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The Song of Hiawatha
"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!Growing by the rushing river,Tall and stately in the valley!I a light canoe will build me,Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,That shall float upon the river,Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,Like a yellow water-lily!"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,For the Summer-time is coming,And the sun is warm in heaven,And you need no white-skin wrapper!"Thus aloud cried HiawathaIn the solitary forest,By the rushing Taquamenaw,When the birds were singing gayly,In the Moon of Leaves were singing,And the sun, from sleep awaking,Started up and said, "Behold me!Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"And the tree with all its branchesRustled in the breeze of morning,Saying, with a sigh of patience,"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"With his knife the tree he girdled;Just beneath its lowest branches,Just above the roots, he cut it,Till the sap came oozing outward;Down the trunk, from top to bottom,Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,With a wooden wedge he raised it,Stripped it from the trunk unbroken."Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!Of your strong and pliant branches,My canoe to make more steady,Make more strong and firm beneath me!"Through the summit of the CedarWent a sound, a cry of horror,Went a murmur of resistance;But it whispered, bending downward,"Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,Like two bows he formed and shaped them,Like two bended bows together."Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!My canoe to bind together,So to bind the ends togetherThat the water may not enter,That the river may not wet me!"And the Larch, with all its fibres,Shivered in the air of morning,Touched his forehead with its tassels,Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"From the earth he tore the fibres,Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,Closely sewed the bark together,Bound it closely to the frame-work."Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!Of your balsam and your resin,So to close the seams togetherThat the water may not enter,That the river may not wet me!"And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,Rattled like a shore with pebbles,Answered wailing, answered weeping,"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"And he took the tears of balsam,Took the resin of the Fir-tree,Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,Made each crevice safe from water."Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!I will make a necklace of them,Make a girdle for my beauty,And two stars to deck her bosom!"From a hollow tree the HedgehogWith his sleepy eyes looked at him,Shot his shining quills, like arrows,Saying with a drowsy murmur,Through the tangle of his whiskers,"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"From the ground the quills he gathered,All the little shining arrows,Stained them red and blue and yellow,With the juice of roots and berries;Into his canoe he wrought them,Round its waist a shining girdle,Round its bows a gleaming necklace,On its breast two stars resplendent.Thus the Birch Canoe was buildedIn the valley, by the river,In the bosom of the forest;And the forest's life was in it,All its mystery and its magic,All the lightness of the birch-tree,All the toughness of the cedar,All the larch's supple sinews;And it floated on the riverLike a yellow leaf in Autumn,Like a yellow water-lily.Paddles none had Hiawatha,Paddles none he had or needed,For his thoughts as paddles served him,And his wishes served to guide him;Swift or slow at will he glided,Veered to right or left at pleasure.Then he called aloud to Kwasind,To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,Saying, "Help me clear this riverOf its sunken logs and sand-bars."Straight into the river KwasindPlunged as if he were an otter,Dived as if he were a beaver,Stood up to his waist in water,To his arm-pits in the river,Swam and shouted in the river,Tugged at sunken logs and branches,With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,With his feet the ooze and tangle.And thus sailed my HiawathaDown the rushing Taquamenaw,Sailed through all its bends and windings,Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.Up and down the river went they,In and out among its islands,Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,Dragged the dead trees from its channel,Made its passage safe and certain,Made a pathway for the people,From its springs among the mountains,To the waters of Pauwating,To the bay of Taquamenau.
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Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,On the shining Big-Sea-Water,With his fishing-line of cedar,Of the twisted bark of cedar,Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,In his birch canoe exultingAll alone went Hiawatha.Through the clear, transparent waterHe could see the fishes swimmingFar down in the depths below him;See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,Like a sunbeam in the water,See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,Like a spider on the bottom,On the white and sandy bottom.At the stern sat Hiawatha,With his fishing-line of cedar;In his plumes the breeze of morningPlayed as in the hemlock branches;On the bows, with tail erected,Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;In his fur the breeze of morningPlayed as in the prairie grasses.On the white sand of the bottomLay the monster Mishe-Nahma,Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;Through his gills he breathed the water,With his fins he fanned and winnowed,With his tail he swept the sand-floor.There he lay in all his armor;On each side a shield to guard him,Plates of bone upon his forehead,Down his sides and back and shouldersPlates of bone with spines projecting!Painted was he with his war-paints,Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.Spots of brown and spots of sable;And he lay there on the bottom,Fanning with his fins of purple,As above him HiawathaIn his birch canoe came sailing,With his fishing-line of cedar."Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,Down into the depths beneath him,"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!Come up from below the water,Let us see which is the stronger!"And he dropped his line of cedarThrough the clear, transparent water,Waited vainly for an answer,Long sat waiting for an answer,And repeating loud and louder,"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,Fanning slowly in the water,Looking up at Hiawatha,Listening to his call and clamor,His unnecessary tumult,Till he wearied of the shouting;And he said to the Kenozha,To the pike, the Maskenozha,"Take the bait of this rude fellow,Break the line of Hiawatha!"In his fingers HiawathaFelt the loose line jerk and tighten;As he drew it in, it tugged soThat the birch canoe stood endwise,Like a birch log in the water,With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Perched and frisking on the summit.Full of scorn was HiawathaWhen he saw the fish rise upward,Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,Coming nearer, nearer to him,And he shouted through the water,"Esa! esa! shame upon you!You are but the pike, Kenozha,You are not the fish I wanted,You are not the King of Fishes!"Reeling downward to the bottomSank the pike in great confusion,And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,To the bream, with scales of crimson,"Take the bait of this great boaster,Break the line of Hiawatha!"Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,Seized the line of Hiawatha,Swung with all his weight upon it,Made a whirlpool in the water,Whirled the birch canoe in circles,Round and round in gurgling eddies,Till the circles in the waterReached the far-off sandy beaches,Till the water-flags and rushesNodded on the distant margins.But when Hiawatha saw himSlowly rising through the water,Lifting up his disk refulgent,Loud he shouted in derision,"Esa! esa! shame upon you!You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,You are not the fish I wanted,You are not the King of Fishes!"Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,And again the sturgeon, Nahma,Heard the shout of Hiawatha,Heard his challenge of defiance,The unnecessary tumult,Ringing far across the water.From the white sand of the bottomUp he rose with angry gesture,Quivering in each nerve and fibre,Clashing all his plates of armor,Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;In his wrath he darted upward,Flashing leaped into the sunshine,Opened his great jaws, and swallowedBoth canoe and Hiawatha.Down into that darksome cavernPlunged the headlong Hiawatha,As a log on some black riverShoots and plunges down the rapids,Found himself in utter darkness,Groped about in helpless wonder,Till he felt a great heart beating,Throbbing in that utter darkness.And he smote it in his anger,With his fist, the heart of Nahma.Felt the mighty King of FishesShudder through each nerve and fibre,Heard the water gurgle round himAs he leaped and staggered through it,Sick at heart, and faint and weary.Crosswise then did HiawathaDrag his birch-canoe for safety,Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,In the turmoil and confusion,Forth he might be hurled and perish.And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Frisked and chattered very gayly,Toiled and tugged with HiawathaTill the labor was completed.Then said Hiawatha to him,"O my little friend, the squirrel,Bravely have you toiled to help me;Take the thanks of Hiawatha,And the name which now he gives you;For hereafter and foreverBoys shall call you Adjidaumo,Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"And again the sturgeon, Nahma,Gasped and quivered in the water,Then was still, and drifted landwardTill he grated on the pebbles,Till the listening HiawathaHeard him grate upon the margin,Felt him strand upon the pebbles,Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,Lay there dead upon the margin.Then he heard a clang and flapping,As of many wings assembling,Heard a screaming and confusion,As of birds of prey contending,Saw a gleam of light above him,Shining through the ribs of Nahma,Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,Gazing at him through the opening,Heard them saying to each other,"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"And he shouted from below them,Cried exulting from the caverns:"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;Make the rifts a little larger,With your claws the openings widen,Set me free from this dark prison,And henceforward and foreverMen shall speak of your achievements,Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"And the wild and clamorous sea-gullsToiled with beak and claws together,Made the rifts and openings widerIn the mighty ribs of Nahma,And from peril and from prison,From the body of the sturgeon,From the peril of the water,They released my Hiawatha.He was standing near his wigwam,On the margin of the water,And he called to old Nokomis,Called and beckoned to Nokomis,Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,Lying lifeless on the pebbles,With the sea-gulls feeding on him."I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;Drive them not away, Nokomis,They have saved me from great perilIn the body of the sturgeon,Wait until their meal is ended,Till their craws are full with feasting,Till they homeward fly, at sunset,To their nests among the marshes;Then bring all your pots and kettles,And make oil for us in Winter."And she waited till the sun set,Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,Rose above the tranquil water,Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,From their banquet rose with clamor,And across the fiery sunsetWinged their way to far-off islands,To their nests among the rushes.To his sleep went Hiawatha,And Nokomis to her labor,Toiling patient in the moonlight,Till the sun and moon changed places,Till the sky was red with sunrise,And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,Came back from the reedy islands,Clamorous for their morning banquet.Three whole days and nights alternateOld Nokomis and the sea-gullsStripped the oily flesh of Nahma,Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,Till the sea-gulls came no longer,And upon the sands lay nothingBut the skeleton of Nahma.
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The Building of the Ship
"Build me straight, O worthy Master!Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,That shall laugh at all disaster,And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"The merchant's wordDelighted the Master heard;For his heart was in his work, and the heartGiveth grace unto every Art.A quiet smile played round his lips,As the eddies and dimples of the tidePlay round the bows of ships,That steadily at anchor ride.And with a voice that was full of glee,He answered, "Erelong we will launchA vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,As ever weathered a wintry sea!"And first with nicest skill and art,Perfect and finished in every part,A little model the Master wrought,Which should be to the larger planWhat the child is to the man,Its counterpart in miniature;That with a hand more swift and sureThe greater labor might be broughtTo answer to his inward thought.And as he labored, his mind ran o'erThe various ships that were built of yore,And above them all, and strangest of allTowered the Great Harry, crank and tall,Whose picture was hanging on the wall,With bows and stern raised high in air,And balconies hanging here and there,And signal lanterns and flags afloat,And eight round towers, like those that frownFrom some old castle, looking downUpon the drawbridge and the moat.And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,Shall be of another form than this!"It was of another form, indeed;Built for freight, and yet for speed,A beautiful and gallant craft;Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,Pressing down upon sail and mast,Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;Broad in the beam, but sloping aftWith graceful curve and slow degrees,That she might be docile to the helm,And that the currents of parted seas,Closing behind, with mighty force,Might aid and not impede her course.In the ship-yard stood the Master,With the model of the vessel,That should laugh at all disaster,And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!Covering many a rood of ground,Lay the timber piled around;Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,And scattered here and there, with these,The knarred and crooked cedar knees;Brought from regions far away,From Pascagoula's sunny bay,And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!Ah! what a wondrous thing it isTo note how many wheels of toilOne thought, one word, can set in motion!There's not a ship that sails the ocean,But every climate, every soil,Must bring its tribute, great or small,And help to build the wooden wall!The sun was rising o'er the sea,And long the level shadows lay,As if they, too, the beams would beOf some great, airy argosy,Framed and launched in a single day.That silent architect, the sun,Had hewn and laid them every one,Ere the work of man was yet begun.Beside the Master, when he spoke,A youth, against an anchor leaning,Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.Only the long waves, as they brokeIn ripples on the pebbly beach,Interrupted the old man's speech.Beautiful they were, in sooth,The old man and the fiery youth!The old man, in whose busy brainMany a ship that sailed the mainWas modelled o'er and o'er again;—The fiery youth, who was to beThe heir of his dexterity,The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,When he had built and launched from landWhat the elder head had planned."Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!Lay square the blocks upon the slip,And follow well this plan of mine.Choose the timbers with greatest care;Of all that is unsound beware;For only what is sound and strongTo this vessel shall belong.Cedar of Maine and Georgia pineHere together shall combine.A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,And the UNION be her name!For the day that gives her to the seaShall give my daughter unto thee!"The Master's wordEnraptured the young man heard;And as he turned his face aside,With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,Standing beforeHer father's door,He saw the form of his promised bride.The sun shone on her golden hair,And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.Like a beauteous barge was she,Still at rest on the sandy beach,Just beyond the billow's reach;But heWas the restless, seething, stormy sea!Ah, how skilful grows the handThat obeyeth Love's command!It is the heart, and not the brain,That to the highest doth attain,And he who followeth Love's behestFar excelleth all the rest!Thus with the rising of the sunWas the noble task begun,And soon throughout the ship-yard's boundsWere heard the intermingled soundsOf axes and of mallets, pliedWith vigorous arms on every side;Plied so deftly and so well,That, ere the shadows of evening fell,The keel of oak for a noble ship,Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,Was lying ready, and stretched alongThe blocks, well placed upon the slip.Happy, thrice happy, every oneWho sees his labor well begun,And not perplexed and multiplied,By idly waiting for time and tide!And when the hot, long day was o'er,The young man at the Master's doorSat with the maiden calm and still,And within the porch, a little moreRemoved beyond the evening chill,The father sat, and told them talesOf wrecks in the great September gales,Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,And ships that never came back again,The chance and change of a sailor's life,Want and plenty, rest and strife,His roving fancy, like the wind,That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,And the magic charm of foreign lands,With shadows of palms, and shining sands,Where the tumbling surf,O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.And the trembling maiden held her breathAt the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,With all its terror and mystery,The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,That divides and yet unites mankind!And whenever the old man paused, a gleamFrom the bowl of his pipe would awhile illumeThe silent group in the twilight gloom,And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;And for a moment one might markWhat had been hidden by the dark,That the head of the maiden lay at rest,Tenderly, on the young man's breast!Day by day the vessel grew,With timbers fashioned strong and true,Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,Till, framed with perfect symmetry,A skeleton ship rose up to view!And around the bows and along the sideThe heavy hammers and mallets plied,Till after many a week, at length,Wonderful for form and strength,Sublime in its enormous bulk,Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seethingCaldron, that glowed,And overflowedWith the black tar, heated for the sheathing.And amid the clamorsOf clattering hammers,He who listened heard now and thenThe song of the Master and his men:—"Build me straight, O worthy Master,Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,That shall laugh at all disaster,And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"With oaken brace and copper band,Lay the rudder on the sand,That, like a thought, should have controlOver the movement of the whole;And near it the anchor, whose giant handWould reach down and grapple with the land,And immovable and fastHold the great ship against the bellowing blast!And at the bows an image stood,By a cunning artist carved in wood,With robes of white, that far behindSeemed to be fluttering in the wind.It was not shaped in a classic mould,Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,Or Naiad rising from the water,But modelled from the Master's daughter!On many a dreary and misty night,'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,Speeding along through the rain and the dark,Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,The pilot of some phantom bark,Guiding the vessel, in its flight,By a path none other knows aright!Behold, at last,Each tall and tapering mastIs swung into its place;Shrouds and staysHolding it firm and fast!Long ago,In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,When upon mountain and plainLay the snow,They fell,—those lordly pines!Those grand, majestic pines!'Mid shouts and cheersThe jaded steers,Panting beneath the goad,Dragged down the weary, winding roadThose captive kings so straight and tall,To be shorn of their streaming hair,And naked and bare,To feel the stress and the strainOf the wind and the reeling main,Whose roarWould remind them forevermoreOf their native forests they should not see again.And everywhereThe slender, graceful sparsPoise aloft in the air,And at the mast-head,White, blue, and red,A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,In foreign harbors shall beholdThat flag unrolled,'T will be as a friendly handStretched out from his native land,Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!All is finished! and at lengthHas come the bridal dayOf beauty and of strength.To-day the vessel shall be launched!With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,And o'er the bay,Slowly, in all its splendors dight,The great sun rises to behold the sight.The ocean old,Centuries old,Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,Paces restless to and fro,Up and down the sands of gold.His beating heart is not at rest;And far and wide,With ceaseless flow,His beard of snowHeaves with the heaving of his breast.He waits impatient for his bride.There she stands,With her foot upon the sands,Decked with flags and streamers gay,In honor of her marriage day,Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,Round her like a veil descending,Ready to beThe bride of the gray old sea.On the deck another brideIs standing by her lover's side.Shadows from the flags and shrouds,Like the shadows cast by clouds,Broken by many a sudden fleck,Fall around them on the deck.The prayer is said,The service read,The joyous bridegroom bows his head;And in tears the good old MasterShakes the brown hand of his son,Kisses his daughter's glowing cheekIn silence, for he cannot speak,And ever fasterDown his own the tears begin to run.The worthy pastor—The shepherd of that wandering flock,That has the ocean for its wold,That has the vessel for its fold,Leaping ever from rock to rockSpake, with accents mild and clear,Words of warning, words of cheer,But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.He knew the chartOf the sailor's heart,All its pleasures and its griefs,All its shallows and rocky reefs,All those secret currents, that flowWith such resistless undertow,And lift and drift, with terrible force,The will from its moorings and its course.Therefore he spake, and thus said he:—"Like unto ships far off at sea,Outward or homeward bound, are we.Before, behind, and all around,Floats and swings the horizon's bound,Seems at its distant rim to riseAnd climb the crystal wall of the skies,And then again to turn and sink,As if we could slide from its outer brink.Ah! it is not the sea,It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,But ourselvesThat rock and riseWith endless and uneasy motion,Now touching the very skies,Now sinking into the depths of ocean.Ah! if our souls but poise and swingLike the compass in its brazen ring,Ever level and ever trueTo the toil and the task we have to do,We shall sail securely, and safely reachThe Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beachThe sights we see, and the sounds we hear,Will be those of joy and not of fear!"Then the Master,With a gesture of command,Waved his hand;And at the word,Loud and sudden there was heard,All around them and below,The sound of hammers, blow on blow,Knocking away the shores and spurs.And see! she stirs!She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feelThe thrill of life along her keel,And, spurning with her foot the ground,With one exulting, joyous bound,She leaps into the ocean's arms!And lo! from the assembled crowdThere rose a shout, prolonged and loud,That to the ocean seemed to say,"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,Take her to thy protecting arms,With all her youth and all her charms!"How beautiful she is! How fairShe lies within those arms, that pressHer form with many a soft caressOf tenderness and watchful care!Sail forth into the sea, O ship!Through wind and wave, right onward steer!The moistened eye, the trembling lip,Are not the signs of doubt or fear.Sail forth into the sea of life,O gentle, loving, trusting wife,And safe from all adversityUpon the bosom of that seaThy comings and thy goings be!For gentleness and love and trustPrevail o'er angry wave and gust;And in the wreck of noble livesSomething immortal still survives!Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!Fear not each sudden sound and shock,'T is of the wave and not the rock;'T is but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest's roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee!
