HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Born Feb. 27, 1807. Died March 24, 1882.

William W. Story.

A pure sweet spirit, generous and largeWas thine, dear poet. Calm, unturbulent,Its course along Life’s varying ways it went,Like some broad river on whose happy margeAre noble groves, lawns, towns—which takes the chargeOf peaceful freights from inward regions sentFor human use and help and heart’s content,And bears Love’s sunlit sails and Beauty’s barge.So brimming, deepening ever to the seaThrough gloom and sun, reflecting inwardlyThe ever-changing heavens of day and night,Thy life flowed on, from all low passions free,Filled with high thoughts, charmed into PoesyTo all the world a solace and delight.

A pure sweet spirit, generous and large

Was thine, dear poet. Calm, unturbulent,

Its course along Life’s varying ways it went,

Like some broad river on whose happy marge

Are noble groves, lawns, towns—which takes the charge

Of peaceful freights from inward regions sent

For human use and help and heart’s content,

And bears Love’s sunlit sails and Beauty’s barge.

So brimming, deepening ever to the sea

Through gloom and sun, reflecting inwardly

The ever-changing heavens of day and night,

Thy life flowed on, from all low passions free,

Filled with high thoughts, charmed into Poesy

To all the world a solace and delight.

Yes, we were warm friends. He was a delightful man and a great poet. Hawthorne, Emerson, Longfellow, and myself were always friends. There were no jealousies between us, and each took a pride in the work and successes of the other. We would exchange notes upon our productions, and if one saw a kindly notice of the other it was always cut out and sent him.—John G. Whittier.

The magnetism of Longfellow’s touch lies in the broad humanity of his sympathy which commends his poetry to the universal heart. His artistic sense is so exquisite that each of his poems is a valuable literary study. Longfellow’s mind takes a simple, childlike hold of life. His delightful familiarity with the pure literature of all languages and times must rank him among the learned poets.—George William Curtis.

It is a singular fact that Longfellow is more popular in England than Tennyson, the laureate. Yet perhaps it is not so very singular. He sings like one whose heart has been warmed at the hearth-stone. There is hardly a line of his but would rhyme with the chirp of the cricket; hearts are hearts whatever blood quickens them, and he has touched the heart as no other poet of his day has. Is there any one whose life is likely to remind us more forcibly of the sublimity of patience, truth, purity, and all the virtues than that of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow?—Richard Henry Stoddard.

A poetical atmosphere, an aroma, hung about Longfellow as about no other of our poets. He was associated with memories of the early years of the republic; with the picturesque epoch of our national existence; with the dawn of democratic institutions, with the flushing hope which reddened the sky when the young nation committed itself so cordially to faith in man. His name was seldom spoken except in connection with charity and good-will. And when he died, the sorrow of the greatest and of the least was equally sincere.—Rev. Octavius B. Frothingham.

Can it be that a man like this is dead? I cannot believe it. Like a lark that sings and soars, and still sings fading out of sight in the blue heavens. I cannot believe that he has gone because he has disappeared from our view. A rounded life was his; his work was done. Where has he gone? We may not know as yet. So far as we are concerned, he has gone, to quote his own words, “into the silent land.” We will rejoice that he has left behind him words that will sing their song of trust and hope for many a year to come.—Rev. Minot J. Savage.

Awake! arise! the hour is late!Angels are knocking at thy door!They are in haste and cannot wait,And once departed come no more.A Fragment.

Awake! arise! the hour is late!Angels are knocking at thy door!They are in haste and cannot wait,And once departed come no more.

Awake! arise! the hour is late!

Angels are knocking at thy door!

They are in haste and cannot wait,

And once departed come no more.

A Fragment.

Bear a lily in thy hand;Gates of brass cannot withstandOne touch of that magic wand.Maidenhood.

Bear a lily in thy hand;Gates of brass cannot withstandOne touch of that magic wand.

Bear a lily in thy hand;

Gates of brass cannot withstand

One touch of that magic wand.

Maidenhood.

Closed was the teacher’s task, and with heaven in their hearts and their facesUp rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely,Downward to kiss that reverend hand.Children of the Lord’s Supper.

Closed was the teacher’s task, and with heaven in their hearts and their facesUp rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely,Downward to kiss that reverend hand.

Closed was the teacher’s task, and with heaven in their hearts and their faces

Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely,

Downward to kiss that reverend hand.

Children of the Lord’s Supper.

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.Resignation.

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.

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.

Resignation.

Each heart has its haunted chamber,Where the silent moonlight falls!On the floor are mysterious footsteps,There are whispers along the walls!The Haunted Chamber.

Each heart has its haunted chamber,Where the silent moonlight falls!On the floor are mysterious footsteps,There are whispers along the walls!

Each heart has its haunted chamber,

Where the silent moonlight falls!

On the floor are mysterious footsteps,

There are whispers along the walls!

