wiK'tAiiW'- ^.v.•>.^' ■'.",Vi''.''."X'*,v •', ' . w;w ^'l■.Vl•,'; .■.""';•■;■; ;■,"•.••;•,<. '.••.•■ ••,',•;',•■ ■; '.•.".'•.'•'. ;■.■", ;•>'.■"» ,"/.v.v;v.-v,- •.■','.< >A' 'Wmv v.'*' ' ' ' •;'< V. ,v,'^' W : Iv " '.v, ,• ■' ■ ■ ;v.'. ,V<'.VA<.V.',-i' . .'. " .mi .- .< CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY STEPHEN E. WHICHER MEMORIAL BOOK COLLECTION Gift of MRS. ELIZABETH T. WHICHER UNDERGRADUATE LIBRARY Cornell University Library PS 2250.E86 V.3 The works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 3 1924 014 347 235 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014347235 ^tantiacli Itiljrarp ' CONTENTS BIRDS OF PASSAGE. page Inteoductort Note 9 Flight the Fibst. BiKDS OP Passage 13 Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought . 15 Epimetheus, or the Poet's Afterthought . 17 The Ladder of St. Augustine . . .20 The Phantom Ship 22 The Warden of the Cinque Ports . . .24 Haunted Houses 26 In the Churchyard at Cambridge . . . 2S The Emperor's Bird's-Nest .... 29 The Two Angels 31 Daylight and Moonlight .... 33 The Jewish Cemetery at Newport . . 33 Oliver Basselin ,36 Victor Galeraith 39 My Lost Youth 41 The Ropewalk 45 The Golden Mile-Stone .... 47 Catawba Wine 49 Santa Filomena 52 The Discoverer of the North Cape . . 54 Daybreak 58 The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz. . . 59 Children 60 Sandalphon 62 CONTENTS Flight the Second. The Childben's Hour 64 Enceladus 65 The Cumberland 67 Snow-Flakes 69 A Day op Sunshine 70 Something left Undone 71 Weariness 72 Flight the Third. Fata Morgana 73 The Haunted Chamber ..... 74 The Meeting 75 Vox Populi 76 The Castle-Buildek 77 Changed 78 The Challenge 78 The Brook and the Wave .... 80 An^EKMATH 81 Flight the Fourth. Charles Sumner 82 Travels by the Fireside 83 Cadenaebia 85 Monte Cassino 87 Amalfi 90 The Sermon of St. Francis . . . .93 Belisarius 95 SONGO ErvER 97 Flight the Fifth. The Herons op Elmwood .... 99 A Dutch Picture 101 Castles in Spain 103 VlTTORIA COLONNA 106 The Revenge op Eain-in-the-Face . . 108 To the River Yvette 109 The Emperor's Glove 110 A Ballad op the French Fleet . . .111 The Leap of Roushan Beo .... 113 CONTENTS 6 Haboun Ali Kaschid 116 King Thisanku 117 A Wkaith in the Mist 118 The Three Kings 118 Song : " Stay, stay at home, my hbakt " . 121 The White Czab 122 Delia 123 FLOWER-DE-LUCE. Flowek-de-Ltjce 125 Palingenesis 126 The Bridge oe Cloud 129 Hawthorne 130 Christmas Bells 132 The Wind over the Chimney .... 134 The Bells of Lynn 136 Killed at the Fokd 137 Giotto's Tovvek 139 To-MoRRow 139 DiVINA COMMEDIA 140 Noel 144 THE. MASQUE OF PANDORA. The Masque op Pandora ..... 147 I. The Workshop of Hephestus . . 147 II. Olympus 150 III. Tower of Prometheus on Mount Cau- casus 151 IV. The Air 156 V. The House of Epimetheus . . . 157 VI. In the Garden 161 VII. The House of Epimetheus . . . 170 VIII. In the Garden . . . . ^ . 174 The Hanging op the Crane 179 Morituri Salutamus 187 A BOOK OF SONNETS. Three Friends of Mine ...... 197 Chaucer 200 6 CONTENTS Shakespeare 200 Milton 201 Keats 201 The Galaxy 202 The So0nd op the Sea 203 A Summer Day by the Sea .... 203 The Tides 204 A Shadow 204 A Nameless Grave 205 Sleep 206 The Old Bridge at Florence .... 206 II Ponte Vecchio di Firenze .... 207 Nature 207 In the Churchyard at Taebytown . . . 208 Eliot's Oak 208 The Descent op the Muses 209 Venice 210 The Poets 210 Parker Cleaveland 211 The Harvest Moon 211 To the River Rhone 212 The Three Silences op Molinos . . . 212 The Two Rivers 213 Boston 215 St. John's, Cambridge 216 Moods 216 Woodstock Park 217 The Four Princesses at Wilna . . . .217 Holidays 218 Wapentake 219 The Broken Oar 219 The Cross of Snow 220 K^RAMOS 221 ULTIMA THULE. Dedication 235 CONTENTS 7 Poems. Bataed Tatlor 236 The Chamber over the Gate . . , 237 From my Abm-Chaie 239 juguktha 241 The Iron Pen 242 KoBERT Burns 244 Helen op Tyre 246 Elegiac 247 Old St. David's at Eadhor .... 248 Folk-Songs. The Sifting or Peter 250 Maiden and Weathercock .... 252 The Windmill 253 The Tide rises, the Tide falls . . . 254 Sonnets. My Cathedral 255 The Burial of the Poet 255 Night 256 L'Envol The Poet and his Songs 257 IN THE HARBOR. Becalmed ......... 259 The Poet's Calendar 260 Autumn within 264 The Four Lakes of Madison 264 Victor and Vanquished 265 Moonlight 266 The Children's Crusade 267 Sundown 272 Chimes 273 Four by the Clock 273 AUF WiEDERSEHEN 274 Elegiac Verse 275 The City and the Sea 278 8 CONTENTS Memobies 279 Hebmes Tbismeoistus 279 To THE Avon 282 Peesident Gakfield 283 Mt Books 284 Mad Eiveb 285 Possibilities 287 Decoeation Day ....... 288 A Fbagment 289 Loss AND Gain 289 The Bells of San Blas 290 FKAGMENTS. "Neglected recobd op a mind neglected" . 293 "O faithful, indefatigable tides" . . . 293 "Soft thbough the silent aib" .... 294 "so feom the bosom of darkness " . . . 294 NOTES . . . 295 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE Portrait of Mr. Longfellow at the Age of 69. Frontispiece (Engraved on steel by F. T. Stuart, after a painting by Ernest Longfellow.) Windmills on the Maese 101 (Engraved on wood by K. Varley, after the original by T. Moran.) " Oklt Hope remains behind " 147 (Engraved on wood by J. Karat, after the original by A. Fredericks.) " The Sea awoke at Midnight from its Sleep " . . 203 (Engraved on wood by W. H. Morse, after the original by T. Moran.) St. Botolph's Town 215 (Engraved on wood by John Andrew and Son, after the original by E. H. Garrett.) View of Delft 221 (Engraved on wood by A. V. S. Anthony, after the ori- ginal by 6. Perkins.) "Belted with Jars and DRiPPrNG Weeds" .... 229 (Engraved on wood by J. FUmer, after the original by W. H. Gibson.) The Eiveb Avon 282 (Engraved on wood by W. J. Dana, after the original by Harry Fenn.) The wood-cuts are printed on Imperial Japanese paper. BIRDS OF PASSAGE INTRODUCTORY NOTE. The Courtship of Miles Standish gave title to a volume, published in 1858, whicli contained in addition a number of separate poems grouped under the heading. Birds of Passage. It was in- troduced by the poem Prometheus and closed by Epimetheus. The title, which had been used be- fore for a single poem, was conveniently compre- hensive and appropriate, and when making the first collective edition of his works after this, Mr. Longfellow employed it to stand above his various shorter pieces after this date, arranging them ac- cording to their successive issues in book form, as Flight the First, which included' the poems pub- lished in The Courtship of Miles Standish vol- ume, and thus through Flight the Fifth. This arrangement is here followed with a slight change. The poem Birds of Passage, originally published in The Seaside and The Fireside, is made to lead the first Flight. Prometheus and Epimetheus, instead of heading and closing one section, are placed together, since in their original composition and in the author's intention they were comple- mentary poems. In the present edition it has been found con- venient to group in two volumes all of Mr. Long- 10 BIRDS OF PASSAGE fellow's shorter poems. These poems fall naturally into two main divisions. The former includes the minor pieces produced between the years 1837 and 1850, that is, from the time when the poet estab- lished himself at Cambridge in his thirty-first year to the time when his mind was largely engrossed with the themes which demanded longer flights, like Evangeline, The Golden Legend, and The Song of Hiawatha. The poems of this division are brought together, with The Spanish Student, in the volume which forms the first of the series of Mr. Longfellow's poetical works in the present edition. The latter of the two divisions into which his minor work falls reaches in the main from about 1854 until the close of his life, and is repre- sented by the present volume, which includes the several miscellaneous collections made by Mr. Longfellow from time to time, as weE as the small volume issued after his death. It may be remarked that this second succession of poetic flights began about the time when Mr. Longfellow released himself from academic work and secured that freedom from routine to which for several years he had been looking forward; it should be observed, however, that up to the pub- lication of The Courtship of Miles Standish, his poetic work, including T/ie Golden Legend, was produced under whatever disadvantage came from his college occupation. Still, there can be little doubt that with his release came a quickening of the poetic faculty and a resolution for large ven- tures. It was after this that the greater part of Christus and in effect the whole of the transla- INTRODUCTORY NOTE 11 tion of the Divina Commedia were accomplished. After this were also written the tales collected un- der the title of Tales of a Wayside Inn, and from this time forward his shorter poems came abundantly, with apparent ease and freedom, and the occasions for writing were used with pleas- urable sense of leisure. In respect of quantity, fully three quarters of Mr. Longfellow's poetry was produced after he had laid aside his duties as professor, and yet under the fret of academic rou- tine he fancied himself growing old when in his forty-eighth year. As poetry, always supreme in his purpose, but rendered subordinate by circumstance, became now, so to speak, his profession, he dwelt less and less upon the histoiy of his mental processes. He said but little in his diary of his academic work when that made the chief occupation of his days, but noted frequently the movements of his poetic thought. When his days were bound each to each by continuous writing of verse, he barely noted the beginning or completion of poems ; the verses that flowed from his pen carried with them the story of his spiritual adventure. There was, besides, somewhat less circumstance about their publication than in earlier days. The establish- ment of Putnam's Magazine in 1853 afforded the poet an agreeable medium for publication, and later, when JTie Atlantic Monthly was begun in 1857, under the editorship of his friend Mr. Lowell, and especially when it passed into the hands of his publishers, Messrs. Ticknor & Fields, he had a convenient vehicle which carried, with but trifling 12 BIRDS OF PASSAGE exception, all of his briefer and such of his longer work as was appropriate. The material, therefore, for the illustration of the biography of Mr. Longfellow's shorter poems, after this date, is very meagre ; the dates are given in many instances, but it has not been thought nec- essary always to note the place of their appear- ance, since the magazine which carried most of them is not, like those to which he contributed in his earlier days, extinct and difficult of access. In the notes at the end of the volume will be found a number of references to authorities and sources of the poems which were not properly Mr. Longfel- low's memoranda, and therefore have not been used as head-notes. BIRDS OF PASSAGE . . . come i gru Tan eantando lor lai, Faoendo in aer di s6 lunga riga. Dante. FLIGHT THE FIRST. BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Written November 1, 1845. Black shadows fall From the lindens taU, That lift aloft their massive wall Against the southern sky ; » And from the realms Of the shadowy elms A tide-like darkness overwhelms The fields that round us lie. But the night is fair, And everywhere A warm, soft vapor fills the air. And distant sounds seem near : And above, in the light Of the star-lit night. Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere. 14 BIRDS OF PASSAGE I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea. I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, But their forms I cannot see. Oh, say not so ! Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Of the poet's songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words. This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions, fly, Seeking a warmer clime. From their distant flight Through realms of light It falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme. PROMETHEUS 15 PROMETHEUS, OK. THE poet's FORETHOUGHT. The two poems Prometheus and Epimetheus were originally conceived as a single poem, bearing both the names in the title. Mr. Longfellow in his diary, May 16, 1854, says: "Writing a poem -which I hope will turn out a good one, Prometheus and Epi- metheus, the before and the after ; the feeling of the first design and execution compared with that with which one looks back upon the work when done." The two poems "were printed to- gether in Putnam's Magazine, February, 1855. Or Prometheus, how undaunted On Olympus' shining bastions His audacious foot he planted, Myths are told and songs are chanted, Full of promptings and suggestions. Beautifiil is the tradition Of that flight through heavenly portals, The old classic superstition Of the theft and the transmission Of the fire of the Immortals ! First the deed of noble daring. Born of hearenward aspiration. Then the fire with mortals sharing, Theu the vulture, — the despairing Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. All is but a symbol painted Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer ; Only those are crowned and sainted Who with grief have been acquainted, Making nations nobler, freer. 16 BIRDS OF PASSAGE In their feverish exultations, In their triumph and their yearning, In their passionate pulsations, In their words among the nations. The Promethean fire is burning. Shall it, then, be unavailing, All this toil for human culture ? Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing Must they see above them sailing O'er life's barren crags the vulture ? Such a fate as this was Dante's, By defeat and exile maddened ; Thus were Milton and Cervantes, Nature's priests and Corybantes, By affliction touched and saddened. But the glories so transcendent That around their memories cluster, And, on all their steps attendant, Make their darkened lives resplendent With such gleams of inward lustre ! All the melodies mysterious. Through the dreary darkness chanted ; Thoughts in attitudes imperious. Voices soft, and deep, and serious, Words that whispered, songs that haunted ! All the soul in rapt suspension. All the quivering, palpitating Chords of life in utmost tension, EPIMETHEUS 17 With the fervor of invention, With the rapture of creating ! Ah, Prometheus ! heaven-scaling ! In such hours of exultation Even the faintest heart, unquailing, Might behold the vulture sailing Round the cloudy crags Caucasian ! Though to all there be not given Strength for such sublime endeavor, Thus to scale the walls of heaven, And to leaven with fiery leaven, All the hearts of men forever ; Yet aU bards, whose hearts imblighted Honor and believe the presage. Hold aloft their torches lighted. Gleaming through the realms benighted, As they onward bear the message ! EPIMETHEUS. OR THE poet's AFTERTHOUGHT. "May 22, 1854. Write Epimeiheus as an epilogue to the toI- nme to whieh Prometheus mil serve as prologue. ' ' Have I dreamed ? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision, When to marches hymeneal In the land of the Ideal Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian ? Line 8. Though to all there is not given 18 BIRDS OF PASSAGE What ! are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me ? These the wild, bewildering fancies, That with dithyrambic dances As with magic circles bound me ? Ah ! how cold are their caresses ! Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms ! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses Fall the hyacinthine blossoms ! O my songs ! whose winsome naeasures Filled my heart with secret rapture ! Children of my golden leisures ! Must even your delights and pleasures Fade and perish with the capture ? Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, When they came to me unbidden ; Voices single, and in chorus. Like the wild birds singing o'er us In the dark of branches hidden. Disenchantment ! Disillusion ! Must each noble aspiration Come at last to this conclusion. Jarring discord, wild confusion. Lassitude, renunciation ? Not with steeper fall nor faster. From the sun's serene dominions. Not through brighter realms nor vaster. EPIMETHEUS 19 In swift ruin and disaster, Icarus fell with shattered pinions ! Sweet Pandora ! dear Pandora ! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora, If to win thee is to hate thee ? No, not hate thee ! for this feeling Of unrest and long resistance Is but passionate appealing, A prophetic whisper stealing O'er the chords of our existence. Him whom thou dost once enamor. Thou, beloved, never leavest ; In life's discord, strife, and clamor, Still he feels thy spell of glamour ; Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted. Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted, Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, Lives, like days in summer, lengthened ! Therefore art thou ever dearer, O my Sibyl, my deceiver ! For thou makest each mystery clearer. And the unattained seems nearer, When thou fillest my heart with fever ! 20 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Muse of all the Gifts and Graces ! Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces : Let us turn and wander thither ! THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame ! All common things, each day's events. That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design. That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine. And all occasions of excess ; The longing for ignoble things ; The strife for triumph more than truth ; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds. That have their root in thoughts of ill ; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will ; — THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE 21 All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we cannot soar ; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of owe time. The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies. Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept. Were toiling upward in the night. Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern — unseen before — A path to higher destinies. Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain. 22 BIRDS OF PASSAGE THE PHANTOM SHIP. Mr. S. Ward called Mr. Longfellow's attention to the incident in Mather's Magnolia in January, 1841, but he seems to have made no use of it untU October 11, 1850, when he relates: "I was in the college library to-day, asking for Mather's Magnolia. Dr. Harris gave it to me, saying, * You cannot find in it what you want, for there is no index.' ' Then it is of no use to me,' said I, and opened a volume at random. There, before my eyes, was the very thing I wanted ; namely, the account of the Phantom Ship at New Haven, Book I. , chapter 6. I wrote a poem on the subject in the evening." He mentions a few days later that he has written two Phantom Ships, but only one has been preserved. The other may have been upon a more grotesque theme sug- gested by Mr. Ward in the same letter that contained the ref- erence to Mather. In Mather's Magnalia Christi, Of the old colonial time, May be found in prose the legend That is here set down in rhyme. A ship sailed from New Haven, And the keen and frosty airs, That filled her sails at parting, Were heavy with good men's prayers. " O Lord ! if it be thy pleasure " — Thus prayed the old divine — " To bury our friends in the ocean, Take them, for they are thine ! " But Master Lamberton muttered. And under his breath said he, " This ship is so crank and walty, I fear our grave she will be I " THE PHANTOM SHIP 23 And the ships that came from England, When the winter months were gone, Brought no tidings of this vessel Nor of Master Lamberton. This put the people to praying That the Lord would let them hear What in his greater wisdom He had done with friends so dear. And at last their prayers were answered: It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset Of a windy afternoon. When, steadily steering landward, A ship was seen below, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, Who sailed so long ago. On she came, with a cloud of canvas, Eight against the wind that blew. Until the eye could distinguish The faces of the crew. Then fell her straining topmasts, Hanging tangled in the shrouds. And her sails were loosened and lifted, And blown away like clouds. And the masts, with all their rigging, Fell slowly, one by one, And the hulk dilated and vanished, As a sea-mist in the sun ! 24 BIRDS OF PASSAGE And the people who saw this marvel Each said unto his friend, That this was the mould of their vessel, And thus her tragic end. And the pastor of the village Gave thanks to God in prayer, That, to quiet their troubled spirits, He had sent this Ship of Air. THE WAEDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. Written in Oetoter, 1852. The Warden was the Duke of Wel- lington, who died September 13. The poem -was published in the first number of Putnam's Magazine, January, 1853. A MIST was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun. It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships ; And, from the frowning rampart, the black can- non Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Eomney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away. WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS 25 Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon, througli the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim de- fiance. The sea-coast opposite. And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel ; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well. And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts. As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports. Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure. No drum-beat from the wall. No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, Awaken with its call ! No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal Be seen upon his post ! For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall had scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room. 26 BIRDS OF PASSAGE And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper. The silence and the gloom. He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar ; Ah ! what a blow I that made aU England trem- ble And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead ; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead. HAUNTED HOUSES. All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide. With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go. Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table, than the hosts Invited ; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts. As silent as the pictures on the wall. The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear ; HAUNTED HOUSES 27 He but perceives what is ; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear. We have no title-deeds to house or lands ; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates. The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense A vital breath of more ethereal air. Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires ; The struggle of the instinct that enjoys. And the more noble instinct that aspires. These perturbations, this perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of an unseen star, An undiscovered planet in our sky. And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light. Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night, — So from the world of spirits there descends A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. 28 BIRDS OF PASSAGE IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. Published first in a volume entitled Autumn Leaves, issued in Cambridge in aid of a local charity, in 1853. The churchyard is that adjoimng Christ Church. In the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs ; At her feet and at her head Lies a slave to attend the dead, But their dust is white as hers. Was she, a lady of high degree So much in love with the vanity And foolish pomp of this world of ours ? Or was it Christian charity. And lowliness and humility, The richest and rarest of all dowers ? Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ; No color shoots into those cheeks. Either of anger or of pride. At the rude question we have asked ; Nor will the mystery be unmasked By those who are sleeping at her side. Hereafter ? — And do you think to look On the terrible pages of that Book To find her failings, faults, and errors ? Ah, you will then have other cares. In your own shortcomings and despairs, In your own secret sins and terrors ! THE EMPEROR'S BIRD' S-N EST 29 THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, With his swarthy, grave commanders, I forget in what campaign, Long besieged, in mud and rain. Some old frontier town of Flanders. Up and down the dreary camp, In great hoots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These Hidalgos, dull and damp. Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus as to and fro they went Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Perched upon the Emperor's tent. In her nest, they spied a swallow. Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built of clay and hair of horses. Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest. Found on hedge-rows east and west. After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hidalgo said. As he twirled his gray mustachio, " Sure this swallow overhead Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, And the Emperor but a Macho ! " 80 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, Half in anger, half in shame, Forth the great campaigner came Slowly from his canvas palace. " Let no hand the bird molest," Said he solemnly, " nor hurt her I " Adding then, by way of jest, " Golondrina is my guest, 'T is the wife of some deserter ! " Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, Through the camp was spread the rumor, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed At the Emperor's pleasant humor. So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow stiU and brooded, Till the constant cannonade Through the walls a breach had made, And the siege was thus concluded. Then the army, elsewhere bent. Struck its tents as if disbanding. Only not the Emperor's tent, For he ordered, ere he went, Very curtly, " Leave it standing I " So it stood there all alone. Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Til] the brood was fledged and flown. THE TWO ANGELS 31 Singing o'er those walls of stone Which the cannon-shot had shattered. THE TWO ANGELS. In a letter to a correspondent written April 25, 1855, Mr. Long- fellow says : "I have only time this morning to enclose you a poem which perhaps you have not seen, as it is not in any toI- ume. It was written on the birth of my younger daughter, and the death of the young and beautiful wife of my neighbor and friend, the poet Lowell. It will serve as an answer to one of your questions about life and its many mysteries. To these dark problems there is no other solution possible, except the one word Providence." The poem was written in March, 1854, and pub- lished in Putnam's Magazine, April, 1854. Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, Passed o'er our village as the morning broke ; The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. Their attitude and aspect were the same. Alike their features and their robes of white ; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. I saw them pause on their celestial way ; Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, " Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest ! " And he who wore the crown of asphodels. Descending, at my door began to knock, And my soul sank within me, as in wells The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. 32 BIRDS OF PASSAGE 1 recognized the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice ; And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best. Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, " My errand is not Death, but Life," he said ; And ere I answered, passing out of sight. On his celestial embassy he sped. 'T was at thy door, O friend ! and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath. Pausing, descended, and with voice divine Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin ; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room. Two angels issued, where but one went in. AU is of God ! If he but wave his hand. The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud. Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, Lo ! he looks back from the departing cloud. Angels of Life and Death alilte are his ; Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er ; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door ? JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT 33 DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. In broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white, As a school-boy's paper kite. In broad daylight, yesterday, I read a Poet's mystic lay ; And it seemed to me at most As a phantom, or a ghost. But at length the feverish day Like a passion died away. And the night, serene and still, Fell on village, vale, and hill. Then the moon, in all her pride, Like a spirit glorified. Filled and overflowed the night With revelations of her light. And the Poet's song again Passed like music through my brain ; Night interpreted to me All its grace and mystery. THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPOET. ' ' July 9, 1852. [Newport, E. I. ] Went this morning' into the Jewish huiying-ground, with a polite old gentleman who keeps the key. There are few graves ; nearly all are low tomhstones of 34 BIRDS OF PASSAGE marble, with Hebrew inscriptions, and a few words added in Eng- lish or Portuguese. At the foot of each, the letters S. A. G. D. G. [Su Alma Goce Diyina Gloria. May his soul enjoy divine glory.] It is a shady nook, at the corner of two dusty, frequented streets, with an iron fence and a granite gateway, erected at the expense of Mr. Touro, of New Orleans." How strange it seems ! These Hebrews in their graves, Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never-silent waves. At rest in all this moving up and down ! The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath. While underneath these leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown. That pave with level flags their burial-place. Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down And broken by Moses at the mountain's base. The very names recorded here are strange. Of foreign accent, and of different climes ; Alvares and Rivera interchange With Abraham and Jacob of old times. " Blessed be God ! for he created Death ! " The mourners said, "and Death is rest and peace ; " Then added, in the certainty of faith, " And giveth Life that nevermore shall cease." Line 7. "While underneath such leafy tents they keep JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT 35 Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, No Psalms of David now the silence break, No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected ; for a hand unseen. Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, StiU keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here ? What burst of Christian hate. What persecution, merciless and blind. Drove o'er the sea — that desert desolate — These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind? They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure. Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire ; Taught in the school of patience to endure The life of anguish and the death of fire. AU their lives long, with the unleavened bread And bitter herbs of exile and its fears. The wasting famine of the heart they fed. And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears. Anathema maranatha ! was the cry That rang from town to town, from street to street ; At every gate the accursed Mordecai Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Chris- tian feet. 36 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went ; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent. For in the background figures vague and vast Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, And all the great traditions of the Past They saw reflected in the coming time. And thus forever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book. Till life became a Legend of the Dead. But ah ! what once has been shall be no more ! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore. And the dead nations never rise again. OLIVER BASSELIN. In the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer. And beneath the window-sill. On the stone, These words alone : " Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Ch&teau ; OLIVER BASSELIN 37 Nothing but the donjon-keep Left for shelter or for show. Its vacant eyes Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown. Looked, but ah ! it looks no more, From the neighboring hillside down On the rushing and the roar Of the stream Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone. To the water's dash and din. Careless, humble, and unknown, Sang the poet Basselin Songs that fill That ancient mill With a splendor of its own. Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed ; Only made to be his nest, AU the lovely valley seemed ; No desire Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine ; Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine, 38 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Find an answer in eacli heart | But the mirth Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, Opening on the narrow street, Came the loud, convivial din. Singing and applause of feet. The laughing lays That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. In the castle, cased in steel. Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Watched and waited, spur on heel ; But the poet sang for sport Songs that rang Another clang. Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, Sat the monks in lonely cells. Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray. And the poet heard their bells ; But his rhymes Found other chimes. Nearer to the earth than they. Gone are all the barons bold, Gone are all the knights and squires, Gone the abbot stern and cold. And the brotherhood of friars ; VICTOR GALBRAITH 39 Not a name Eemains to fame, From those mouldering days of old ! But the poet's memory here Of the landscape makes a part ; Like the river, swift and clear, Flows his song through many a heart ; Haunting still That ancient mill In the Valley of the Vire. VICTOE GALBRAITH. Written April 1, 1855. Mr. Longfellow found in a newspaper paragraph the fact upon which the poem was founded. ' ' Victor Galbraith," he said in a note, when first publishing the poem, " was a bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry ; and was shot in Mexico for some breach of discipline. It is a common super- stition among soldiers, that no balls will kiU them unless their names are written on them. The old proverb says, ' Every bul- let has its billet. ' " Under the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, Victor Galbraith ! In the mist of the morning damp and gray, These were the words they seemed to say : " Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith ! " Forth he came, with a martial tread ; Firm was his step, erect his head ; Victor Galbraith, 40 BIRDS OF PASSAGE He who so well the bugle played, Could not mistake the words it said : " Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith ! " He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, Victor Galbraith ! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, " Take good aim ; I am ready to die ! " Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith. Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped ; Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead : His name was not stamped on those balls of lead. And they only scath Victor Galbraith. Three balls are in his breast and brain, But he rises out of the dust again, Victor Galbraith ! The water he drinks has a bloody stain ; " Oh kill me, and put me out of my pain ! " In his agony prayeth Victor Galbraith. Forth dart once more those tongues of flame. And the bugler has died a death of shame, Victor Galbraith ! His soul has gone back to whence it came, MY LOST YOUTH 41 And no one answers to the name, When the Sergeant saith, " Victor Galbraith I " Under the walls of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play, Victor Galbraith ! Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say, . " That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith ! " MY LOST YOUTH. During one of his yisits to Portland in 1846, Mr. Longfellow relates how he took a long walk round Munjoy's hill and down to the old Fort Lawrence. " I lay down," he says, " in one of the embrasures and listened to the lashing, lulling sound of the sea just at my feet. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the harbor was full of white sails, coming and departing. Meditated a poem on the Old Fort. ' ' It does not appear that any poem was then written, but the theme remained, and in 1855, when in Cam- bridge, he notes in his diary, March 29 : "A day of pain ; cow- ering over the fire. At night, as I lie in bed, a poem comes into my mind, — a memory of Portland, — my native town, the city by the sea. Siede la terra dove nato fui Sulla marina. " March 30. Wrote the poem ; and am rather pleased with it, and with the bringing in of the two lines of the old Lapland Bong, A boy's win is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea ; Often in thought go up and down 42 BIRDS OF PASSAGE The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a yerse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams. The sheen of the far-surrounding seas. And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song. It murmurs and whispers still : " A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips. And the sea-tides tossing free ; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips. And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore. And the fort upon the hill ; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er. And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song MY LOST YOUTH 43 Throbs in my memory still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the sea-fight far away. How it thundered o'er the tide ! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods ; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still : " A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'* I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy's brain ; The song and the silence in the heart. That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful Song Sings on, and is never still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, A.nd the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 44 BIRDS OF PASSAGE There are things of which I may not speak ; There are dreams that cannot die ; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chUl : " A boy's will is the wind's wUl, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town ; But the native air is pure and sweet. And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down. Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." THE ROPE WALK 45 THE ROPEWALK. Written May 20, 1854. In that building, long and low, Wicn its windows all a-row, Like the port-holes of a hulk, Human spiders spin and spin, Backward down their threads so thin Dropping, each a hempen bulk. At the end, an open door ; Squares of sunshine on the floor Light the long and dusky lane ; And the whirring of a wheel, Dull and drowsy, makes me feel All its spokes are in my brain. As the spinners to the end Downward go and reascend. Gleam the long threads in the sun ; While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine By the busy wheel are spun. Two fair maidens in a swing, Like white doves upon the wing. First before my vision pass ; Laughing, as their gentle hands Closely clasp the twisted strands, At their shadow on the grass. Then a booth of mountebanks, "With its smell of tan and planks, 46 BIRDS OF PASSAGE And a girl poised liigli in air On a cord, in spangled dress, With a faded loveliness, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, And a woman with bare arms Drawing water from a well ; As the bucket mounts apace, With it mounts her own fair face, As at some magician's spell. Then an old man in a tower. Ringing loud the noontide hour. While the rope coils round and round Like a serpent at his feet. And again, in swift retreat. Nearly lifts him from the ground. Then within a prison-yard. Faces fixed, and stern, and hard. Laughter and indecent mirth ; Ah ! it is the gaUows-tree ! Breath of Christian charity. Blow, and sweep it from the earth I Then a school-boy, with his kite Gleaming in a sky of light, And an eager, upward look ; Steeds pursued through lane and field ; Fowlers with their snares concealed ; And an angler by a brook. THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE 47 Ships rejoicing in tlie breeze, Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, Anchors dragged through faithless sand ; Sea-fog drifting overhead, And, with lessening line and lead, Sailors feeling for the land. All these scenes do I behold, These, and many left untold. In that building long and low ; While the wheel goes round and round. With a drowsy, dreamy sound, And the spinners backward go. THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. " December 20, 1854. The weather is ever so cold. The landscape looks, dreary ; but the sunset and twilight are re- splendent. Sketch out a poem, The Golden Mile-Stone." Leafless are the trees ; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral. Rising silent In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. From the hundred chimneys of the village. Like the Afreet in the Arabian story. Smoky columns Tower aloft into the air of amber. At the window winks the flickering fire-light ; Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer. 48 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Social watcli-fires Answering one another through the darkness. On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree For its freedom Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. By the fireside there are old men seated, Seeing ruined cities in the ashes. Asking sadly Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Building castles fair, with stately stairways. Asking blindly Of the Future what it cannot give them. By the fireside tragedies are acted In whose scenes appear two actors only. Wife and husband, And above them God the sole spectator. By the fireside there are peace and comfort. Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching For a well-known footstep in the passage. Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-Stone Is the central point, from which he measures Every distance Through the gateways of the world around him CATAWBA WINE 49 In his farthest wanderings still he sees it ; Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, As he heard them When he sat with those who were, but are not. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city. Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. We may build more splendid habitations. Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures. But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations ! CATAWBA WINE. Written on the receipt of a gift of Catawba wine from the vineyards of Nicholas Longworth on the Ohio River. This song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, From warm Carolinian valleys, Nor the Isabel And the Muscadel That bask in our garden alleys. 50 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Nor the red Mustang, Whose clusters hang O'er the waves of the Colorado, And the fiery flood Of whose j)urple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado. For richest and best Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River ; Whose sweet perfume rUls all the room With a benison on the giver. And as hollow trees Are the haunts of bees, Forever going and coming ; So this crystal hive Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; But Catawba wine Has a taste more divine, More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. There grows no vine By the haunted Rhine, By Danube or Guadalquivir, Nor on island or cape. That bears such a grape As grows by the Beautiful River. CATAWBA WINE 61 Drugged Is their juice For foreign use, When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, To rack our brains With the fever pains, That have driven the Old World frantic. To the sewers and sinks With all such drinks. And after them tumble the mixer ; For a poison malign Is such Borgia wine, Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it ; For Catawba wine Has need of no sign. No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, This greeting of mine, The winds and the birds shall deliver To the Queen of the West, In her garlands dressed, On the banks of the Beautiful Eiver. 52 BIRDS OF PASSAGE SANTA FILOMENA, Published in the first number of the Atlantic Monthly, Novem- ber, 1857. "For the legend," Mr. Longfellow -writes to Mr. Sumner, "see Mrs. Jameson's Legendary Art. The modem ap- plication you will not miss. In Italian, one may say Filomela or Filomena," The reference is to Miss Florence Nightingale, who rendered great service to English soldiers in the hospitals, during the Crimean War. Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise. To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls. And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low ! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp, — The wounded from the battle-plain. In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors. The cold and stony floors. SANTA FILOMENA 53 Lo ! In that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly. The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent. On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song. That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood. Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear. The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore. 54 BIRDS OF PASSAGE THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. A LEAF FKOM KING ALFKED's OEOSIUS. Otheke, the old sea-captain, Who dwelt in Helgoland, To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, Which he held in his brown right hand- His figure was tall and stately. Like a boy's his eye appeared ; His hair was yellow as hay, But threads of a silvery gray Gleamed in his tawny beard. Hearty and hale was Others, His cheek had the color of oak ; With a kind of a laugh in his speech. Like the sea-tide on a beach, As unto the King he spoke. And Alfred, King of the Saxons, Had a book upon his knees. And wrote down the wondrous tale Of him who was first to sail Into the Arctic seas. " So far I live to the northward, No man lives north of me ; To the east are wild mountain-chains, And beyond them meres and plains ; To the westward aU is sea. DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE 55 " So far I live to the northward, From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, If you only sailed by day, With a fair wind all the way, More than a month wonld you saU. " I own six hundred reindeer. With sheep and swine beside ; I have tribute from the Finns, Whalebone and reindeer-skins, And ropes of walrus-hide. " I ploughed the land with horses, But my heart was iU at ease. For the old seafaring men Came to me now and then, With their sagas of the seas ; — " Of Iceland and of Greenland, And the stormy Hebrides, And the undiscovered deep ; — Oh I could not eat nor sleep For thinking of those seas. " To the northward stretched the desert. How far I fain would know ; So at lasb I sallied forth, And three days sailed due north, As far as the whale-ships go. " To the west of me was the ocean, To the right the desolate shore, line 19. I could not eat nor sleep 56 BIRDS OF PASSAGE But I did not slacken sail For the walrus or the whale, Till after three days more. " The days grew longer and longer. Till they became as one, And northward through the haze I saw the sullen blaze Of the red midnight sun. " And then uprose before me. Upon the water's edge, The huge and haggard shape Of that unknown North Cape, Whose form is like a wedge. " The sea was rough and stormy. The tempest howled and wailed. And the sea^fog, like a ghost. Haunted that dreary coast. But onward still I sailed. " Four days I steered to eastward. Four days without a night : Round in a fiery ring Went the great sun, O King, With red and lurid light." ■ o Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, Ceased writing for a while ; And raised his eyes from his book. With a strange and puzzled look, And an incredulous smile. DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE 67 But Othere, the old sea-captain, He neither paused nor stirred, Till the King listened, and then Once more took up his pen, And wrote down every word. " And now the land," said Othere, " Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea. " And there we hunted the walrus, The narwhale, and the seal ; Ha ! 't was a noble game ! And like the lightning's flame Flew our harpoons of steel. " There were six of us all together, Norsemen of Helgoland ; In two days and no more We killed of them threescore, And dragged them to the strand ! " Here Alfred the Truth-teller Suddenly closed his book. And lifted his blue eyes. With doubt and strange surmise Depicted in their look. And Othere the old searcaptain Stared at him wild and weird, Then smiled, till his shining teeth 58 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Gleamed white from underneatli His tawny, quivering beard. And to the King of the Saxons, In witness of the truth. Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, " Behold this walrus-tooth ! " DAYBREAK. A WIND came up out of the sea. And said, " O mists, make room for me." It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone." And hurried landward far away. Crying, " Awake ! it is the day." It said unto the forest, " Shout ! Hang all your leafy banners out ! " It touched the wood-bird's folded wing. And said, " O bird, awake and sing." And o'er the farms, " O chanticleer, Your clarion blow ; the day is near." It whispered to the fields of corn, " Bow down, and hail the coming morn." It shouted through the belfry-tower, " Awake, bell ! proclaim the hour." FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ 69 It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. May 28, 1857. Read ty Mr. Longfellow at a dinner, at which he presided, given to Agassiz on the occasion. It was fifty years ago In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying : " Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee." " Come, wander with me," she said, " Into regions yet untrod ; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God." And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe. And whenever the way seemed long. Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvellous tale. 60 BIRDS OF PASSAGE So she keeps liiin still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; Though at times he hears in his dreams The Eanz des Vaches of old. And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold ; And the mother at home says, " Hark ! For his voice I listen and yearn ; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return ! " CHILDREN. " February 1, 1849. I wrote another poem to-day, — on the children ■whom I heard rejoicing overhead while I sat below here in rather melancholy mood. " Come to me, O ye children ! For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away. Ye open the eastern windows, That look towards the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows And the brooks of morning run. In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn And the first fall of the snow. CHILDREN 61 Ah ! wliat would the world be to us If the children were no more ? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before. What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood, — • That to the world are children ; Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Than reaches the trunks below. Come to me, O ye children I And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses. And the gladness of your looks ? Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said ; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. ti2 BIRDS OF PASSAGE SANDALPHON. " November 2, 185Y. In the evening, Scherb read to me some curious Talmudic legends from Corrodi's Chiliasmus, — of the great angel Sandalphon. . . . January 18, 1858. Finished the poem Sandalphon." Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air, Have you read it, — the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer ? How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits. With his feet on the ladder of light. That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night ? The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress ; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express. But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassioned and slow. Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below ; — SANDALPHON 63 From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervor and passion of prayer ; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear. And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red ; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed. It is but a legend, I know, — A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; Yet the old mediaeval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition. But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white. All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain. That grasps at the fruitage forbidden. The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain. FLIGHT THE SECOND Included in the volume which contained the first series of Tales sfa Wayside Inn, 1863. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplighr. Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence : Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall ! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall ! ENCELADUS 65 THey climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair ; If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Khine .' Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you aU ! I have you fast in my fortress. And wiU not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever. Yes, forever and a day. Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away ! ENCELADUS. Written February 3, 1859. " I have written, " says Mr. Long- fellow in a letter to Mr. Simmer, ' ' a lyric on Italy, entitled Encd- adus, from which title your imagination can construct the poem. It is not a war-song", but a kind of lament for the woes of the country. ' ' Mr. Longfellow used the money paid him for the poem, which appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, August, 1859, in aid of the Italian widows and the soldiers wounded in the war then going on for the deliverance of Italy from Austrian rule. 66 BIRDS OF PASSAGE The rehabilitation of Italy came very close to one who was drawn to the country by Hie-long study, and who numbered among his friends some who were in exile for political independence. In closing a course of lectures eight years before, he had said of the Italians to his students, " At this moment, in the hour of their tribulation and anguish, I would be careful not to say anything which might chill your enthusiasm in their behalf." Under Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not deatli ; For lie struggles at times to arise And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his head ; But the groans of his wild unrest. Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead. And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes ; They talk together and say, " To-morrow, perhaps to-day, Enceladus will arise ! " And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear At the ominous sounds they hear. And tremble, and mutter, " At length I " Ah me ! for the land that is sown With the harvest of despair ! Where the burning cinders, blown THE CUMBERLAND 67 From the lips of tlie overthrown Enceladus, fill the air. Where ashes are heaped in drifts Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he starts and lifts His head through the blackened rifts Of the crags that keep him down. See, see ! the red light shines ! 'T is the glare of his awful eyes ! And the storm- wind shouts through the pines Of Alps and of Apennines, " Enceladus, arise ! " THE CUMBEELAND. At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay. On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past. Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke. And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 68 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, Trom each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside ! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate. Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. " Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries. In his arrogant old plantation strain. " Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; " It is better to sink than to yield ! " And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black. She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack. With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day I Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer. Or a dirge for the dead. SXOW-FLAKES 69 Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! Ye ai-e at peace in the troubled stream ; Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam ! SNOW-FLAKES. Out of the bosom of the Air, Out, of the cloud -folds of her garments shaken. Over the woodlands bl■o^^^l and bare. Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession. The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; This is the secret of despair. Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. 70 BIRDS OF PASSAGE A DAY OF SUNSHINE. GIFT of God ! O perfect day : Whereon shall no man work, but play ; Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be ! Through every fibre of my brain, Through every nerve, through every vein, 1 feel the electric thrill, the touch Of life, that seems almost too much. I hear the wind among the trees Playing celestial symphonies ; I see the branches downward bent. Like keys of some great instrument. And over me unrolls on high The splendid scenery of the sky. Where through a sapphire sea the sun Sails like a golden galleon. Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, Whose steep sierra far uplifts Its craggy summits white with drifts. Blow, winds ! and waft through all the rooms The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms ! Blow, winds I and bend within my reach The fiery blossoms of the peach ! SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE 71 O Life and Love ! O happy throng Of thoughts, whose only speech is song 1 O heart of man ! canst thou not be Blithe as the air is, and as free ? SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. Labor with what zeal we will. Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted stUl Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair. At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer. Like a mendicant it waits ; Waits, and will not go away ; Waits, and wiU not be gainsaid ; By the cares of yesterday Each to-day is heavier made ; TIU at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear. Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere. And we stand from day to day. Like the dwarfs of times gone by, Who, as Northern legends say. On their shoulders held the sky. 72 BIRDS OF PASSAGE WEARINESS. O LITTLE feet ! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, AxQ weary, thinking of your road I O little hands ! that, weak or strong, Have still to serve or rule so long. Have still so long to give or ask ; I, who so much with book and pen Plave toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts I that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat. Such limitless and strong desires ; Mine, that so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned. Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls ! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine ; Refracted through the mist of years. How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine ! FLIGHT THE THIRD Contained in the volume entitled Aftermath, 18'73. FATA MORGANA. Written May 21, ISTO. SWEET illusions of Song, That tempt me everywhere. In the lonely fields, and the throng Of the crowded thoroughfare ! 1 approach, and ye vanish away, I grasp you, and ye are gone ; But ever by night and by day, The melody soundeth on. As the weary traveller sees In desert or prairie vast, Blue lakes, overhung with trees, That a pleasant shadow east ; Fair towns with turrets high. And shining roofs of gold. That vanish as he draws nigh. Like mists together roUed, — So I wander and wander along. And forever before me gleams 74 BIRDS OF PASSAGE The shining city of song, In the beautiful land of dreams. But when I would enter the gate Of that golden atmosphere, It is gone, and I wonder and wait For the vision to reappear. 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 ! And mine at times is haunted By phantoms of the Past, As motionless as shadows By the silent moonlight cast. A form sits by the window. That is not seen by day. For as soon as the dawn approaches It vanishes away. It sits there in the moonlight. Itself as pale and still. And points with its airy finger Across the window-siU. Without, before the window. There stands a gloomy pine, THE MEETING 75 Whose boughs wave upward and downward As wave these thoughts of mine. And underneath Its branches Is the grave of a little child, Who died upon life's threshold, And never wept nor smiled. What are ye, O pallid phantoms ! That haunt my troubled brain ? That vanish when day approaches, And at night return again ? What are ye, O pallid phantoms ! But the statues without breath, That stand on the bridge overarching The silent river of death? THE MEETING. Written in December, 1870. After so long an absence At last we meet again : Does the meeting give us pleasure. Or does it give us pain ? The tree of life has been shaken. And but few of us linger now. Like the Prophet's two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough. 76 BIRDS OF PASSAGE We cordially greet each other In the old, familiar tone ; And we think, though we do not say it, How old and gray he is grown ! We speak of a Merry Christmas And many a Happy New Year ; But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here. We speak of friends and their fortunes, And of what they did and said, Till the dead alone seem living, And the living alone seem dead. And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests ; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests. VOX POPULL Written September 5, 1870. When Mazdrvan the Magician Journeyed westward through Cathay, Nothing heard he but the praises Of Badoura on his way. But the lessening rumor ended When he came to Khaledan, There the folk were talking only Of Prince Camaralzaman. THE CASTLE-BUILDER 77 So it happens with the poets : Every province hath its own ; Camaralzaman is famous Where Badoura is unknown. THE CASTLE-BUILDER. Written December 14, 1848, but not printed until 1867, when it appeared in Our Young Folks for January of that year. A GENTLE boy, with soft and silken locks, A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes, A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks. And towers that touch imaginary skies. A fearless rider on his father's knee, An eager listener unto stories told At the Round Table of the nursery. Of heroes and adventures manifold. There will be other towers for thee to build ; There will be other steeds for thee to ride ; There will be other legends, and all filled With greater marvels and more glorified. Build on, and make thy castles high and fair, Rising and reaching upward to the skies ; Listen to voices in the upper air, Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. 