LONGFELLOW'S SONNETS THE SONNETS OF HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ARRANGED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY FERRIS GREENSLET BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN & COMPANY MDCCCCVII COPYRIGHT I880 BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW COPYRIGHT 1882, 1903, 1906 BY ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW COPYRIGHT 1907 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY -FIVE COPIES PRINTED NO. IO CONTENTS INTRODUCTION PAGE ix I. PERSONAL SONNETS MEZZO CAMMIN 3 THE TWO RIVERS. I-IV 4 THE EVENING STAR 8 TO-MORROW 9 A NAMELESS GRAVE 10 SLEEP ii A SHADOW 12 THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. I-V 13 PARKER CLEAVELAND 18 PRESIDENT GARFIELD 19 HOLIDAYS 20 MEMORIES 21 THE CROSS OF SNOW 22 II. NATURE MOODS 25 A SUMMER DAY BY THE SEA 26 THE TIDES 27 THE SOUND OF THE SEA 28 THE GALAXY 29 MY CATHEDRAL 30 AUTUMN 31 THE HARVEST MOON 32 ELIOT'S OAK 33 VENICE 34 GIOTTO'S TOWER 35 TO THE RIVER RHONE 36 BOSTON 37 ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE 38 NIGHT 39 CHIMES 40 NATURE 41 III. THE LIFE OF LETTERS DANTE 45 DIVINA COMMEDIA. I-VI 46 WOODSTOCK PARK 52 DEDICATION TO MICHAEL ANGELO 53 CHAUCER 54 SHAKESPEARE 55 MILTON 56 KEATS 57 IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN 58 THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS 59 WAPENTAKE 60 THE BURIAL OF THE POET 61 POSSIBILITIES 62 ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE 63 THE BROKEN OAR 64 THE FOUR PRINCESSES AT WILNA 65 THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES 66 THE POETS 67 MY BOOKS 68 APPENDIX : EXPERIMENTS AND TRANS- LATIONS IL PONTE VECCHIO DI FIRENZE 71 THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE 71 WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS COME BACK AGAIN? 72 THE GOOD SHEPHERD, BY LOPE DE VEGA 72 TO-MORROW, BY LOPE DE VEGA 73 THE NATIVE LAND, BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA 73 THE IMAGE OF GOD, BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA 74 THE BROOK 74 SEVEN SONNETS AND A CANZONE, BY MICHAEL ANGELO 75 TO ITALY, BY VlNCENZO DA FlLICAJA 79 THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT, BY HERNANDO DE HERRERA 79 IDEAL BEAUTY, BY HERNANDO DE HERRERA 80 THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT, BY HERNANDO DE HERRERA 80 ART AND NATURE, BY FRANCISCO DE ME- DRANO 8 I THE TWO HARVESTS, BY FRANCISCO DE ME- DRANO 8 I CLEAR HONOR OF THE LIQUID ELE- MENT, BY LUIS DE GONGORA Y ARGOTE 82 INTRODUCTION INTRODUCTION T is an interesting and remarkable fact that Longfellow's Sonnets were al- most entirely the product of his later life, of the years when his character was at its ripest and mellowest, and when he had attained to the most complete mastery of the technique of the poetic art. With the possible exception of a translation or two, his first sonnet was " Mezzo Cammin," written in 1 842, when he was thirty-five years old. Three years later he wrote the first Dante sonnet and "The Evening Star," and four years there- after the sonnet u On Mrs. Kemble's Readings from Shakespeare." Then if the accepted chronology of his work be veracious there was an interval of fifteen years without a son- net, until 1864, when the first of the " Divina Commedia" sonnets appeared. The last of this series of six was printed in 1867, and " Giotto's Tower" and "To-morrow" had been written in 1866. For six years again there were no more sonnets, but in the three years beginning with 1873 Longfellow seems to have taken up the form deliberately and seriously. In these three years he composed thirty-one sonnets, more than half of this collection, exclusive of translations. Thence onward the Sonnet was one of his favorite poetic vehicles. The sonnets of his last years include such wholly fine and characteristic pieces as "The Cross of Snow," written in 1879," My Books " and " President Garfield," writtenjn 1881, and "Possibilities," written in 1882, only a few weeks before his death. Inasmuch as more than three fourths of Longfellow's original sonnets were composed within the last decade of his life, it is evident that any attempt towards a chronological ar- rangement of them is beside the mark. It chances, however, that as one ponders the whole body of his work in this kind, it falls into a strikingly suggestive tripartite division ; and even within these divisions the pieces crystal- lize into something of a significant autobio- graphic arrangement. There are the Personal Sonnets, the Sonnets dealing with Nature, and, finally, those expressing the aims and admi- rations of the Life of Letters. And how char- acteristic is the range of mood and subject in the sonnets of each section. In such Personal Sonnets as " Mezzo Cammin," " The Two Rivers," " Sleep," Holidays," and " Memo- ries," we have shadowed forth that inner cur- rent of hopes and frustrations and attainments which is of the very essence of personality ; " The Evening Star " and " The Cross of Snow " reveal the depth of the poet's love; in " To-morrow " and " A Shadow " we learn his tender solicitude for his children, and in u Three Friends of Mine " the fine, firm ardor of his friendships. So in his Sonnets of Nature, full of the sentiment of the sea and the night, of New England woodland, and recollected travel, we behold the natural background of the poet's mind ; and in the pieces dealing with the Life of Letters we discover how real and living a thing to him was the age-long tra- dition, the apostolic succession, of the poets, and how fine was the idealism that filled those long tranquil years in the study at Craigie House. Even the Experiments and Transla- tions that have been grouped in the appendix to this volume have their characteristic signifi- cance, showing as they do the remarkable range of the poet's reading, the soundness of his critical preferences, and the masterly crafts- manship of his hand. To the student of sonnet technique and what reader of sonnets is incurious of their com- position ? Longfellow's Sonnets present a few points of the first interest. Our first glance at any one of them reveals what is perhaps their most striking peculiarity. Almost alone among English sonneteers Longfellow has invariably followed the strict Italian system of indentation, in which the first lines of the two quatrains of the octette and of the two tercets of the ses- tette are set out to the left without regard to the rhyming system, which, with most English sonnets, has determined the typographical ar- rangement. Many lovers of the sonnet have thought this far superior to the common English arrangement, both for its accentuation of the formal structure of the sonnet, and for its more compact and sculpturesque look upon the page. It will be found that in Longfellow's best pieces the structure of the mood and thought corre- sponds with singular fidelity and effectiveness to the physical ordonnance of the type. Despite this severity of structural form Long- fellow allows himself in one or two respects a considerable latitude. Save in two comparatively early pieces, " The Evening Star " and u On Mrs. Kemble's Readings from Shakespeare," he never concludes a sonnet with a couplet, which is apt to break the harmonious chime of linked terminations with too sharp a peal at the end, but three times at least, in u Mezzo Cammin," " Parker Cleaveland," and "Autumn," he ends with an Alexandrine. He makes, too, more liberal use of feminine rhymes than any other sonnet writer of equal eminence in our lan- guage. This last point is specially noteworthy. As the result, perhaps, of his Romance lore and large experience in translating from the Southern tongues Longfellow was a past mas- ter in the use of double rhymes. Three times, in the sonnet u On Mrs. Kemble's Readings from Shakespeare," and in the third and fourth numbers of the series entitled " The Two Rivers," he introduces them in the octette. Here their felicity is, to say the least, debata- ble, but in the many instances where they occur in the sestette they blend with that smooth harmony of vowels habitual with Longfellow, with the recollected cadences that afford the ripe sonnet reader one of his chief pleasures, and lend to the sonnet's close a rich romantic music that greatly charms the ear. The curious inquirer will notice that, barring translations, the feminine rhymes in the sestette are found only in the Sonnets of Nature, where they make forty per cent of the whole number. The im- aginative reader may explain this, if he so choose, by the greater lyricism of the poet's mood when stirred by natural beauty. When we leave these technical details behind us and approach Longfellow's Sonnets upon the higher poetic ground, when we place them in comparison with the other sonnet books of our literature, and read them for themselves, we shall discover that Longfellow's work in this kind is upon a more even and a higher level than any other similar body of sonnets that can readily be found. There is no single sonnet so fine and memorable as many of Shakespeare's, as a few of Milton's and Wordsworth's, and as sundry fortunate sonnets by other hands that are among the choicest treasures of Eng- lish poetry. The best of Longfellow's never have quite the intensity, the unforgetableness, of these greatest sonnets. Yet their average is incomparably high. They exhibit very notably the dignity and repose of mood which are es- sential to sustained success in sonnet-writing. In grave, nobly impassioned language, adorned with stately or vivid imagery, often pointed with some quaint and telling conceit, they express with completeness and beauty the pensively shadowed, tender, and generous spirit of one of the most sincere of poets. F. G. I PERSONAL SONNETS 'WITH THIS KEY SHAKESPEARE UNLOCKED HIS HEART' MEZZO CAMMIN HALF of my life is gone, and I have let The years slip from me and have not fulfilled The aspiration of my youth, to build Some tower of song with lofty parapet. Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret Of restless passions that would not be stilled, But sorrow, and a care that almost killed, Kept me from what I may accomplish yet; Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights, A city in the twilight dim and vast, With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights, - And hear above me on the autumnal blast The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights. AUGUST 25, 1842. THE TWO RIVERS SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round; So slowly that no human eye hath power To see it move ! Slowly in shine or shower The painted ship above it, homeward bound, Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground; Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour, A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night! The watershed of Time, from which the streams Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, One to the land of promise and of light, One to the land of darkness and of dreams! O River of Yesterday, with current swift Through chasms descending, and soon lost to sight, I do not care to follow in their flight The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift ! River of To-morrow, I uplift Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night Wanes into morning, and the dawning light Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift ! 1 follow, follow, where thy waters run Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, Fragrant with flowers and musical with song; Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun, And confident, that what the future yields Will be the right, unless myself be wrong. Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday, Through chasms of darkness to the deep descending, I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending Thy voice with other voices far away. I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay, But turbulent, and with thyself contending, And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending, Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay. Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings, Regrets and recollections of things past, With hints and prophecies of things to be, And inspirations, which, could they be things, And stay with us, and we could hold them fast, Were our good angels, these I owe to thee. And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing Between thy narrow adamantine walls, But beautiful, and white with waterfalls, And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing; I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing, I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls, And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's halls, Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going! It is the mystery of the unknown That fascinates us; we are children still, Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling To the familiar things we call our own, And with the other, resolute of will, Grope in the dark for what the day will bring. <*[ 8 ]-* ^ THE EVENING STAR Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, Like a fair lady at her casement, shines The evening star, the star of love and rest! And then anon she doth herself divest Of all her radiant garments, and reclines Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! My morning and my evening star of love! My best and gentlest lady ! even thus, As that fair planet in the sky above, Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, And from thy darkened window fades the light. TO-MORROW 'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep My little lambs are folded like the flocks; From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep Their solitary watch on tower and steep; Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, And through the opening door that time unlocks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. To-morrow ! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries to me: " Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest." And I make answer: "I am satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best; God hath already said what shall betide." *.[ 10 ] A NAMELESS GRAVE "A SOLDIER of the Union mustered out," Is the inscription on an unknown grave At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave, Nameless and dateless; sentinel or scout Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout Of battle, when the loud artillery drave Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt. Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea In thy forgotten grave ! with secret shame I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn, When I remember thou hast given for me All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name, And I can give thee nothing in return. SLEEP LULL me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound Seems from some faint ^Eolian harp-string caught; Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound; For I am weary, and am overwrought With too much toil, with too much care distraught, And with the iron crown of anguish crowned. Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek, peaceful Sleep ! until from pain released 1 breathe again uninterrupted breath ! Ah, with what subtle meaning did the Greek Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast Whereof the greater mystery is death! A SHADOW I SAID unto myself, if I were dead, What would befall these children ? What would be Their fate, who now are looking up to me For help and furtherance ? Their lives, I said, Would be a volume wherein I have read But the first chapters, and no longer see To read the rest of their dear history, So full of beauty and so full of dread. Be comforted; the world is very old, And generations pass, as they have passed, A troop of shadows moving with the sun; Thousands of times has the old tale been told; The world belongs to those who come the last, They will find hope and strength as we have done. 13 THREE FRIENDS OF MINE WHEN 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 Wander together in Elysian lands, Perchance remembering me, who am bereft Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile. 14 ] FELTON In Attica thy birthplace should have been, Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene! Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees; Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. 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! AGASSIZ 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 sea- weed 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 ? *.[ 1 6 ]*, SUMNER River, that stealest with such silent pace Around the City of the Dead, 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 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. <*.[ i8 ]* PARKER CLEAVELAND WRITTEN ON REVISITING BRUNSWICK IN THE SUMMER OF 1875 AMONG the many lives that I have known, None I remember more serene and sweet, More rounded in itself and more complete, Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone. These pines, that murmur in low monotone, These walks frequented by scholastic feet, Were all his world; but in this calm retreat For him the Teacher's chair became a throne. With fond affection memory loves to dwell On the old days, when his example made A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen; And now, amid the groves he loved so well That naught could lure him from their grateful shade, He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen! 19 PRESIDENT GARFIELD < E VENNI DAL MARTIR1O A QUESTA PACE/ Paradiso, xv, 148. THESE words the poet heard in Paradise, Uttered by one who, bravely dying here In the true faith, was living in that sphere Where the celestial cross of sacrifice Spread its protecting arms athwart the skies; And set thereon, like jewels crystal clear, The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear, Flashed their effulgence on his dazzled eyes. Ah me! how dark the discipline of pain, Were not the suffering followed by the sense Of infinite rest and infinite release! This is our consolation; and again A great soul cries to us in our suspense, " I came from martyrdom unto this peace ! " <*.[ 20 ]* HOLIDAYS THE holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart, When the full river of feeling overflows; The happy days unclouded to their close; The sudden joys that out of darkness start As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart Like swallows singing down each wind that blows ! White as the gleam of a receding sail, White as a cloud that floats and fades in air, White as the whitest lily on a stream, These tender memories are; a fairy tale Of some enchanted land we know not where, But lovely as a landscape in a dream. MEMORIES OFT I remember those whom I have known In other days, to whom my heart was led As by a magnet, and who are not dead, But absent, and their memories overgrown With other thoughts and troubles of my own, As graves with grasses are, and at their head The stone with moss and lichens so o'erspread, Nothing is legible but the name alone. And is it so with them ? After long years, Do they remember me in the same way, And is the memory pleasant as to me ? I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears ? Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay, And yet the root perennial may be. THE CROSS OF SNOW IN the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face the face of one long dead Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. Here in this room she died; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight. There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died. II NATURE