The Haunted Chamber.

“Farewell!” the portly landlord cried;“Farewell!” the parting guests replied,But little thought that never moreTheir feet would pass that threshold o’er.Tales of a Wayside Inn.

“Farewell!” the portly landlord cried;“Farewell!” the parting guests replied,But little thought that never moreTheir feet would pass that threshold o’er.

“Farewell!” the portly landlord cried;

“Farewell!” the parting guests replied,

But little thought that never more

Their feet would pass that threshold o’er.

Tales of a Wayside Inn.

Gone are all the barons bold,Gone are all the knights and squires;Gone the abbot, stern and cold,And the brotherhood of friars.Oliver Basselin.

Gone are all the barons bold,Gone are all the knights and squires;Gone the abbot, stern and cold,And the brotherhood of friars.

Gone are all the barons bold,

Gone are all the knights and squires;

Gone the abbot, stern and cold,

And the brotherhood of friars.

Oliver Basselin.

How many centuries has it beenAbout those deserts blown!How many strange vicissitudes has seen,How many histories known!Sand of the Desert.

How many centuries has it beenAbout those deserts blown!How many strange vicissitudes has seen,How many histories known!

How many centuries has it been

About those deserts blown!

How many strange vicissitudes has seen,

How many histories known!

Sand of the Desert.

It sees the ocean to its bosom claspThe rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace,It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,And hold it up and shake it like a fleece.The Lighthouse.

It sees the ocean to its bosom claspThe rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace,It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,And hold it up and shake it like a fleece.

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace,

It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,

And hold it up and shake it like a fleece.

The Lighthouse.

Just above yon sandy bar,As the day grows faint and dimmer,Lonely and lovely, a single starLights the air with a dusky glimmer.Chrysaor.

Just above yon sandy bar,As the day grows faint and dimmer,Lonely and lovely, a single starLights the air with a dusky glimmer.

Just above yon sandy bar,

As the day grows faint and dimmer,

Lonely and lovely, a single star

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer.

Chrysaor.

Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children, a crucifix fastenedHigh on the trunk of the tree. This was their rural chapel.Evangeline.

Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children, a crucifix fastenedHigh on the trunk of the tree. This was their rural chapel.

Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children, a crucifix fastened

High on the trunk of the tree. This was their rural chapel.

Evangeline.

Left to myself, I wander as I will,And as my fancy leads me, through this house;Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete,Were I indeed the goddess that he deems me.The Masque of Pandora.

Left to myself, I wander as I will,And as my fancy leads me, through this house;Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete,Were I indeed the goddess that he deems me.

Left to myself, I wander as I will,

And as my fancy leads me, through this house;

Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete,

Were I indeed the goddess that he deems me.

The Masque of Pandora.

Month after month passed away, and in autumn the ships of the merchantsCame with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims.The Courtship of Miles Standish.

Month after month passed away, and in autumn the ships of the merchantsCame with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims.

Month after month passed away, and in autumn the ships of the merchants

Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims.

The Courtship of Miles Standish.

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face,Came from their convent on the shining heightsOf Pierus, the mountain of delights,To dwell among the people at its base.The Nine Muses.

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face,Came from their convent on the shining heightsOf Pierus, the mountain of delights,To dwell among the people at its base.

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face,

Came from their convent on the shining heights

Of Pierus, the mountain of delights,

To dwell among the people at its base.

The Nine Muses.

“O Cæsar, we who are about to dieSalute you!” was the gladiators’ cryIn the arena, standing face to faceWith death and with the Roman populace.Morituri Salutamus.

“O Cæsar, we who are about to dieSalute you!” was the gladiators’ cryIn the arena, standing face to faceWith death and with the Roman populace.

“O Cæsar, we who are about to die

Salute you!” was the gladiators’ cry

In the arena, standing face to face

With death and with the Roman populace.

Morituri Salutamus.

Peradventure of old, some bard in Ionian Islands,Walking alone by the sea, hearing the wash of the waves,Learned the secret from them of the beautiful verse elegiac.Elegiac Verse.

Peradventure of old, some bard in Ionian Islands,Walking alone by the sea, hearing the wash of the waves,Learned the secret from them of the beautiful verse elegiac.

Peradventure of old, some bard in Ionian Islands,

Walking alone by the sea, hearing the wash of the waves,

Learned the secret from them of the beautiful verse elegiac.

Elegiac Verse.

Quiet, close, and warm,Sheltered from all molestation,And recalling by their voicesYouth and travel.To an Old Danish Song-book.

Quiet, close, and warm,Sheltered from all molestation,And recalling by their voicesYouth and travel.

Quiet, close, and warm,

Sheltered from all molestation,

And recalling by their voices

Youth and travel.

To an Old Danish Song-book.

River! that in silence windestThrough the meadows, bright and free,Till at length thy rest thou findestIn the bosom of the sea!To the River Charles.

River! that in silence windestThrough the meadows, bright and free,Till at length thy rest thou findestIn the bosom of the sea!

River! that in silence windest

Through the meadows, bright and free,

Till at length thy rest thou findest

In the bosom of the sea!

To the River Charles.

Sudden and swift, a whistling ballCame out of a wood, and the voice was still;Something I heard in the darkness fall,And for a moment my blood grew chill.Killed at the Ford.

Sudden and swift, a whistling ballCame out of a wood, and the voice was still;Something I heard in the darkness fall,And for a moment my blood grew chill.

Sudden and swift, a whistling ball

Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;

Something I heard in the darkness fall,

And for a moment my blood grew chill.

Killed at the Ford.

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal handOutstretched with benedictions o’er the land,Blessing the farms through all thy vast domains.Autumn.

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal handOutstretched with benedictions o’er the land,Blessing the farms through all thy vast domains.

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

Outstretched with benedictions o’er the land,

Blessing the farms through all thy vast domains.

Autumn.

Up soared the lark into the air,—A shaft of song, a winged prayer,As if a soul, released from pain,Were flying back to heaven again.The Sermon of St. Francis.

Up soared the lark into the air,—A shaft of song, a winged prayer,As if a soul, released from pain,Were flying back to heaven again.

Up soared the lark into the air,—

A shaft of song, a winged prayer,

As if a soul, released from pain,

Were flying back to heaven again.

The Sermon of St. Francis.

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.The Belfry of Bruges.

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;

They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.

The Belfry of Bruges.

Whereunto is money good?Who has it not wants hardihood;Who has it has much trouble and care;Who once has had it has despair.Poetic Aphorisms.

Whereunto is money good?Who has it not wants hardihood;Who has it has much trouble and care;Who once has had it has despair.

Whereunto is money good?

Who has it not wants hardihood;

Who has it has much trouble and care;

Who once has had it has despair.

Poetic Aphorisms.

“Excelsior!”Excelsior.

“Excelsior!”

Excelsior.

Youth is lovely, age is lonely,Youth is fiery, age is frosty;You bring back the days departed,And the beautiful Wenonah.Hiawatha.

Youth is lovely, age is lonely,Youth is fiery, age is frosty;You bring back the days departed,And the beautiful Wenonah.

Youth is lovely, age is lonely,

Youth is fiery, age is frosty;

You bring back the days departed,

And the beautiful Wenonah.

Hiawatha.

Zeal was stronger than fear or love.Tales of a Wayside Inn.

Zeal was stronger than fear or love.

Tales of a Wayside Inn.

[An early poem, not usually published.]

I sat by my window one night,And watched how the stars grew high,And the earth and skies were a splendid sightTo a sober and musing eye.From heaven the silver moon shone down,With a gentle and mellow ray,And beneath, the crowded roofs of the townIn broad light and shadow lay.A glory was on the silent sea,And mainland and island too,Till a haze came over the lowland lea,And shrouded the beautiful blue.Bright in the moon the autumn woodIts crimson scarf unrolled,And the trees like a splendid army stood,In a panoply of gold!I saw them waving their banners high,As their crests to the night wind bowed;And a distant sound on the air went by,Like the whispering of a crowd.Then I watched from my windows how fastThe lights around me fled,As the wearied man to his slumber passed,And the sick one to his bed.All faded save one; that burnedWith a distant and steady light;But that, too, went out, and I turnedWhen my own lamp within shone bright!Thus, thought I, our joys must die;Yes, the brightest from earth we win;Till each turns away, with a sigh,To the lamp that burns brightly within.

I sat by my window one night,And watched how the stars grew high,And the earth and skies were a splendid sightTo a sober and musing eye.

I sat by my window one night,

And watched how the stars grew high,

And the earth and skies were a splendid sight

To a sober and musing eye.

From heaven the silver moon shone down,With a gentle and mellow ray,And beneath, the crowded roofs of the townIn broad light and shadow lay.

From heaven the silver moon shone down,

With a gentle and mellow ray,

And beneath, the crowded roofs of the town

In broad light and shadow lay.

A glory was on the silent sea,And mainland and island too,Till a haze came over the lowland lea,And shrouded the beautiful blue.

A glory was on the silent sea,

And mainland and island too,

Till a haze came over the lowland lea,

And shrouded the beautiful blue.

Bright in the moon the autumn woodIts crimson scarf unrolled,And the trees like a splendid army stood,In a panoply of gold!

Bright in the moon the autumn wood

Its crimson scarf unrolled,

And the trees like a splendid army stood,

In a panoply of gold!

I saw them waving their banners high,As their crests to the night wind bowed;And a distant sound on the air went by,Like the whispering of a crowd.

