there, in company with Mr. Charles Sum- ner. " While Mr. Sumner was endeavoring," says Mr. S. Long fellow, " to impress upon the attendant that the money expended upon these weapons of war would have heen much better spent upon a great library, Mrs. Longfellow pleased her husband by remarking how like an organ looked the ranged and shining gun-barrels which covered the walls from floor to ceiling, and suggesting what mournful music Death would bring from them. We grew quite warlike against war, she wrote, and I urged H. to write a peace poem. " The poem was written some months later. The association with Sumner is especially interesting as that statesman was conspicuous in his advocacy of peace princi ples. 84 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful dm> And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent s skin ; The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers revels in the midst of pillage ; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 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 on camps and courts. Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts : The warrior s name would be a name abhoned I And every nation, that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain ! Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace ! * THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 85 Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War s great organ shakes the skies ! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. SAINT AUGUSTINE ! well hast thoa said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath 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 heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds, That have their root in thoughts of ill ; Notice what Tennyson says at the beginning of In MemorianH " I held it truth, with him who singa To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stone* Of their dead selves to higher things." 86 THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will ; All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we cannot soar ; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night. Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, Wo may discern unseen before A path to higher destinies, Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, HA WTHORNE. 87 If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain. HAWTHORNE. May 23, 1864. 1 How beautiful it was, that one bright day In the long week of rain ! Though all its splendor could not chase away The omnipresent pain. The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, And the great elms o erhead Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms Shot through with golden thread. Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, The historic river flowed : I was as one who wanders in a trance, Unconscious of his road. The faces of familiar friends seemed strange ; Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change Their meaning to iny ear. *The date is that of the burial of Hawthorne. The poem was Kritten just a month later. Mr. Longfellow wrote to Mr. Fields : u I have only tried to describe the state of mind I was in on that day. Did you not feel so likewise ? " In sending a copy of the lines at the same time to Mrs. Hawthorne, he wrote : " I feel how imperfect and inadequate they are ; but I trust you will pardon their deficiencies for the love I bear his memory." 88 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. For the one face I looked for was not there, The one low voice was mute ; Only an unseen presence filled the air, And baffled my pursuit. Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream Dimly my thought defines ; I only see a dream within a dream The hill-top hearsed with pines. I only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, The voice so like his own. There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told. Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clew regain ? The unfinished window in Aladdin s tower Unfinished must remain ! THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. A MIST was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel Streamed the red autumn sun. THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 89 It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships ; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over. When the fog cleared away. Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon, through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite. And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well. And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Eeplied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden l And Lord of the Cinque Ports. Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort s embrasure. Awaken with its call I No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, 1 The Warden was> the Duke of Wellington who died Septenv feer 13, 1852, The five ports axe named in the ninth line. 90 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal Be seen upon his post ! For in the night, unseen, a single warrior. In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall had scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered , darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom. He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar ; Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England tremble And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o erhead ; Nothing in Nature s aspect intimated That a great man was dead. THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 1 ON the cross the dying Saviour Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling In his pierced and bleeding palm. And by all the world forsaken, Sees He how with zealous care 1 Translated from the German of Julius Mosen. AFTERMATH. 91 At the ruthless nail of iron A little bird is striving there. Stained with blood and never tiring^ With its beak it doth not cease, From the cross t would free the Saviour, Its Creator s Son release, And the Saviour speaks in mildness; " Blest be thou of all the good I Bear, as token of this moment, Marks of blood and holy rood I " And that bird is called the crossbill \ Covered all with blood so clear, In the groves of pine it singeth , like legends, strange to hear. AFTERMATH WHEN the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and And the dry leaves strew the path ; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow And gather in the aftermath. Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours ; Not the upland clover bloom ; * This poem was published just after the poet had completed his Tales of a Wayside Inn on his sixty-sixth birthday. 92 AFTERMATH. But the rowen mixed with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the silence and the gloom. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. *JJJ98Q Mb 63 K " L- r ; ; HOY 19 1365 30 REC.C1R. JUN1 3 80 REC U I_D KEC. Clt . - JAN 2 11984 LD 21A-50m-ll, 62 (D3279slO)476B General Library University of California Berkeley U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES CDSBSbMMflfl THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY ....