HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

(‡ decoration)HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.THE POET OF THE PEOPLE.“He who sung to one clear harp in divers tones.”IN an old square wooden house upon the edge of the sea” the most famous and most widely read of all American poets was born in Portland, Maine, February7th, 1807.In his personality, his wide range of themes, his learning and his wonderful power of telling stories in song, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow stood in his day and still stands easily in front of all other poets who have enriched American literature. Admitting that he was not rugged and elemental like Bryant and did not possess the latter’s feelings for the colossal features of wild scenery, that he was not profoundly thoughtful and transcendental like Emerson, that he was not so earnestly and passionately sympathetic as Whittier, nevertheless he was our first artist in poetry. Bryant, Emerson and Whittier commanded but a few stops of the grand instrument upon which they played; Longfellow understood perfectly all its capabilities. Critics also say that “he had not the high ideality or dramatic power of Tennyson or Browning.” But does he not hold something else which to the world at large is perhaps more valuable? Certainly these two great poets are inferior to him in the power to sweep the chords of daily human experiences and call forth the sweetness and beauty in common-place every day human life. It is on these themes that he tuned his harp without ever a false tone, and sang with a harmony so well nigh perfect that the universal heart responded to his music. This common-place song has found a lodgement in every household in America, “swaying the hearts of men and women whose sorrows have been soothed and whose lives raised by his gentle verse.”“Such songs have power to quietThe restless pulse of care,And come like the benedictionThat follows after prayer.”Longfellow’s life from the very beginning moved on even lines. Both he and William Cullen Bryant were descendants of John Alden, whom Longfellow has made famous in “The Courtship of Miles Standish.” The Longfellows were a family in comfortable circumstances, peaceful and honest, for many generations back.The poet went to school with Nathaniel P. Willis and other boys who at an early age were thinking more of verse making than of pleasure. He graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825 with Nathaniel Hawthorne, John S. C. Abbott, and others who afterwards attained to fame. Almost immediately after his graduation he was requested to take the chair of Modern Languages and Literature in hisalma mater, which he accepted; but before entering upon his duties spent three years in Germany, France, Spain and Italy to further perfect himself in the languages and literature of those nations. At Bowdoin College Longfellow remained as Professor of Modern Languages and Literature until 1835, when he accepted a similar position in Harvard University, which he continued to occupy until 1854, when he resigned, devoting the remainder of his life to literary work and to the enjoyment of the association of such friends as Charles Sumner the statesman, Hawthorne the romancer, Louis Agassiz the great naturalist, and James Russell Lowell, the brother poet who succeeded to the chair of Longfellow in Harvard University on the latter’s resignation.The home of Longfellow was not only a delightful place to visit on account of the cordial welcome extended by the companionable poet, but for its historic associations as well; for it was none other than the old “Cragie House” which had been Washington’s headquarters during the Revolutionary War, the past tradition and recent hospitality of which have been well told by G. W. Curtis in his “Homes of American Authors.” It was here that Longfellow surrounded himself with amagnificent library, and within these walls he composed all of his famous productions from 1839 until his death, which occurred there in 1882 at the age of seventy-five. The poet was twice married and was one of the most domestic of men. His first wife died suddenly in Europe during their sojourn in that country while Longfellow was pursuing his post graduate course of study before taking the chair in Bowdoin College. In 1843 he married Miss Frances Appleton, whom he had met in Europe and who figures in the pages of his romance “Hyperion.” In 1861 she met a most tragic death by stepping on a match which set fire to her clothing, causing injuries from which she died. She was buried on the19thanniversary of their marriage. By Longfellow’s own direction she was crowned with a wreath of orange blossoms commemorative of the day. The poet was so stricken with grief that for a year afterwards he did practically no work, and it is said neither in conversation nor in writing to his most intimate friends could he bear to refer to the sad event.Longfellow was one of the most bookish men in our literature. His knowledge of others’ thoughts and writings was so great that he became, instead of a creator in his poems, a painter of things already created. It is said that he never even owned a style of his own like Bryant and Poe, but assimilated what he saw or heard or read from books, reclothing it and sending it out again. This does not intimate that he was a plagiarist, but that he wrote out of the accumulated knowledge of others. “Evangeline,” for instance, was given him by Hawthorne, who had heard of the young people of Acadia and kept them in mind, intending to weave them into a romance. The forcible deportation of 18,000 French people touched Hawthorne as it perhaps never could have touched Longfellow except in literature, and also as it certainly never would have touched the world had not Longfellow woven the woof of the story in the threads of his song.“Evangeline” was brought out the same year with Tennyson’s “Princess” (1847), and divided honors with the latter even in England. In this poem, and in “The Courtship of Miles Standish” and other poems, the pictures of the new world are brought out with charming simplicity. Though Longfellow never visited Acadia or Louisiana, it is the real French village of Grand Pré and the real Louisiana, not a poetic dream that are described in this poem. So vivid were his descriptions that artists in Europe painted the scenes true to nature and vied with each other in painting the portrait of Evangeline, among several of which there is said to be so striking a resemblance as to suggest the idea that one had served as a copy for the others. The poem took such a hold upon the public, that both the poor man and the rich knew Longfellow as they knew not Tennyson their own poet. It was doubtless because he, though one of the most scholarly of men, always spoke so the plainest reader could understand.THE WAYSIDE INN.Scene of Longfellow’s Famous “Tales of the Wayside Inn.”In “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” (1863), the characters were not fictions, but real persons. Themusicianwas none other than the famous violinist, Ole Bull; Professor Luigi Monte, a close friend who dined every Sunday with Longfellow, was theSicilian;Dr.Henry Wales was theyouth; thepoetwas Thomas W. Parsons, and thetheologianwas his brother,Rev.S. W. Longfellow. This poem shows Longfellow at his best as a story teller, while the stories which are put into the mouth of these actual characters perhaps could have been written by no other living man, for they are from the literature of all countries, with which Longfellow was so familiar.Thus, both “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” and “Evangeline”—as many other of Longfellow’s poems—may be called compilations or rewritten stories, rather than creations, and it was these characteristics of his writings which Poe and Margaret Fuller, and others, who considered the realm of poetry to belong purely to the imagination rather than the real world, so bitterly criticised. While they did not deny to Longfellow a poetic genius, they thought he was prostituting it by forcing it to drudge in the province of prosaic subjects; and for this reason Poe predicted that he would not live in literature.It was but natural that Longfellow should write as he did. For thirty-five years he was an instructor in institutions of learning, and as such believed that poetry should be a thing of use as well as beauty. He could not agree with Poe that poetry was like music, only a pleasurable art. He had the triple object of stimulating to research and study, of impressing the mind with history or moral truths, and at the same time to touch and warm the heart of humanity. In all three directions he succeeded to such an extent that he has probably been read by more people than any other poet except the sacred Psalmist; and despite the predictions of his distinguished critics to the contrary, such poems as “The Psalm of Life,” (whichChas.Sumner allowed, to his knowledge, had saved one man from suicide), “The Children’s Hour,” and many others touching the every day experiences of the multitude, will find a glad echo in the souls of humanity as long as men shall read.THE PSALM OF LIFE.WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.This poem has gained wide celebrity as one ofMr.Longfellow’s most popular pieces, as has also the poem “Excelsior,” (hereafter quoted). They strike a popular chord and do some clever preaching and it is in this their chief merit consists. They are by no means among the author’s best poetic productions from a critical standpoint. Both these poems were written in early life.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;But to act, that each to-morrowFind us farther than to-day.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.In the world’s broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o’erhead!Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,A forlorn and shipwreck’d 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.THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.UNDER a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre 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 bellWhen the evening sun is low.They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from the threshing floor.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike 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.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 wipesA 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 friendFor the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of LifeOur fortunes must be wrought,Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.THE BRIDGE.A favorite haunt of Longfellow’s was the bridge between Boston and Cambridge, over which he had to pass, almost daily. “I always stop on the bridge,” he writes in his journal. “Tide waters are beautiful,” and again, “We leaned for a while on the wooden rails and enjoyed the silvery reflections of the sea, making sundry comparisons.” Among other thoughts, we have these cheering ones, that “The old sea was flashing with its heavenly light, though we saw it only in a single track; the dark waves are dark provinces of God; illuminous though not to us.”The following poem was the result of one of Longfellow’s reflections, while standing on this bridge at midnight.Istoodon the bridge at midnight,As the clocks were striking the hour,And the moon rose o’er the city,Behind the dark church tower;And like the waters rushingAmong the wooden piers,A flood of thought came o’er me,That filled my eyes with tears.How often, O how often,In the days that had gone by,I had stood on that bridge at midnight,And gazed on that wave and sky!How often, O how often,I had wished that the ebbing tideWould bear me away on its bosomO’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 othersThrows its shadow over me.Yet whenever I cross the riverOn its bridge with wooden piers,Like the odor of brine from the oceanComes the thought of other years.And I think how many thousandsOf care-encumbered men,Each having his burden of sorrow,Have crossed the bridge since then.I see the long processionStill passing to and fro,The young heart hot and restless,And the old, subdued and slow!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 reflectionAnd its shadows shall appear,As the symbol of love in heaven,And its wavering image here.RESIGNATION.THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside, howsoe’r defended,But has one vacant chair!The air is full of farewells to the dyingAnd mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,Will not be comforted!Let us be patient! These severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly dampsWhat seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven’s distant lamps.There is no Death! What seems so is transition:This life of mortal breathIs 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 schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.In that great cloister’s♦stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,She lives whom we call dead.Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbrokenThe 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;For when with raptures wildIn 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 expansionShall we behold her face.And though, at times, impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves moaning like the oceanThat cannot be at rest,—We will be patient, and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealingThe grief that must have way.♦‘stillnes’ replaced with ‘stillness’GOD’S ACRE.Ilikethat ancient Saxon phrase which callsThe burial-ground God’s acre! It is just;It consecrates each grave within its walls,And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust.God’s Acre! Yes, that blessed name impartsComfort to those who in the grave have sownThe seed that they had garnered in their hearts,Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.Into its furrows shall we all be cast,In the sure faith that we shall rise againAt the great harvest, when the archangel’s blastShall winnow, like a fan the chaff and grain.Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,In the fair gardens of that second birth;And each bright blossom mingle its perfumeWith that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;This is the field and Acre of our God!This is the place where human harvests grow!EXCELSIOR.THE shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,Excelsior!His brow was sad; his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior!In happy homes he saw the lightOf household fires gleam warm and bright;Above, the spectral glaciers shone,And from his lips escaped a groan,Excelsior!“Try not to Pass!” the old man said;“Dark lowers the tempest overhead,The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”And loud that clarion voice replied,Excelsior!“O, stay,” the maiden said, “and restThy 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!Beware the awful avalanche!”This was the peasant’s last Good-night;A voice replied, far up the height,Excelsior!At break of day, as heavenwardThe pious monks of Saint BernardUttered the oft-repeated prayer,A voice cried through the startled air,Excelsior!A traveler, by the faithful hound,Half-buried in the snow was found,Still grasping in his hand of iceThat 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 RAINY DAY.THE day is cold, and dark and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,But at every gust the dead leaves fall,And the day is dark and dreary.My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary.Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark dreary.THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.The writing of the following poem, “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” was occasioned by the news of a ship-wreck on the coast near Gloucester, and by the name of a reef—“Norman’s Woe”—where many disasters occurred. It was written one night between twelve and three o’clock, and cost the poet, it is said, hardly an effort.IT was the schooner HesperusThat 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 budsThat ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now west, now south.Then up and spake an old sailor,Had sailed the Spanish main:“I pray thee put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.“Last night the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!”The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and colder blew the wind,A gale from the north-east;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable’s length.“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,And do not tremble so,For I can weather the roughest galeThat 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.“Oh father! I hear the church-bells ring,Oh say what may it be?”“’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast;”And he steered for the open sea.“Oh father! I hear the sound of guns,Oh, say, what may it be?”“Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea.”“O father! I see a gleaming light,Oh, say, what may it be?”But the father answered never a word—A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face to the skies,The lantern gleamed, through the gleaming snow,On his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayedThat saved she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wavesOn 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,Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.And ever, the fitful gusts between,A sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts, went by the board;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 fairLashed 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 WoeTHE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.SOMEWHAT back from the village streetStands the old-fashioned country seat;Across its antique porticoTall poplar trees their shadows throw;And, from its station in the hall,An ancient timepiece says to all,“Forever—never!Never—forever!”