I saw them waving their banners high,

As their crests to the night wind bowed;

And a distant sound on the air went by,

Like the whispering of a crowd.

Then I watched from my windows how fastThe lights around me fled,As the wearied man to his slumber passed,And the sick one to his bed.

Then I watched from my windows how fast

The lights around me fled,

As the wearied man to his slumber passed,

And the sick one to his bed.

All faded save one; that burnedWith a distant and steady light;But that, too, went out, and I turnedWhen my own lamp within shone bright!

All faded save one; that burned

With a distant and steady light;

But that, too, went out, and I turned

When my own lamp within shone bright!

Thus, thought I, our joys must die;Yes, the brightest from earth we win;Till each turns away, with a sigh,To the lamp that burns brightly within.

Thus, thought I, our joys must die;

Yes, the brightest from earth we win;

Till each turns away, with a sigh,

To the lamp that burns brightly within.

The panting City cried to the Sea,“I am faint with heat,—O breathe on me!”And the Sea said, “Lo, I breathe! but my breathTo some will be life, to others death!”As to Prometheus, bringing easeIn pain, come the Oceanides,So to the City, hot with flameOf the pitiless sun, the east wind came.It came from the heaving breast of the deep,Silent as dreams are, and sudden as sleep.Life-giving, death-giving, which will it be,O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea?

The panting City cried to the Sea,“I am faint with heat,—O breathe on me!”

The panting City cried to the Sea,

“I am faint with heat,—O breathe on me!”

And the Sea said, “Lo, I breathe! but my breathTo some will be life, to others death!”

And the Sea said, “Lo, I breathe! but my breath

To some will be life, to others death!”

As to Prometheus, bringing easeIn pain, come the Oceanides,

As to Prometheus, bringing ease

In pain, come the Oceanides,

So to the City, hot with flameOf the pitiless sun, the east wind came.

So to the City, hot with flame

Of the pitiless sun, the east wind came.

It came from the heaving breast of the deep,Silent as dreams are, and sudden as sleep.

It came from the heaving breast of the deep,

Silent as dreams are, and sudden as sleep.

Life-giving, death-giving, which will it be,O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea?

Life-giving, death-giving, which will it be,

O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea?

When I compareWhat I have lost with what I have gained,What I have missed with what attained,Little room do I find for pride.I am awareHow many days have been idly spent;How like an arrow the good intentHas fallen short or been turned aside.But who shall dareTo measure loss and gain in this wise?Defeat may be victory in disguise;The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

When I compareWhat I have lost with what I have gained,What I have missed with what attained,Little room do I find for pride.

When I compare

What I have lost with what I have gained,

What I have missed with what attained,

Little room do I find for pride.

I am awareHow many days have been idly spent;How like an arrow the good intentHas fallen short or been turned aside.

I am aware

How many days have been idly spent;

How like an arrow the good intent

Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dareTo measure loss and gain in this wise?Defeat may be victory in disguise;The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

But who shall dare

To measure loss and gain in this wise?

Defeat may be victory in disguise;

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

Garlands upon his grave,And flowers upon his hearse,And to the tender heart and braveThe tribute of this verse.His was the troubled life,The conflict and the pain,The grief, the bitterness of strife,The honor without stain.Death takes us by surprise,And stays our hurrying feet;The great design unfinished lies,Our lives are incomplete.But in the dark unknownPerfect their circles seem,Even as a bridge’s arch of stoneIs rounded in the stream.Were a star quenched on high,For ages would its light,Still traveling downward from the sky,Shine on our mortal sight.So when a great man dies,For years beyond our kenThe light he leaves behind him liesUpon the paths of men.

Garlands upon his grave,And flowers upon his hearse,And to the tender heart and braveThe tribute of this verse.

Garlands upon his grave,

And flowers upon his hearse,

And to the tender heart and brave

The tribute of this verse.

His was the troubled life,The conflict and the pain,The grief, the bitterness of strife,The honor without stain.

His was the troubled life,

The conflict and the pain,

The grief, the bitterness of strife,

The honor without stain.

Death takes us by surprise,And stays our hurrying feet;The great design unfinished lies,Our lives are incomplete.

Death takes us by surprise,

And stays our hurrying feet;

The great design unfinished lies,

Our lives are incomplete.

But in the dark unknownPerfect their circles seem,Even as a bridge’s arch of stoneIs rounded in the stream.

But in the dark unknown

Perfect their circles seem,

Even as a bridge’s arch of stone

Is rounded in the stream.

Were a star quenched on high,For ages would its light,Still traveling downward from the sky,Shine on our mortal sight.

Were a star quenched on high,

For ages would its light,

Still traveling downward from the sky,

Shine on our mortal sight.

So when a great man dies,For years beyond our kenThe light he leaves behind him liesUpon the paths of men.

So when a great man dies,

For years beyond our ken

The light he leaves behind him lies

Upon the paths of men.

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