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The Castle-Builder
A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,And towers that touch imaginary skies.A fearless rider on his father's knee,An eager listener unto stories toldAt the Round Table of the nursery,Of heroes and adventures manifold.There will be other towers for thee to build;There will be other steeds for thee to ride;There will be other legends, and all filledWith greater marvels and more glorified.Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,Rising and reaching upward to the skies;Listening to voices in the upper air,Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
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Paul Revere's Ride
Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-archOf the North Church tower as a signal light,—One, if by land, and two, if by sea;And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country folk to be up and to arm."Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,Wanders and watches with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry-chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,—By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the town,And the moonlight flowing over all.Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night-encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry-tower of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,A second lamp in the belfry burns!A hurry of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a sparkStruck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.He has left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.It was twelve by the village clock,When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord townHe heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket-ball.You know the rest. In the books you have read.How the British Regulars fired and fled,—How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,Chasing the red-coats down the lane,Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo forevermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the PastThrough all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steedAnd the midnight message of Paul Revere.
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The Building of the Long Serpent
Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,In his ship-yard by the sea,Whistling, said, "It would bewilderAny man but Thorberg Skafting,Any man but me!"Near him lay the Dragon stranded,Built of old by Raud the Strong,And King Olaf had commandedHe should build another Dragon,Twice as large and long.Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,As he sat with half-closed eyes,And his head turned sideways, draftingThat new vessel for King OlafTwice the Dragon's size.Round him busily hewed and hammeredMallet huge and heavy axe;Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;Whirred the wheels, that into riggingSpun the shining flax!All this tumult heard the master,—It was music to his ear;Fancy whispered all the faster,"Men shall hear of Thorberg SkaftingFor a hundred year!"Workmen sweating at the forgesFashioned iron bolt and bar,Like a warlock's midnight orgiesSmoked and bubbled the black caldronWith the boiling tar.Did the warlocks mingle in it,Thorberg Skafting, any curse?Could you not be gone a minuteBut some mischief must be doing,Turning bad to worse?'T was an ill wind that came waftingFrom his homestead words of woe;To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,Oft repeating to his workmen,Build ye thus and so.After long delays returningCame the master back by night;To his ship-yard longing, yearning,Hurried he, and did not leave itTill the morning's light."Come and see my ship, my darling!"On the morrow said the King;"Finished now from keel to carling;Never yet was seen in NorwaySuch a wondrous thing!"In the ship-yard, idly talking,At the ship the workmen stared:Some one, all their labor balking,Down her sides had cut deep gashes,Not a plank was spared!"Death be to the evil-doer!"With an oath King Olaf spoke!"But rewards to his pursuer!"And with wrath his face grew redderThan his scarlet cloak.Straight the master-builder, smiling,Answered thus the angry King:"Cease blaspheming and reviling,Olaf, it was Thorberg SkaftingWho has done this thing!"Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,Till the King, delighted, swore,With much lauding and much thanking,"Handsomer is now my DragonThan she was before!"Seventy ells and four extendedOn the grass the vessel's keel;High above it, gilt and splendid,Rose the figure-head ferociousWith its crest of steel.Then they launched her from the tressels,In the ship-yard by the sea;She was the grandest of all vessels,Never ship was built in NorwayHalf so fine as she!The Long Serpent was she christened,'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!They who to the Saga listenedHeard the name of Thorberg SkaftingFor a hundred year!