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,“Forever—never!Never—forever!”Through days of sorrow and of mirth,Through days of death and days of birth,Through every swift vicissitudeOf 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 beFree-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;Oh, precious hours! oh, golden primeAnd 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;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 careAnd death, and time shall disappear,—Forever there, but never here!The horologe of EternitySayeth this incessantly,“Forever—never!Never—forever!”THE SKELETON IN ARMOR.The writing of this famous ballad was suggested toMr.Longfellow by the digging up of a mail-clad skeleton at Fall-River, Massachusetts—a circumstance which the poet linked with the traditions about the Round Tower at Newport, thus giving to it the spirit of a Norse Viking song of war and of the sea. It is written in the swift leaping meter employed by Drayton in his “Ode to the Cambro Britons on their Harp.”SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor drest,Comest to daunt me!Wrapt not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretch’d, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?”Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water’s flowUnder December’s snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart’s chamber.“I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou 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 ger-falcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimm’d the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on.“Oft to his frozen lairTrack’d I the grizzly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf’s bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow.“But when I older grew,Joining a corsair’s crew,O’er the dark sea I flewWith 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-boutWore the long winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk’s taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Fill’d to o’erflowing.“Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning out tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor.“I woo’d the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest’s shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosen’d vestFlutter’d her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted.“Bright in her father’s hallShields gleam’d upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI ask’d his daughter’s hand,Mute did the minstrel standTo hear my story.“While the brown ale he quaff’dLoud then the champion laugh’d,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly.“She was a Prince’s child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blush’d and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew’s flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?“Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,—Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!—When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armed hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen.“Then launch’d they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind fail’d us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hail’d us.“And as to catch the galeRound veer’d the flapping sail,Death! was the helmsman’s hail,Death without quarter!Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel;Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water.“As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden.So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden.“Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o’er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to lee-ward;There for my lady’s bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking sea-ward.“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,Under that tower she lies;Ne’er shall the sun ariseOn such another!“Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sun-light hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,O, death was grateful!“Thus, seam’d with many scarsBursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior’s soul,Skål!to the Northland!skål!”¹—Thus the tale ended.¹Skål! is the Swedish expression for “Your Health.”KING WITLAF’S DRINKING-HORN.WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,Ere yet his last he breathed,To the merry monks of CroylandHis drinking-horn bequeathed,—That, whenever they sat at their revels,And drank from the golden bowl,They might remember the donor,And breathe a prayer for his soul.So sat they once at Christmas,And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistenedLike dew-drops in the grass.They drank to the soul of Witlaf,They drank to Christ the Lord,And to each of the Twelve Apostles,Who had preached his holy word.They drank to the Saints and MartyrsOf the dismal days of yore,And as soon as the horn was emptyThey remembered one Saint more.And the reader droned from the pulpit,Like the murmur of many bees,The legend of good Saint GuthlacAnd Saint Basil’s homilies;Till the great bells of the convent,From their prison in the tower,Guthlac and Bartholomæus,Proclaimed the midnight hour.And the Yule-log cracked in the chimneyAnd the Abbot bowed his head,And the flamelets flapped and flickered,But the Abbot was stark and dead.Yet still in his pallid fingersHe clutched the golden bowl,In which, like a pearl dissolving,Had sunk and dissolved his soul.But not for this their revelsThe jovial monks forbore,For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!We must drink to one Saint more!”EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE.BEAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the riverFell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the gardenPoured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessionsUnto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night dews,Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlightSeemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees,Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-fliesGleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Upharsin.”And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel! O my beloved!Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers.When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?”Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill soundedLike a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.“Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow!”LITERARY FAME.As a specimen ofMr.Longfellow’s prose style we present the following extract from his “Hyperion,” written when the poet was comparatively a young man.TIME has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But, as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature,—Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Posterity shall never question their titles. But those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if they had never been. To this great oblivion must most men come. It is better, therefore, that they should soon make up their minds to this: well knowing that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them, so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an individual being among men; but be resolved and incorporated into the universe of thought.Yes, it is better that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive, in what they do, than the approbation of men, which is Fame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve much,—at times even this victory over himself; being persuaded that fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.It has become a common saying, that men of genius are always in advance of their age; which is true. There is something equally true, yet not so common; namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but of every age. As the German prose-poet says, every possible future is behind them. We cannot suppose that a period of time will ever arrive, when the world, or any considerable portion of it, shall have come up abreast with these great minds, so as fully to comprehend them.And, oh! how majestically they walk in history! some like the sun, “with all his traveling glories round him;” others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. Through the else silent darkness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, and, above and behind, the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils!And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,—not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their lives. They were in want, and in pain, and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of dungeons. Oh, I have looked with wonder upon those who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily discomfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death, have worked right on to the accomplishment of their great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, fulfilling much;—and then, with shattered nerves, and sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the grave, and slept the sleep of death,—and the world talks of them, while they sleep!It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had but sanctified them! As if the death-angel, in passing, had touched them with the hem of his garment, and made them holy! As if the hand of disease had been stretched out over them only to make the sign of the cross upon their souls! And as in the sun’s eclipse we can behold the great stars shining in the heavens, so in this life-eclipse have these men beheld the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and forever!Souvenir of Longfellow

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THE POET OF THE PEOPLE.

“He who sung to one clear harp in divers tones.”

IN an old square wooden house upon the edge of the sea” the most famous and most widely read of all American poets was born in Portland, Maine, February7th, 1807.

In his personality, his wide range of themes, his learning and his wonderful power of telling stories in song, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow stood in his day and still stands easily in front of all other poets who have enriched American literature. Admitting that he was not rugged and elemental like Bryant and did not possess the latter’s feelings for the colossal features of wild scenery, that he was not profoundly thoughtful and transcendental like Emerson, that he was not so earnestly and passionately sympathetic as Whittier, nevertheless he was our first artist in poetry. Bryant, Emerson and Whittier commanded but a few stops of the grand instrument upon which they played; Longfellow understood perfectly all its capabilities. Critics also say that “he had not the high ideality or dramatic power of Tennyson or Browning.” But does he not hold something else which to the world at large is perhaps more valuable? Certainly these two great poets are inferior to him in the power to sweep the chords of daily human experiences and call forth the sweetness and beauty in common-place every day human life. It is on these themes that he tuned his harp without ever a false tone, and sang with a harmony so well nigh perfect that the universal heart responded to his music. This common-place song has found a lodgement in every household in America, “swaying the hearts of men and women whose sorrows have been soothed and whose lives raised by his gentle verse.”

“Such songs have power to quietThe restless pulse of care,And come like the benedictionThat follows after prayer.”

“Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.”

Longfellow’s life from the very beginning moved on even lines. Both he and William Cullen Bryant were descendants of John Alden, whom Longfellow has made famous in “The Courtship of Miles Standish.” The Longfellows were a family in comfortable circumstances, peaceful and honest, for many generations back.The poet went to school with Nathaniel P. Willis and other boys who at an early age were thinking more of verse making than of pleasure. He graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825 with Nathaniel Hawthorne, John S. C. Abbott, and others who afterwards attained to fame. Almost immediately after his graduation he was requested to take the chair of Modern Languages and Literature in hisalma mater, which he accepted; but before entering upon his duties spent three years in Germany, France, Spain and Italy to further perfect himself in the languages and literature of those nations. At Bowdoin College Longfellow remained as Professor of Modern Languages and Literature until 1835, when he accepted a similar position in Harvard University, which he continued to occupy until 1854, when he resigned, devoting the remainder of his life to literary work and to the enjoyment of the association of such friends as Charles Sumner the statesman, Hawthorne the romancer, Louis Agassiz the great naturalist, and James Russell Lowell, the brother poet who succeeded to the chair of Longfellow in Harvard University on the latter’s resignation.

The home of Longfellow was not only a delightful place to visit on account of the cordial welcome extended by the companionable poet, but for its historic associations as well; for it was none other than the old “Cragie House” which had been Washington’s headquarters during the Revolutionary War, the past tradition and recent hospitality of which have been well told by G. W. Curtis in his “Homes of American Authors.” It was here that Longfellow surrounded himself with amagnificent library, and within these walls he composed all of his famous productions from 1839 until his death, which occurred there in 1882 at the age of seventy-five. The poet was twice married and was one of the most domestic of men. His first wife died suddenly in Europe during their sojourn in that country while Longfellow was pursuing his post graduate course of study before taking the chair in Bowdoin College. In 1843 he married Miss Frances Appleton, whom he had met in Europe and who figures in the pages of his romance “Hyperion.” In 1861 she met a most tragic death by stepping on a match which set fire to her clothing, causing injuries from which she died. She was buried on the19thanniversary of their marriage. By Longfellow’s own direction she was crowned with a wreath of orange blossoms commemorative of the day. The poet was so stricken with grief that for a year afterwards he did practically no work, and it is said neither in conversation nor in writing to his most intimate friends could he bear to refer to the sad event.

Longfellow was one of the most bookish men in our literature. His knowledge of others’ thoughts and writings was so great that he became, instead of a creator in his poems, a painter of things already created. It is said that he never even owned a style of his own like Bryant and Poe, but assimilated what he saw or heard or read from books, reclothing it and sending it out again. This does not intimate that he was a plagiarist, but that he wrote out of the accumulated knowledge of others. “Evangeline,” for instance, was given him by Hawthorne, who had heard of the young people of Acadia and kept them in mind, intending to weave them into a romance. The forcible deportation of 18,000 French people touched Hawthorne as it perhaps never could have touched Longfellow except in literature, and also as it certainly never would have touched the world had not Longfellow woven the woof of the story in the threads of his song.

“Evangeline” was brought out the same year with Tennyson’s “Princess” (1847), and divided honors with the latter even in England. In this poem, and in “The Courtship of Miles Standish” and other poems, the pictures of the new world are brought out with charming simplicity. Though Longfellow never visited Acadia or Louisiana, it is the real French village of Grand Pré and the real Louisiana, not a poetic dream that are described in this poem. So vivid were his descriptions that artists in Europe painted the scenes true to nature and vied with each other in painting the portrait of Evangeline, among several of which there is said to be so striking a resemblance as to suggest the idea that one had served as a copy for the others. The poem took such a hold upon the public, that both the poor man and the rich knew Longfellow as they knew not Tennyson their own poet. It was doubtless because he, though one of the most scholarly of men, always spoke so the plainest reader could understand.

THE WAYSIDE INN.Scene of Longfellow’s Famous “Tales of the Wayside Inn.”

THE WAYSIDE INN.

Scene of Longfellow’s Famous “Tales of the Wayside Inn.”

In “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” (1863), the characters were not fictions, but real persons. Themusicianwas none other than the famous violinist, Ole Bull; Professor Luigi Monte, a close friend who dined every Sunday with Longfellow, was theSicilian;Dr.Henry Wales was theyouth; thepoetwas Thomas W. Parsons, and thetheologianwas his brother,Rev.S. W. Longfellow. This poem shows Longfellow at his best as a story teller, while the stories which are put into the mouth of these actual characters perhaps could have been written by no other living man, for they are from the literature of all countries, with which Longfellow was so familiar.

Thus, both “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” and “Evangeline”—as many other of Longfellow’s poems—may be called compilations or rewritten stories, rather than creations, and it was these characteristics of his writings which Poe and Margaret Fuller, and others, who considered the realm of poetry to belong purely to the imagination rather than the real world, so bitterly criticised. While they did not deny to Longfellow a poetic genius, they thought he was prostituting it by forcing it to drudge in the province of prosaic subjects; and for this reason Poe predicted that he would not live in literature.

It was but natural that Longfellow should write as he did. For thirty-five years he was an instructor in institutions of learning, and as such believed that poetry should be a thing of use as well as beauty. He could not agree with Poe that poetry was like music, only a pleasurable art. He had the triple object of stimulating to research and study, of impressing the mind with history or moral truths, and at the same time to touch and warm the heart of humanity. In all three directions he succeeded to such an extent that he has probably been read by more people than any other poet except the sacred Psalmist; and despite the predictions of his distinguished critics to the contrary, such poems as “The Psalm of Life,” (whichChas.Sumner allowed, to his knowledge, had saved one man from suicide), “The Children’s Hour,” and many others touching the every day experiences of the multitude, will find a glad echo in the souls of humanity as long as men shall read.

THE PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

This poem has gained wide celebrity as one ofMr.Longfellow’s most popular pieces, as has also the poem “Excelsior,” (hereafter quoted). They strike a popular chord and do some clever preaching and it is in this their chief merit consists. They are by no means among the author’s best poetic productions from a critical standpoint. Both these poems were written in early life.

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;But to act, that each to-morrowFind us farther than to-day.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.In the world’s broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o’erhead!Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,A forlorn and shipwreck’d 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.

ELL 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;

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 marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,—act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwreck’d 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.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre 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 bellWhen the evening sun is low.

NDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is 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.

They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from the threshing floor.

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from the threshing floor.

And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike 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.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 wipesA 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 friendFor the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of LifeOur fortunes must be wrought,Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.

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 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.

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!

Thus at the flaming forge of Life

Our fortunes must be wrought,

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

THE BRIDGE.

A favorite haunt of Longfellow’s was the bridge between Boston and Cambridge, over which he had to pass, almost daily. “I always stop on the bridge,” he writes in his journal. “Tide waters are beautiful,” and again, “We leaned for a while on the wooden rails and enjoyed the silvery reflections of the sea, making sundry comparisons.” Among other thoughts, we have these cheering ones, that “The old sea was flashing with its heavenly light, though we saw it only in a single track; the dark waves are dark provinces of God; illuminous though not to us.”

The following poem was the result of one of Longfellow’s reflections, while standing on this bridge at midnight.

Istoodon the bridge at midnight,As the clocks were striking the hour,And the moon rose o’er the city,Behind the dark church tower;And like the waters rushingAmong the wooden piers,A flood of thought came o’er me,That filled my eyes with tears.How often, O how often,In the days that had gone by,I had stood on that bridge at midnight,And gazed on that wave and sky!How often, O how often,I had wished that the ebbing tideWould bear me away on its bosomO’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 othersThrows its shadow over me.Yet whenever I cross the riverOn its bridge with wooden piers,Like the odor of brine from the oceanComes the thought of other years.And I think how many thousandsOf care-encumbered men,Each having his burden of sorrow,Have crossed the bridge since then.I see the long processionStill passing to and fro,The young heart hot and restless,And the old, subdued and slow!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 reflectionAnd its shadows shall appear,As the symbol of love in heaven,And its wavering image here.

stoodon the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,

And the moon rose o’er the city,

Behind the dark church tower;

And like the waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thought came o’er me,

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight,

And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, O 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 having his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,

And the old, subdued and slow!

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.

RESIGNATION.

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside, howsoe’r defended,But has one vacant chair!The air is full of farewells to the dyingAnd mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,Will not be comforted!Let us be patient! These severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly dampsWhat seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven’s distant lamps.There is no Death! What seems so is transition:This life of mortal breathIs 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 schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.In that great cloister’s♦stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,She lives whom we call dead.Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbrokenThe 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;For when with raptures wildIn 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 expansionShall we behold her face.And though, at times, impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves moaning like the oceanThat cannot be at rest,—We will be patient, and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealingThe grief that must have way.

HERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe’r 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!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

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.

Day after day we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air;

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;

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.

♦‘stillnes’ replaced with ‘stillness’

GOD’S ACRE.

Ilikethat ancient Saxon phrase which callsThe burial-ground God’s acre! It is just;It consecrates each grave within its walls,And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust.God’s Acre! Yes, that blessed name impartsComfort to those who in the grave have sownThe seed that they had garnered in their hearts,Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.Into its furrows shall we all be cast,In the sure faith that we shall rise againAt the great harvest, when the archangel’s blastShall winnow, like a fan the chaff and grain.Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,In the fair gardens of that second birth;And each bright blossom mingle its perfumeWith that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;This is the field and Acre of our God!This is the place where human harvests grow!

likethat ancient Saxon phrase which calls

The burial-ground God’s acre! It is just;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust.

God’s Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those who in the grave have sown

The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast

Shall winnow, like a fan the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth;

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God!

This is the place where human harvests grow!

EXCELSIOR.

THE shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,Excelsior!His brow was sad; his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior!In happy homes he saw the lightOf household fires gleam warm and bright;Above, the spectral glaciers shone,And from his lips escaped a groan,Excelsior!“Try not to Pass!” the old man said;“Dark lowers the tempest overhead,The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”And loud that clarion voice replied,Excelsior!“O, stay,” the maiden said, “and restThy 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!Beware the awful avalanche!”This was the peasant’s last Good-night;A voice replied, far up the height,Excelsior!At break of day, as heavenwardThe pious monks of Saint BernardUttered the oft-repeated prayer,A voice cried through the startled air,Excelsior!A traveler, by the faithful hound,Half-buried in the snow was found,Still grasping in his hand of iceThat 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!

HE 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!

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;

Above, the spectral glaciers shone,

And from his lips escaped a groan,

Excelsior!

“Try not to Pass!” the old man said;

“Dark lowers the tempest overhead,

The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”

And loud that clarion voice replied,

Excelsior!

“O, 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!

Beware the awful avalanche!”

This was the peasant’s last Good-night;

A voice replied, far up the height,

Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward

The pious monks of Saint Bernard

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,

Excelsior!

A traveler, 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 RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,But at every gust the dead leaves fall,And the day is dark and dreary.My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary.Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark dreary.

HE day is cold, and dark and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark dreary.

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

The writing of the following poem, “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” was occasioned by the news of a ship-wreck on the coast near Gloucester, and by the name of a reef—“Norman’s Woe”—where many disasters occurred. It was written one night between twelve and three o’clock, and cost the poet, it is said, hardly an effort.

IT was the schooner HesperusThat 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 budsThat ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now west, now south.Then up and spake an old sailor,Had sailed the Spanish main:“I pray thee put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.“Last night the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!”The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and colder blew the wind,A gale from the north-east;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable’s length.“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,And do not tremble so,For I can weather the roughest galeThat 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.“Oh father! I hear the church-bells ring,Oh say what may it be?”“’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast;”And he steered for the open sea.“Oh father! I hear the sound of guns,Oh, say, what may it be?”“Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea.”“O father! I see a gleaming light,Oh, say, what may it be?”But the father answered never a word—A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face to the skies,The lantern gleamed, through the gleaming snow,On his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayedThat saved she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wavesOn 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,Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.And ever, the fitful gusts between,A sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts, went by the board;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 fairLashed 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

T 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 watched how the veering flaw did blow

The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor,

Had sailed the Spanish main:

“I pray thee put into yonder port,

For I fear a hurricane.

“Last night the moon had a golden ring,

And to-night no moon we see!”

The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,

And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and colder blew the wind,

A gale from the north-east;

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 steed,

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.

“Oh father! I hear the church-bells ring,

Oh say what may it be?”

“’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast;”

And he steered for the open sea.

“Oh 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?”

But the father answered never a word—

A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,

With his face 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 waves

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,

Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.

And ever, the fitful gusts between,

A sound came from the land;

It was the sound of the trampling surf

On the rocks and 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;

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

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

SOMEWHAT back from the village streetStands the old-fashioned country seat;Across its antique porticoTall poplar trees their shadows throw;And, from its station in the hall,An ancient timepiece says to all,“Forever—never!Never—forever!”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,“Forever—never!Never—forever!”Through days of sorrow and of mirth,Through days of death and days of birth,Through every swift vicissitudeOf 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 beFree-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;Oh, precious hours! oh, golden primeAnd 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;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 careAnd death, and time shall disappear,—Forever there, but never here!The horologe of EternitySayeth this incessantly,“Forever—never!Never—forever!”

OMEWHAT back from the village street

Stands the old-fashioned country seat;

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;

And, from its station in the hall,

An ancient timepiece says to all,

“Forever—never!

Never—forever!”

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,

“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;

Oh, precious hours! oh, 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;

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!”

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR.

The writing of this famous ballad was suggested toMr.Longfellow by the digging up of a mail-clad skeleton at Fall-River, Massachusetts—a circumstance which the poet linked with the traditions about the Round Tower at Newport, thus giving to it the spirit of a Norse Viking song of war and of the sea. It is written in the swift leaping meter employed by Drayton in his “Ode to the Cambro Britons on their Harp.”

SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor drest,Comest to daunt me!Wrapt not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretch’d, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?”Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water’s flowUnder December’s snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart’s chamber.“I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou 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 ger-falcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimm’d the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on.“Oft to his frozen lairTrack’d I the grizzly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf’s bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow.“But when I older grew,Joining a corsair’s crew,O’er the dark sea I flewWith 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-boutWore the long winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk’s taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Fill’d to o’erflowing.“Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning out tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor.“I woo’d the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest’s shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosen’d vestFlutter’d her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted.“Bright in her father’s hallShields gleam’d upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI ask’d his daughter’s hand,Mute did the minstrel standTo hear my story.“While the brown ale he quaff’dLoud then the champion laugh’d,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly.“She was a Prince’s child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blush’d and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew’s flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?“Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,—Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!—When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armed hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen.“Then launch’d they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind fail’d us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hail’d us.“And as to catch the galeRound veer’d the flapping sail,Death! was the helmsman’s hail,Death without quarter!Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel;Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water.“As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden.So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden.“Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o’er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to lee-ward;There for my lady’s bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking sea-ward.“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,Under that tower she lies;Ne’er shall the sun ariseOn such another!“Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sun-light hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,O, death was grateful!“Thus, seam’d with many scarsBursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior’s soul,Skål!to the Northland!skål!”¹—Thus the tale ended.

PEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!

Who, with thy hollow breast

Still in rude armor drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in Eastern balms,

But with thy fleshless palms

Stretch’d, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?”

Then, from those cavernous eyes

Pale flashes seemed to rise,

As when the Northern skies

Gleam in December;

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 old!

My deeds, though manifold,

No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!

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 ger-falcon;

And, with my skates fast-bound,

Skimm’d the half-frozen Sound,

That the poor whimpering hound

Trembled to walk on.

“Oft to his frozen lair

Track’d I the grizzly bear,

While from my path the hare

Fled like a shadow;

Oft through the forest dark

Followed the were-wolf’s 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 tale

Measured in cups of ale,

Draining the oaken pail,

Fill’d to o’erflowing.

“Once as I told in glee

Tales of the stormy sea,

Soft eyes did gaze on me,

Burning out tender;

And as the white stars shine

On the dark Norway pine,

On that dark heart of mine

Fell their soft splendor.

“I woo’d the blue-eyed maid,

Yielding, yet half afraid,

And in the forest’s shade

Our vows were plighted.

Under its loosen’d vest

Flutter’d her little breast,

Like birds within their nest

By the hawk frighted.

“Bright in her father’s hall

Shields gleam’d upon the wall,

Loud sang the minstrels all,

Chanting his glory;

When of old Hildebrand

I ask’d his daughter’s hand,

Mute did the minstrel stand

To hear my story.

“While the brown ale he quaff’d

Loud then the champion laugh’d,

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.

“She was a Prince’s child,

I but a Viking wild,

And though she blush’d 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 launch’d they to the blast,

Bent like a reed each mast,

Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind fail’d us;

And with a sudden flaw

Came round the gusty Skaw,

So that our foe we saw

Laugh as he hail’d us.

“And as to catch the gale

Round veer’d the flapping sail,

Death! was the helmsman’s hail,

Death without quarter!

Mid-ships with iron keel

Struck we her ribs of steel;

Down her black hulk did reel

Through the black water.

“As with his wings aslant,

Sails the fierce cormorant,

Seeking some rocky haunt,

With his prey laden.

So toward the open main,

Beating to sea again,

Through the wild hurricane,

Bore I the maiden.

“Three weeks we westward bore,

And when the storm was o’er,

Cloud-like we saw the shore

Stretching to lee-ward;

There for my lady’s bower

Built I the lofty tower,

Which, to this very hour,

Stands looking sea-ward.

“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,

Under that tower she lies;

Ne’er shall the sun arise

On such another!

“Still grew my bosom then,

Still as a stagnant fen!

Hateful to me were men,

The sun-light hateful!

In the vast forest here,

Clad in my warlike gear,

Fell I upon my spear,

O, death was grateful!

“Thus, seam’d 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,

Skål!to the Northland!skål!”¹

—Thus the tale ended.

¹Skål! is the Swedish expression for “Your Health.”

KING WITLAF’S DRINKING-HORN.

WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,Ere yet his last he breathed,To the merry monks of CroylandHis drinking-horn bequeathed,—That, whenever they sat at their revels,And drank from the golden bowl,They might remember the donor,And breathe a prayer for his soul.So sat they once at Christmas,And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistenedLike dew-drops in the grass.They drank to the soul of Witlaf,They drank to Christ the Lord,And to each of the Twelve Apostles,Who had preached his holy word.They drank to the Saints and MartyrsOf the dismal days of yore,And as soon as the horn was emptyThey remembered one Saint more.And the reader droned from the pulpit,Like the murmur of many bees,The legend of good Saint GuthlacAnd Saint Basil’s homilies;Till the great bells of the convent,From their prison in the tower,Guthlac and Bartholomæus,Proclaimed the midnight hour.And the Yule-log cracked in the chimneyAnd the Abbot bowed his head,And the flamelets flapped and flickered,But the Abbot was stark and dead.Yet still in his pallid fingersHe clutched the golden bowl,In which, like a pearl dissolving,Had sunk and dissolved his soul.But not for this their revelsThe jovial monks forbore,For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!We must drink to one Saint more!”

ITLAF, a king of the Saxons,

Ere yet his last he breathed,

To the merry monks of Croyland

His drinking-horn bequeathed,—

That, whenever they sat at their revels,

And drank from the golden bowl,

They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,

And bade the goblet pass;

In their beards the red wine glistened

Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,

They drank to Christ the Lord,

And to each of the Twelve Apostles,

Who had preached his holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs

Of the dismal days of yore,

And as soon as the horn was empty

They remembered one Saint more.

And the reader droned from the pulpit,

Like the murmur of many bees,

The legend of good Saint Guthlac

And Saint Basil’s homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,

From their prison in the tower,

Guthlac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney

And the Abbot bowed his head,

And the flamelets flapped and flickered,

But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl,

In which, like a pearl dissolving,

Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revels

The jovial monks forbore,

For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!

We must drink to one Saint more!”

EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE.

BEAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the riverFell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the gardenPoured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessionsUnto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night dews,Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlightSeemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees,Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-fliesGleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Upharsin.”And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel! O my beloved!Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers.When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?”Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill soundedLike a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.“Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow!”

EAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,

Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river

Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night dews,

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,

As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees,

Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.

Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies

Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Upharsin.”

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,

Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel! O my beloved!

Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?

Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!

Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!

Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,

Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers.

When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?”

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded

Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,

Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.

“Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow!”

LITERARY FAME.

As a specimen ofMr.Longfellow’s prose style we present the following extract from his “Hyperion,” written when the poet was comparatively a young man.

TIME has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But, as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature,—Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Posterity shall never question their titles. But those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if they had never been. To this great oblivion must most men come. It is better, therefore, that they should soon make up their minds to this: well knowing that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them, so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an individual being among men; but be resolved and incorporated into the universe of thought.Yes, it is better that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive, in what they do, than the approbation of men, which is Fame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve much,—at times even this victory over himself; being persuaded that fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.It has become a common saying, that men of genius are always in advance of their age; which is true. There is something equally true, yet not so common; namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but of every age. As the German prose-poet says, every possible future is behind them. We cannot suppose that a period of time will ever arrive, when the world, or any considerable portion of it, shall have come up abreast with these great minds, so as fully to comprehend them.And, oh! how majestically they walk in history! some like the sun, “with all his traveling glories round him;” others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. Through the else silent darkness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, and, above and behind, the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils!And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,—not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their lives. They were in want, and in pain, and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of dungeons. Oh, I have looked with wonder upon those who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily discomfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death, have worked right on to the accomplishment of their great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, fulfilling much;—and then, with shattered nerves, and sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the grave, and slept the sleep of death,—and the world talks of them, while they sleep!It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had but sanctified them! As if the death-angel, in passing, had touched them with the hem of his garment, and made them holy! As if the hand of disease had been stretched out over them only to make the sign of the cross upon their souls! And as in the sun’s eclipse we can behold the great stars shining in the heavens, so in this life-eclipse have these men beheld the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and forever!

Yes, it is better that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive, in what they do, than the approbation of men, which is Fame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve much,—at times even this victory over himself; being persuaded that fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.

It has become a common saying, that men of genius are always in advance of their age; which is true. There is something equally true, yet not so common; namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but of every age. As the German prose-poet says, every possible future is behind them. We cannot suppose that a period of time will ever arrive, when the world, or any considerable portion of it, shall have come up abreast with these great minds, so as fully to comprehend them.

And, oh! how majestically they walk in history! some like the sun, “with all his traveling glories round him;” others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. Through the else silent darkness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, and, above and behind, the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils!

And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,—not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their lives. They were in want, and in pain, and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of dungeons. Oh, I have looked with wonder upon those who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily discomfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death, have worked right on to the accomplishment of their great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, fulfilling much;—and then, with shattered nerves, and sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the grave, and slept the sleep of death,—and the world talks of them, while they sleep!

It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had but sanctified them! As if the death-angel, in passing, had touched them with the hem of his garment, and made them holy! As if the hand of disease had been stretched out over them only to make the sign of the cross upon their souls! And as in the sun’s eclipse we can behold the great stars shining in the heavens, so in this life-eclipse have these men beheld the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and forever!

Souvenir of Longfellow

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