78 BIRDS OF PASSAGE CHANGED. " Novemljer 25, 184Y. [In Portland.] After church, walked with Fessenden to the ' gallows ' that used to be, — a fine hill- Bide, looking down and over the cove." This was the scene of Changed, hut the poem was not written tiU 1858, when the poet was on a visit to Portland. Feom the outskirts of the town, Where of old the mile-stone stood, Now a stranger, looking down I behold the shadowy crown Of the dark and haunted wood. Is it changed, or am I changed ? Ah ! the oaks are fresh and green, But the friends with whom I ranged Through their thickets are estranged By the years that intervene. Bright as ever flows the sea. Bright as ever shines the sun, But alas I they seem to me Not the sun that used to be, Not the tides that used to run. THE CHALLENGE. I HAVE a vague remembrance Of a story, that is told In some ancient Spanish legend Or chronicle of old. It was when brave King Sanchez Was before Zamora slain. THE CHALLENGE 79 And his great besieging army Lay encamped upon the plain. Don Diego de Ordonez Sallied forth in front of all, And shouted loud his challenge To the warders on the wall. All the people of Zamora, Both the born and the unborn, As traitors did he challenge With taunting words of scorn. The living, in their houses, And in their graves, the dead ! And the waters of their rivers, And their wine, and oil, and bread ! There is a greater army. That besets us round with strife, A starving, numberless army, At all the gates of life. The poverty-stricken millions Who challenge our wine and bread. And impeach us all as traitors. Both the living and the dead. And whenever I sit at the banquet. Where the feast and song are high, Amid the mirth and the music I can hear that fearfid cry. 80 BIRDS OF PASSAGE And hollow and haggard faces Look into the lighted hall, And wasted hands are extended To catch the crumbs that fall. For within there is light and plenty, And odors fill the air ; But without there is cold and darkness. And hunger and despair. And there in the camp of famine, In wind and cold and rain, Christ, the great Lord of the army. Lies dead upon the plain ! THE BROOK AND THE WAVE. Written October 18, 1849. The brooklet came from the mountain. As sang the bard of old, Running with feet of silver Over the sands of gold ! Far away in the briny ocean There rolled a turbulent wave. Now singing along the searbeach. Now howling along the cave. And the brooklet has found the billow, Though they flowed so far apart. And has filled with its freshness and sweetness That turbulent, bitter heart ! AFTERMATH 81 AFTERMATH. This poem, placed last in the hook, gave title to the volume puhlished in 1873, which contained the third part of Tales of a Wayside Inn and the third flight of Birds of Passage. The completion of the Tales on his sixty-sixth birthday may have given rise to this poem. When tlie summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path ; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow. Once again the fields we mow And gather in the aftermath. Not the sweet, new gi-ass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours ; Not the upland clover bloom ; But the rowen mixed with weeds. Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the sUence and the gloom. FLIGHT THE FOUETH Collected in the Tolnme entitled The Masque of Pandora and other Poems, 1876. The first draft of the first poem was made March 30, 1874. It did not satisfy the poet, for he wrote, April 2 : " I have been trying to write something about Sumner, but to little purpose. I cannot collect my faculties." CHAKLES SUMNER. Garlands upon his grave And flowers upon Ms 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. Like Winkelried, he took Into his manly breast The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke A path for the oppressed. Then from the fatal field Upon a nation's heart Borne like a warrior on his shield ! — So should the brave depart. Death takes us by surprise, And stays our hurrying feet 5 TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE 83 The great design unfinislied. lies, Our lives are incomplete. But in the dark unknown Perfect their circles seem, Even as a bridge's arch of stone Is rounded in the stream. Alike are life and death, When life in death survives. And the unintertupted breath Inspires a thousand lives. Were a star quenched on high. For ages would its light, StiU travelling downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies. For years beyond our ken. The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men. TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. Written Octoter 7, 1874, as introduction to the series of vol- nmes, Poems of Places, edited by Mr. Longfellow. The ceaseless rain is falling fast. And yonder gilded vane. Immovable for three days past. Points to the misty main. 84 BIRDS OF PASSAGE It drives me in upon myself And to the fireside gleams, To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, And still more pleasant dreams. I read whatever bards have sung Of lands beyond the sea, And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me. In fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent's roar. The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, The sea at Elsinore. I see the convent's gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pine. And towers of old cathedrals tall, And castles by the Khine. I journey on by park and spire. Beneath centennial trees. Through fields with poppies all on fire, And gleams of distant seas. I fear no more the dust and heat. No more I feel fatigue. While journeying with another's feet O'er many a lengthening league. Let others traverse sea and land. And toil through various climes, I turn the world round with my hand Reading these poets' rhymes. CADENABBIA 85 From them I learn whatever lies Beneath each changing zone, And see, when looking with their eyes, Better than with mine own. CADENABBIA. LAKE 01' COMO. Written at Nahant, August 8, 18Y4. This and the two follow- ing poems are reminiscences of Mr. Longfellow's yisit to Italy in 1868, 1869. No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day. As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away. I pace the leafy colonnade, Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade Impervious to the sun and rain. At times a sudden rush of air Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, And gleams of sunshine toss and flare Like torches down the path I tread. By Somariva's garden gate I make the marble stairs my seat, And hear the water, as I wait, Lapping the steps beneath my feet. The undulation sinks and swells Along the stony parapets, 86 BIRDS OF PASSAGE And far away the floating bells Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. Silent and slow, by tower and town The freighted barges come and go, Their pendent shadows gliding down By town and tower submerged below. The hills sweep upward from the shore, With villas scattered one by one Upon their wooded spurs, and lower Bellaggio blazing in the sun. And dimly seen, a tangled mass Of walls and woods, of light and shade. Stands, beckoning up the Stelvio Pass, Varenna with its white cascade. I ask myself, Is this a dream ? WiU it all vanish into air ? Is there a land of such supreme And perfect beauty anywhere ? Sweet vision ! Do not fade away : Linger, until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day, And all the beauty of the lake ; Linger, until upon my brain Is stamped an image of the scene ; Then fade into the air again. And be as if thou hadst not been. MONTE CASSINO 87 MONTE CASSINO. TERRA DI LAVORO. Written October 30, 1874. Beautiful valley ! through whose verdant meads Unheard the Garigliano glides along ; — The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, The river taciturn of classic song. The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest, Where mediaeval towns are white on aU The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest Is an Etrurian or a Eoman wall. There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface Was dragged with contumely from his throne ; Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own ? There is Ceprano, where a renegade Was each Apulian, as great Dante saith. When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayed Spurred on to Benevento and to death. There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town. Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night. Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played. 88 BIRDS OF PASSAGE And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he re- peats In ponderous folios for scholastics made. And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud That pauses on a mountain summit high, Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud And venerable walls against the sky. WeU 1 remember how on foot I climbed The stony pathway leading to its gate ; Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed, Below, the darkening town grew desolate. Well I remember the low arch and dark, The courtj'ard with its well, the terrace wide. From which, far down, the valley like a park, Veiled in the evening mists, was dim descried. The day was dying, and with feeble hands Caressed the mountain-tops ; the vales between Darkened ; the river in the meadow-lands Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen. The silence of the place was like a sleep. So full of rest it seemed ; each passing tread Was a reverberation from the deep Recesses of the ages that are dead. For, more than thirteen centuries ago, Benedict fleeing from the gates of Rome, A youth disgusted with its vice and woe. Sought in these mountain solitudes a home. MONTE CASSINO 89 He founded here his Convent and his Eule Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer ; The pen became a clarion, and his school Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air. What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way, Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores The illuminated manuscripts, that lay Torn and neglected on the dusty floors ? Boccaccio was a novelist, a child Of fancy and of fiction at the best ! This the urbane librarian said, and smiled Incredulous, as at some idle jest. Upon such themes as these, with one young friar I sat conversing late into the night. Till in its cavernous chimney the wood-fire Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite. And then translated, in my convent cell. Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay, And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, Started from sleep ; — already it was day. From the high window I beheld the scene On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed, — The mountains and the valley in the sheen Of the bright sun, — and stood as one amazed. Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing ; The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns ; 90 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Far off the mellow bells began to ring For matins in the half -a wakened towns. The conflict of the Present and the Past, The ideal and the actual in our life, As on a field of battle held me fast. Where this world and the next world were at strife. For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, I saw the iron horses of the steam Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, And woke, as one awaketh from a dream. AMALFI. Written February 8, 1875. Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet. Where, amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas. In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills. Tumbling through the narrow gorge, The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge. AMALFI 91 'T is a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Kocky walls that almost meet. Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear | Sunburnt daughters of the soil. Stately figures tall and straight, "What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil ? Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands. On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands. Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof ; Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain. And as indolent as he. Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west ? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast ? Where the pomp of camp and court ? Where the pilgrims with their prayers ? 92 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Where the merchants with their wares, And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port Chased by corsair Algerines ? Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, Are those splendors of the past. And the commerce and the crowd ! Tathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, Swallowed by the engulfing waves ; Silent streets and vacant hallsj Ruined roofs and towers and walls ; Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies : Even cities have their graves I This is an enchanted land ! Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay "With its sickle of white sand : Further still and furthermost On the dim discovered coast Psestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom. On his terrace, high in air. Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these. From the garden just below THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS 93 Little puffs of perfume blow, And a sound is in his ears Of tlie murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut trees ; Nothing else he heeds or hears. All the landscape seems to swoon In the happy afternoon ; Slowly o'er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, Into caverns cool and deep ! Walled about with drifts of snow. Hearing the fierce north-wind blow. Seeing all the landscape white, And the river cased in ice, Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea. THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. Written March 3, 1875. Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a winged prayer, As if a soul released from pain Were flying back to heaven again, St. Francis heard : it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim ; 94 BIRDS OF PASSAGE The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart's desire. Around Assisi's convent gate The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food. " O brother birds," St. Francis said, " Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away. " Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, With manna of celestial words ; Not mine, though mine they seem to be. Not mine, though they be spoken through me. " Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays ; He giveth you your plumes of down. Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. " He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high. And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care ! " With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs. And singing scattered far apart ; Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart. BELISARIUS 95 He knew not if the brotlierliood. His homily had understood ; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear. BELISARIUS. Written August 15, 1875. I AM poor and old and blind ; The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate, And covers me with dust From the wheels of the august Justinian the Great. It was for him I chased The Persians o'er wild and waste. As General of the East -, Night after night I lay In their camps of yesterday ; Their forage was my feast. For him, with sails of red, And torches at mast-head, PUoting the great fleet, I swept the Afric coasts And scattered the Vandal hosts. Like dust in a windy street. For him I won again The Ausonian realm and reign, Kome and Parthenope ; And all the land was miue 96 BIRDS OF PASSAGE From the summits of Apennine To the shores of either sea. For him, in my feeble age, I dared the battle's rage, To save Byzantium's state. When the tents of Zabergan Like snow-drifts overran The road to the Golden Gate. And for this, for this, behold ! Infirm and blind and old. With gray, uncovered head. Beneath the very arch Of my triumphal march, I stand and beg my bread ! Methinks I stiU can hear. Sounding distinct and near, The Vandal monarch's cry, As, captive and disgraced, With majestic step he paced, — "All, all is Vanity ! " Ah ! vainest of all things Is the gratitude of kings ; The plaudits of the crowd Are but the clatter of feet At midnight in the street. Hollow and restless and loud. But the bitterest disgrace Is to see forever the face Of the Monk of Ephesus ! SONGO RIVER 97 The unconquerable will This, too, can bear ; — I still Am Belisarius ! SONGO RIVER. Songo Rirer is a winding stream which connects Lake Sebago with Long Lake in Cumberland County, Maine. Among the early literary plans of Mr. Longfellow was one for a prose tale, the scene of which was to be laid near Lake Sebago. This poem was written September 18, 1875, after a visit to the river in the Bummer then closing. Nowhere such a devious stream, Save in fancy or in dream. Winding slow through bush and brake, Links together lake and lake. Walled with woods or sandy shelf, Ever doubling on itself Flows the stream, so still and slow That it hardly seems to flow. Never errant knight of old. Lost in woodland or on wold. Such a winding path pursued Through the sylvan solitude. Never school-boy in his quest After hazel-nut or nest, Through the forest in and out Wandered loitering thus about. In the mirror of its tide Tangled thickets on each side 98 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Hang inverted, and between Floating cloud or sky serene. Swift or swallow on the wing Seems the only living thing, Or the loon, that laughs and flies Down to those reflected skies. Silent stream ! thy Indian name Unfamiliar is to fame ; For thou hidest here alone, Well content to be unknown. But thy tranquil waters teach Wisdom deep as human speech, Moving without haste or noise In unbroken equipoise. Though thou turnest no busy mill, And art ever calm and still, Even thy silence seems to say To the traveller on his way : — " Traveller, hurrying from the heat Of the city, stay thy feet ! Rest awhile, nor longer waste Life with inconsiderate haste ! " Be not like a stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But in quiet self-control Link together soul and soul." FLIGHT THE FIFTH Collected in the volume entitled Ke'ramos and other Poftms, 1878. Elmwood, in the first poem, is the home of James Russell Lowell. THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD. Warm and still is the summer night, As here by the river's brink I wander ; White overhead are the stars, and white The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder. Silent are all the sounds of day ; Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets. And the cry of the herons winging their way O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets. Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes. Sing him the song of the green morass. And the tides that water the reeds and rushes. Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking ; For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speak- ing:. 100 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Sing of the air, and the wild delight Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists that in- fold you ; Of the landscape lying so far below, With its towns and rivers and desert places ; And the splendor of light above, and the glow Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, Sound in his ears more sweet than yours, And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better. Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, Where the boughs of the stately elms are meet- ing, Some one hath lingered to meditate, And send him unseen this friendly greeting ; That many another hath done the same, Though not by a sound was the silence broken ; The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken. A DUTCH PICTURE 101 A DUTCH PICTURE. Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his buccaneers ; He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, And carried away the Dean of Jaen And sold him in Alsriers. -'t>'^ In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles, And weathercocks flying aloft in air, There are silver tankards of antique styles, Plunder of convent and castle, and piles Of carpets rich and rare. In his tulip-garden there by the town. Overlooking the sluggish stream. With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, The old sea-captain, hale and brown, Walks in a waking dream. A smile in his gray mustachio lurks Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain, And the listed tulips look like Turks, And the silent gardener as he works Is changed to the Dean of Jaen. The windmills on the outermost Verge of the landscape in the haze. To him are towers on the Spanish coast. With whiskered sentinels at their post. Though this is the river Maese. 102 BIRDS OF PASSAGE But when the winter rains begin, He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old seafaring men come in, Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin. And rings upon their hands. They sit there in the shadow and shine Of the flickering fire of the winter night ; Figures in color and design Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, Half darkness and half light. And they talk of ventures lost or won, And their talk is ever and ever the same, While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, From the cellars of some Spanish Don, Or convent set on flame. Restless at times with heavy strides He paces his parlor to and fro ; He is like a ship that at anchor rides, And swings with the rising and falling tides. And tugs at her anchor-tow. Voices mysterious far and near, Sound of the wind and sound of the sea. Are calling and whispering in his ear, " Simon Danz ! Why stayest thou here ? Come forth and foUow me ! " So he thinks he shall take to the sea again For one more cruise with his buccaneers. To singe the beard of the King of Spain, CASTLES IN SPAIN 103 And capture anotlier Dean of Jaen And sell him in Algiers. CASTLES IN SPAIN. How much of my young heart, O Spain, Went out to thee in days of yore ! What dreams romantic filled my brain, And summoned back to life again The Paladins of Charlemagne The Cid Campeador ! And shapes more shadowy than these, In the dim twilight half revealed ; Phoenician galleys on the seas. The Roman camps like hives of bees. The Goth uplifting from his knees Pelayo on his shield. It was these memories perchance, From annals of remotest eld. That lent the colors of romance To every trivial circumstance, And changed the form and countenance Of aU that I beheld. Old towns, whose history lies hid In monkish chronicle or rhyme, — Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, Zamora and Valladolid, Toledo, built and waUed amid The wars of Wamba's time ; 104 BIRDS OF PASSAGE The long, straight line of the highway, The distant town that seems so near, The peasants in the fields, that stay Their toil to cross themselves and pray, When from the belfry at midday The Angelas they hear ; White crosses in the mountain pass, Mules gay with tassels, the loud din Of muleteers, the tethered ass That crops the dusty wayside grass. And cavaliers with spurs of brass Alighting at the inn; White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat, White cities slumbering by the sea. White sunshine flooding square and street. Dark mountain ranges, at whose feet The river beds are dry with heat, — All was a dream to me. Yet something sombre and severe O'er the enchanted landscape reigned ; A terror in the atmosphere As if King Philip listened near, Or Torquemada, the austere. His ghostly sway maintained. The softer Andalusian skies Dispelled the sadness and the gloom There Cadiz by the seaside lies, And Seville's orange-orchards rise, Making the land a paradise Of beauty and of bloom. CASTLES IN SPAIN 105 There Cordova is hidden among The palm, the olive, and the vine ; Gem of the South, by poets sung, And in whose Mosque Almanzor hung As lamps the bells that once had rung At Compostella's shrine. But over all the rest supreme, The star of stars, the cynosure, The artist's and the poet's theme. The young man's vision, the old man's dream, • — • Granada by its winding stream. The city of the Moor ! And there the Alhambra still recalls Aladdin's palace of delight : Allah il Allah ! through its halls Whispers the fountain as it falls, The Darro darts beneath its walls, The hiUs with snow are white. Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, And cold with blasts that bite and freeze ; But in the happy vale below The orange and pomegranate grow, And wafts of air toss to and fro The blossoming almond trees. The Vega cleft by the Xenil, The fascination and allure Of the sweet landscape chains the will ; The traveller lingers on the hill, His parted lips are breathing still The last sigh of the Moor. 106 BIRDS OF PASSAGE How like a ruin overgrown With flowers that hide the rents of time, Stands now the Past that I have known ; Castles in Spain, not built of stone But of white summer clouds, and blown Into this little mist of rhyme ! VITTORIA COLONNA. Vittoria Colonna, on the death of her hushand, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarim^), and there wrote the Ode upon his death which gained her the title of Divine. H. W. L. Once more, once more, Inarim^, I see thy purple hiUs ! — once more I hear the billows of the bay Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, Like a great galleon wrecked and cast Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, A mouldering landmark of the Past. Upon its terrace-walk I see A phantom gliding to and fro ; It is Colonna, — it is she Who lived and loved so long ago, Pescara's beautiful young wife. The type of perfect womanhood. Whose life was love, the life of life, That time and change and death withstood. VITTOKIA COLONNA 107 For death, that breaks the marriage band In others, only closer pressed The wedding-ring upon her hand And closer locked and barred her breast. She knew the life-long martyrdom, The weariness, the endless pain Of waiting for some one to come Who nevermore would come again. The shadows of the chestnut trees. The odor of the orange blooms. The song of birds, and, more than these, The silence of deserted rooms ; The respiration of the sea. The soft caresses of the air. All things in nature seemed to be But ministers of her despair ; Till the o'erburdened heart, so long Imprisoned in itself, found vent And voice in one impassioned song Of inconsolable lament. Then as the sun, though hidden from sight. Transmutes to gold the leaden mist. Her life was interfused with light. From realms that, though unseen, exist. Inarimd ! Inarim^ ! Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay. But not the memory of her love. 108 BIRDS OF PASSAGE THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-T HE-FACE. In that desolate land and lone, Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone Roar down their mountain path, By their fires the Sioux Chiefs Muttered their woes and griefs And the menace of their wrath. " Eevenge ! " cried Eain-in-the-Face, " Revenge upon all the race Of the White Chief with yeUow hair ! " And the mountains dark and high From their crags reechoed the cry Of his anger and despair. In the meadow, spreading wide By woodland and riverside The Indian village stood ; All was silent as a dream, Save the rushing of the stream And the blue-jay in the wood. In his war paint and his beads, Like a bison among the reeds. In ambush the Sitting Bull Lay with three thousand braves Crouched in the clefts and caves, Savage, unmerciful ! Into the fatal snare The White Chief with yellow hair TO THE RIVER YVETTE 109 And his three hundred men Dashed headlong, sword in hand ; But of that gallant band Not one returned again. The sudden darkness of death Overwhelmed them like the breath And smoke of a furnace fire : By the river's bank, and between The rocks of the ravine. They lay in their bloody attire. But the foemen fled in the night, And Eain-in-the-Face, in his flight. Uplifted high in air As a ghastly trophy, bore The brave heart, that beat no more, Of the White Chief with yellow hair. Whose was the right and the wrong ? Sing it, O funeral song. With a voice that is full of tears. And say that our broken faith Wrought all this ruin and scathe. In the Year of a Hundred Years. TO THE RIVER YVETTE. O LOVELY river of Yvette ! O darling river ! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide. 110 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Mamcourt, and lordly Dampierre, See and salute thee on thy way, And, with a blessing and a prayer. Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget. The valley of Chevreuse in vain Would hold thee in its fond embrace ; Thou glidest from its arms again And hurriest on with swifter pace. Thou wilt not stay ; with restless feet, Pursuing still thine onward flight. Thou goest as one in haste to meet Her sole desire, her heart's delight. O lovely river of Yvette ! O darling stream ! on balanced wings The wood-birds sang the chansonnette That here a wandering poet sings. THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE. " Combien faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne poiir faire un gant de cette grandeur ? " A play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, the French for Ghent. H. W. L. On St. Bavon's tower, commanding Half of Flanders, his domain, Charles the Emperor once was standing, While beneath him on the landing Stood Duke Alva and his train. Like a print in books of fables. Or a model made for show, A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET 111 With its pointed roofs and gables, Dormer windows, scrolls and labels, Lay the city far below. Through its squares and streets and alleys Poured the populace of Ghent 5 As a routed army rallies, Or as rivers run through valleys. Hurrying to their homes they went. " Nest of Lutheran misbelievers ! " Cried Duke Alva as he gazed ; " Haunt of traitors and deceivers. Stronghold of insurgent weavers. Let it to the ground be razed ! " On the Emperor's cap the feather Nods, as laughing he replies : " How many skins of Spanish leather. Think you, would, if stitched together, Make a glove of such a size ? " A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. October, 1746. Me. Thomas Pbince loquitur. Written at the instance of the Eev. E. E. Hale, -when efforts were making to save from destruction the Old South Meeting House in Boston. Mr. Hale sent Mr. Longfellow a passage out of Hutchinson's history, and referred him to Prince's Thanks, ^ving sermon, given at the Old South in 1746. A FLEET with flags arrayed Sailed from the port of Brest, 112 BIRDS OF PASSAGE And the Admiral's ship displayed The signal : " Steer southwest." For this Admiral D'Anville Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town. There were rumors in the street, In the houses there was fear Of the coming of the fleet, And the danger hovering near. And while from mouth to mouth Spread the tidings of dismay, I stood in the Old South, Saying humbly : " Let us pray I " O Lord ! we would not advise ; But if in thy Providence A tempest should arise To drive the French Fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea. We should be satisfied, And thine the glory be." This was the prayer I made. For my soul was all on flame, And even as I prayed The answering tempest came : It came with a mighty power, Shaking the windows and walls. And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals. THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG 113 The lightning suddenly- Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried : " Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord ! " The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail. And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale. The fleet it overtook, And the broad sails in the van Like the tents of Cushan shook, Or the curtains of Midian. Down on the reeling decks Crashed the o'erwhelming seas ; Ah, never were there wrecks So pitiful as these ! Like a potter's vessel broke The great ships of the line ; They were carried away as a smoke. Or sank like lead in the brine. O Lord ! before thy path They vanished and ceased to be, When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the sea ! THE LEAP OF EOUSHAJST BEG. Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, His chestnut steed with four white feet, Eoushan Beg, called Kurroglou, Son of the road and bandit chief, 114 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Seeking refuge and relief, Up the mountain pathway flew. Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed, Never yet could any steed Reach the dust-cloud in his course. More than maiden, more than wife. More than gold and next to life Roushan the Robber loved his horse. In the land that lies beyond Erzeroum and Trebizond, Garden-girt his fortress stood ; Plundered khan, or caravan Journeying north from Koordistan, Gave him wealth and wine and food. Seven hundred and fourscore Men at arms his livery wore, Did his bidding night and day ; Now, through regions all unknown, He was wandering, lost, alone. Seeking without guide his way. Suddenly the pathway ends, Sheer the precipice descends, Loud the torrent roars unseen ; Thirty feet from side to side Yawns the chasm ; on air must ride He who crosses this ravine. Following close in his pursuit, At the precipice's foot THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG 115 Eeyhan the Arab of Orfah Halted with his hundred men, Shouting upward from the glen, " La Ilia,h ilia A114h ! " Gently Roushan Beg caressed Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast ; Kissed him upon both his eyes, Sang to him in his wild way, As upon the topmost spray Sings a bird before it flies. " O my Kyrat, O my steed, Round and slender as a reed. Carry me this peril through ! Satin housings shall be thine, Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, O thou soul of Kurroglou ! " Soft thy skin as silken skein. Soft as woman's hair thy mane. Tender are thine eyes and true j All thy hoofs like ivory shine. Polished bright ; O life of mine. Leap, and rescue Kurroglou ! " Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet. Drew together his four white feet. Paused a moment on the verge. Measured with his eye the space. And into the air's embrace Leaped as leaps the ocean surge. 116 BIRDS OF PASSAGE As the ocean surge o'er sand Bears a swimmer safe to land, Kyrat safe his rider bore ; Rattling down the deep abyss Fragments of the precipice Eolled like pebbles on a shore. Koushan's tasselled cap of red Trembled not upon his head, Careless sat he and upright ; Neither hand nor bridle shook, Nor his head he turned to look, As he galloped out of sight. Flash of harness in the air. Seen a moment like the glare Of a sword drawn from its sheath ; Thus the phantom horseman passed, And the shadow that he cast Leaped the cataract underneath. Keyhan the Arab held his breath While this vision of life and death Passed above him. " Allahu ! " Cried he. "In all Koordistan Lives there not so brave a man As this Eobber Kurroglou ! " HAROUN AL RASCHID. One day, Haroun Al Raschid read A book wherein the poet said : — KING TRISANKU 117 " Where are the kings, and where the rest Of those who once the world possessed ? " They 're gone with all their pomp and show, They 're gone the way that thou shalt go. " O thou who choosest for thy share The world, and what the world calls fair, " Take all that it can give or lend, But know that death is at the end ! " Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head : Tears fell upon the page he read. KING TRISANKU. ViSWAMlTEA the Magician, By his spells and incantations. Up to Indra's realms elysian Raised Trisanku, king of nations. Indra and the gods offended Hurled him downward, and descending In the air he hung suspended. With these equal powers contending. Thus by aspirations lifted, By misgivings downward driven. Human hearts are tossed and drifted Midway between earth and heaven. 118 BIRDS OF PASSAGE A WRAITH IN THE MIST. " Sir, I should build me a fortification, if I came to live here.' - Boswell's Johnson. On the green little isle of Inchkennetli, Who is it that walks by the shore, So gay with his Highland blue bonnet, So brave with his targe and claymore ? His form is the form of a giant, But his face wears an aspect of pain ; Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth? Can this be Sir Allan McLean ? Ah, no ! It is only the Rambler, The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth, He would wall himself round with a fort. THE THREE KINGS. Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Caspar and Baltasar ; Three Wise Men out of the East were they. And they travelled by night and they slept by day. For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. The star was so beautiful, large, and clear. That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere. THE THREE KINGS 119 And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys ; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell. And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast. And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest. With the people they met at some wayside welL " Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, " Good people, I pray you, tell us the news ; For we in the East have seen his star. And have ridden fast, and have ridden far. To find and worship the King of the Jews." And the people answered, " You ask in vain ; We know of no king but Herod the Great ! " They thought the Wise Men were men insane. As they spurred their horses across the plain. Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait. And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing. Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them ; And said, " Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king." 120 BIRDS OF PASSAGE So they rode away ; and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn ; Yes, it stopped, — it stood still of its own free will, Kis:ht over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David, where Christ was born. And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard. Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard ; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned. And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay. The child, that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human but divine. His mother Mary of Nazareth Sat watching beside his place of rest. Watching the even flow of his breath. For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast. They laid their offerings at his feet : The gold was their tribute to a King, The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, The myrrh for the body's burying. SONG 121 And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone ; Her heart was troubled yet comforted. Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's throne. Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array ; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate. And returned to their homes by another way. SONG. Stat, stay at home, my heart, and rest ; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care ; To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed. They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt ; To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and rest ; The bird is safest in its nest ; O'er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky ; To stay at home is best. 122 BIRDS OF PASSAGE THE WHITE CZAR. The White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushta, Father dear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond o£ giving to the Czar in their popular songs. H. W. L. Dost thou see on the rampart's height That wreath of mist, in the light Of the midnight moon ? Oh, hist ! It is not a wreath of mist ; It is the Czar, the White Czar, Batyushka ! Gosudar ! He has heard, among the dead, The artillery roll o'erhead ; The drums and the tramp of feet Of his soldiery in the street ; He is awake ! the White Czar, Batyushka ! Gosudar ! He has heard in the grave the cries Of his people : " Awake ! arise ! " He has rent the gold brocade Whereof his shroud was made ; He is risen ! the White Czar, Batyushka ! Gosudar ! From the Volga and the Don He has led his armies on. Over river and morass. Over desert and mountain pass ; The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, Batyushka ! Gosudar I DELIA 123 He looks from the mountain-cliaiii Toward the seas, that cleave in twain The continents ; his hand Points southward o'er the land Of Eoumili ! O Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar ! And the words break from his lips : " I am the builder of ships. And my ships shall sail these seas To the Pillars of Hercules ! I say it ; the White Czar, Batyushka ! Gosudar ! " The Bosphorus shaU be free ; It shall make room for me ; And the gates of its water-streets Be unbarred before my fleets. I say it ; the White Czar, Batyushka ! Gosudar ! " And the Christian shall no more Be crushed, as heretofore, Beneath thine iron rule, Sultan of Istamboul ! 1 swear it ! I the Czar, Batyushka ! Gosudar ! " DELIA, Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives. When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, 124 BIRDS OF PASSAGE Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling ; it is best. FLOWER-DE-LUCE The poems in this di-pision were published under the title Flower-de-Luce m 1867. The title poem was written March 20, 1866. FLOWER-DE-LUCE. Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, Or solitary mere, Or wliere the sluggish meadow-brook delivers Its waters to the weir ! Thou laugh est at the mill, the whir and worry Of spindle and of loom, And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry And rushing of the flume. Bom in the purple, born to joy and pleasance, Thou dost not toil nor spin. But makest glad and radiant with thy presence The meadow and the lin. The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, And round thee throng and run The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, The outlaws of the sun. The burnished dragon-fly is thy attendant, And tilts against the field, And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent With steel-blue mail and shield. 126 FLO WER-DE-L UCE Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, Who, armed with golden rod And winged with the celestial azure, bearest The message of some God. Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities Hauntest the sylvan streams. Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties That come to us as dreams. O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet ! O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever The world more fair and sweet. PALINGENESIS. In a letter dated March 20, 1859, Mr. Longfellow says: " For my own part, I am delighted to hear the birds again. Spring always reminds me of the JPalingenesis, or re-creation, of the old alchemists, who believed that form is indestmctible and that out of the ashes of a rose the rose itself could be reconstructed, — if they could only discover the great secret of Nature. It is done every spring beneath our windows and before our eyes ; and is always so wonderful and so beautiful ! " The poem, which was printed in the Atlantic for July, 1864, appears to have been writ- ten, or at any rate revised, just before publication. I LAY upon the headland-height, and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea In caverns under me, And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened. Until the roUing meadows of amethyst Melted away in mist. PALINGENESIS 127 Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started ; For round about me all tlie sunny capes Seemed peopled witli the shapes Of those whom I had known in days departed, Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams On faces seen in dreams. A moment only, and the light and glory Faded away, and the disconsolate shore Stood lonely as before ; And the wild-roses of the promontory Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed Their petals of pale red. There was an old belief that in the embers Of all things their primordial form exists, And cunning alchemists Could re-create the rose with all its members From its own ashes, but without the bloom, Without the lost perfume. Ah me ! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore ? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Eenew this phantom-flower ? " Oh, give me back," I cried, " the vanished splendors, The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, When the swift stream of life Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders 128 FLOWER-DE-LUCE The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap Into the unknown deep ! " And the sea answered, with a lamentation. Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, " Alas ! thy youth is dead ! It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation °, In the dark places with the dead of old It lies forever cold ! " Then said I, " From its consecrated cerements I will not drag this sacred dust again, Only to give me pain ; But, stni remembering all the lost endearments, Go on my way, like one who looks before, And turns to weep no more." Into what land of harvests, what plantations Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow Of sunsets burning low ; Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations Light up the spacious avenues between This world and the unseen ! Amid what friendly greetings and faresses, What households, though not alien, yet not mine. What bowers of rest divine ; To what temptations in lone wildernesses. What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, The bearing of what cross ! I do not know ; nor will I vainly question Those pages of the mystic book which hold THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD 129 The story still untold, But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, Until " The End " I read. THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. V^ritten March 10, 1864, and at first called The Bridge in the Air BuEif, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old ! Though the house by winds be shaken, Safe I keep this room of gold ! Ah, no longer wizard Fancy Builds her castles in the air, Luring me by necromancy Up the never-ending stair ! But, instead, she builds me bridges Over many a dark ravine. Where beneath the gusty ridges Cataracts dash and roar unseen. And I cross them, little heeding Blast of wind or torrent's roar, As I follow the receding Footsteps that have gone before. Naught avails the imploring gesture. Naught avails the cry of pain ! When I touch the flying vesture, 'T is the gray robe of the rain. 130 FLOWER-DE-LUCE Baffled I return, and, leaning O'er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening Wraps-the valley in its shroud. And the sounds of life ascending Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near. WeU I know what there lies hidden, Every tower and town and farm, And again the land forbidden Keassumes its vanished charm. Well I know the secret places. And the nests in hedge and tree ; At what doors are friendly faces. In what hearts are thoughts of me. Through the mist and darkness sinking, Blown by wind and beaten by shower, Down I fling the thought I 'm thinking, Down I toss this Alpine flower. HAWTHORNE. Mat 23, 1864. The date ia that of the hurial of Hawthorne. The poem was written just a month later. Mr. Longfellow wrote to Mr. Fields: "I send you a poem, premising that I have not seen Holmes's article in the Atlantic. I hope we have not beeu HA WTHORNE 131 singing and saying the same things. I have only tried to de- scribe the state of mind I was in on that day. Did you not feel so likewise ? " In sending a copy of the lines at the same time to Mrs. Hawthorne, he wrote : " I feel how imperfect and inadequate they are ; but I trust you wiU pardon their defi- ciencies for the love I bear his memory." How beautiful it was, that one bright day In the long week of rain ! Thoiigh all its splendor could not chase away The omnipresent pain. The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, And the great elms o'erhead Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms Shot through with golden thread. Across the meadows, by the gray old manse. The historic river flowed : I was as one who wanders in a trance, Unconscious of his road. The faces of familiar friends seemed strange ; Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change Their meaning to my ear. For the one face I looked for was not there, The one low voice was mute ; Only an unseen presence filled the air, . And baffled my pursuit. Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream Dimly my thought defines ; 132 FLOWER-DE-LUCE I only see — a dream within a dream — The hill-top hearsed with pines. I only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, The voice so like his own. There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold. Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told. Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clew regain ? The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower Unfinished must remain ! CHRISTMAS BELLS. Written December 25, 1864. I HEARD the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of aU Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! CHRISTMAS BELLS 133 Till, ringing, singing on its way. The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent. And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! And in despair I bowed my head ; " There is no peace on earth," I said ; " For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good- will to men ! " Then pealed the bells more loud and deep : " God is not dead ; nor doth he sleep ! The Wrong shall fail, The Eight prevail, With peace on earth, good-wiU to men I " 134 FLO WER-DE-L UCE THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. Written April 12, 1864. See, tlie fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow, While above them still I cower. While a moment more I linger. Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour. Sings the blackened log a tune Learned in some forgotten June From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday. And the night-wind rising, hark ! How above there in the dark. In the midnight and the snow. Ever wilder, fiercer, grander. Like the trumpets of Iskander, AU the noisy chimneys blow ! Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to murmur some great name, Seems to say to me, " Aspire ! " But the night-wind answers, " Hollow Are the visions that you follow. Into darkness sinks your fire ! " Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days, THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY 135 Written by masters of the art, Loud through whose majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages, Throb the harp-strings of the heart. And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim : " These are prophets, bards, and seers ; In the horoscope of nations. Like ascendant constellations. They control the coming years." But the night- wind cries : " Despair ! Those who walk with feet of air Leave no long-enduring marks ; At God's forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant. These are but the flying sparks. " Dust are all the hands that wrought ; Books are sepulchres of thought ; The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely Churchyards at some passing tread." Suddenly the flame sinks down ; Sink the rumors of renown ; And alone the night-wind drear Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer, — " 'T is the brand of Meleager Dying on the hearth-stone here ! " 136 FLOWER-DE-LUCE And I answer, — " Though it be, Why should that discomfort me ? No endeavor is in vain ; Its reward is in the doing. And the rapture of pursuing Is the prize the vanquished gain." THE BELLS OF LYNN. HEAKD AT NAHAUT. Written at Nahant, Jvdy 29, 1859. O CUEFEW of the setting sun ! O Bells of Lynn ! O requiem of the dying day ! O Bells of Lynn I From the dark belfries of yon cloud - cathedral wafted, Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn ! Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twi- light, O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn! The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn ! Over the shining sands the wandering cattle home- ward Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn ! KILLED AT THE FORD 137 The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn! And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn ! TiU from the shuddering sea, with your wild in- cantations. Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn ! And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still. O Bells of Lynn ! KILLED AT THE FORD. Written January 14, 1866. He is dead, the beautiful youth. The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, He, the life and light of us all. Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call. Whom all eyes followed with one consent. The cheer of whose laugh, aud whose pleasant word. Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 138 FLOWER-DE-LUCE Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picket-guard at the ford. Little dreaming of any mishap. He was humming the words of some old song : " Two red roses he had on his cap And another he bore at the point of his sword." Sudden and swift a whistling hall Came out of a wood, and the voice was still ; Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill ; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead ; But he made no answer to what I said. We lifted him up to his saddle again. And through the mire and the mist and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp. And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp Two white roses upon his cheeks, And one, just over his heart, blood-red ! And I saw in a vision how far and fleet That fatal bullet went speeding forth, Till it reached a town in the distant North, Till it reached a house in a sunny street, TiU it reached a heart that ceased to beat Without a murmur, without a cry ; And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town. For one who had passed from cross to crown, And the neighbors wondered that she should die. TO-MORROW 139 GIOTTO'S TOWEE. Written January 8, 1866. How many lives, made beautiful and sweet By seK-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without complaint On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unsbodden feet, * Fall of the nimbus which the artists paint Around the shining forehead of the saint, And are in their completeness incomplete ! In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone, — A vision, a delight, and a desire, — The builder's perfect and centennial flower. That in the night of ages bloomed alone, But wanting stUl the glory of the spire. TO-MOREOW. Written February 17, 1866. T IS late at night, and in the realm of sleep My little lambs are folded like the flocks ; From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep Their solitary watch on tower and steep ; Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, And through the opening door that time unlocks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. To-morrow ! the mysterious, unknown guest, 140 FLOWER-DE-LUCE Who cries to me : " Eemember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest." And I make answer : " I am satisfied ; I dare not ask ; I know not what is best ; God hath already said what shall betide." DIVINA COMMEDIA. The six sonnets wliich follow were written during the progress of Mr. Longfellow's work in translating the Divina Commedia, and were published as poetical fly-leaves to the three parts. The first was written just after he had put the first two cantos of the Inferno into the hands of the printer. This, with the second, pref- aced the Inferno. The third and fourth introduced the Purgatorio, and the fifth and sixth the Paradiso. I. Written March 29, 1864. Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er ; Far off the noises of the world retreat ; The loud vociferations of the street Become an undistinguishable roar. So, as I enter here from day to day, And leave my burden at this minster gate. Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away, While the eternal ages watch and wait. DIVINA COM MEDIA 141 11. How strange the sculptures that adorn these tow- ers ! This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, A-nd the vast minster seems a cross of flowers ! But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves. And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers ! Ah ! from what agonies of heart and brain. What exultations trampling on despair. What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, Uprose this poem of the earth and air. This mediaeval miracle of song ! III. Written December 22, 1865. I enter, and I see thee in the gloom Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine ! And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine. The air is filled with some unknown perfume ; The congregation of the dead make room For thee to pass ; the votive tapers shine ; Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine 142 FLO WER-DE-L UCE The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. From the confessionals I hear arise Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, And lamentations from the crypts below ; And then a voice celestial that begins With the pathetic words, " Although your sins As scarlet be," and ends with " as the snow." IT. Written May 5, 1867. With snow-white veil and garments as of flame, She stands before thee, who so long ago Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe From which thy song and aU its splendors came ; And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name, The ice about thy heart melts as the snow On mountain heights, and in swift overflow Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame. Thou makest full confession ; and a gleam. As of the dawn on some dark forest cast. Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase ; Lethe and Eunoe — the remembered dream And the forgotten sorrow — bring at last That perfect pardon which is perfect peace. V. Written January 16, 1866. I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze With forms of Saints and holy men who died. Here martyred and hereafter glorified ; And the great Rose upon its leaves displays DIVINA COMMEDIA 143 Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays, With splendor upon splendor multiplied ; And Beatrice again at Dante's- side No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love And benedictions of the Holy Ghost ; And the melodious bells among the spires O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above Proclaim the elevation of the Host ! VI. Written Marct 7, 1866. star of morning and of liberty ! O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be ! The voices of the city and the sea, The voices of the mountains and the pines, Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy ! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights. Through all the nations, and a sound is heard. As of a mighty wind, and men devout. Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, In their own language hear thy wondrous word, And many are amazed and many doubt. 144 FLO WER-DE-L UCE NOEL. ENTOTi X M. AGASSIZ, LA TEILLE DE NOEL 1864, AVEC UN PANIEE DB TINS DIVERS. The basket of wine which Mr. Longfellow sent to his friend with these verses was accompanied by the following note: "A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all the house of Agas- siz 1 I send also six good wishes in the shape of bottles. Or is it wine ? It is both ; good wine and good wishes and kind mem- ories of you on this Christmas Eve." A translation of the verses was printed by Mr. John E. Nor- CToss of Philadelphia in a brochure, 1867. L'Acad^mie en respect, 14'onobstaut Pincorrectioa A la faveur du sujet, Ture-lure, N'y f era point de rature ; Noel ! ture-lure-lure. Gui Bakozai. QuAND les astres de Noel Brillaient, palpitaient au eiel, Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, Chantaient gafment dans le givre, " Bons amis, Allons done chez Agassiz ! " Ces illustres Pterins D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins, Se donnant des airs de pretre, A I'envi se vantaient d'etre " Bons amis De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz ! " OEil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur. Sans reproehe et sans pudeur. NOEL 145 Dans son patois de Bourgogne, Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, " Bons amis, J'ai daiis6 chez Agassiz ! " Verzenay le Champenois, Bon Fran§ais, point New-Yorquois, Mais des environs d'Avize, Fredonne a mainte reprise, " Bons amis, J'ai chante chez Agassiz ! " A c8t6 marchait un vieux Hidalgo, mais non mousseux ; Dans le temps de Charlemagne Fut son p^re Grand d'Espagne I " Bons amis, J'ai din^ chez Agassiz ! " Derri^re eux un Bordelais, Gascon, s'il en fut jamais, Parfum^ de po^sie Hiait, chantait, plein de vie, " Bons amis, J'ai soup^ chez Agassiz ! " Avec ce beau cadet roux, Bras dessus et bras dessous. Mine alti^re et couleur terne, Vint le Sire de Sauterne ; " Bons amis, J'ai couch^ chez Agassiz I " 146 FLO WER-DE-L UCE Mais le dernier de ces preux, Etait un pauvre Chartreux, Qui disait, d'un ton robuste, " Benedictions sur le Juste ! Bons amis, Benissons P^re Agassiz 1 " lis arrivent trois &. trois, Montent I'escalier de bois Clopin-clopant ! quel gendarme Peut permettre ce vacarme, Bons amis, A la porte d' Agassiz ! *' Ouvrez done, mon bon Seigneur, Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur ; Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes Gens de bien et gentilshommes, Bons amis De la f amille Agassiz ! " Chut, ganacbes ! taisez-vous ! C'en est trop de vos glouglous ; Epargnez aux Philosophes Vos abominables strophes I Bons amis, Kespectez mon Agassiz I THE MASQUE OF PANDORA The title poem in the Tolume, The Masque of Pandora and other Poems, published in 1875. It was adapted for the stage, and set to music by Alfred Cellier, and was brought out at the Boston Theatre in 1881. THE WOEKSHOP OF HEPH^STUS. HEPH^STUS (standing before ike statue of Pandora'). Not fashioned out of gold, like Hera's throne, Nor forged of iron like the thunderbolts Of Zeus omnipotent, or other works "Wrought by my hands at Lemnos or Olympus, But moulded in soft clay, that unresisting Yields itself to the touch, this lovely form Before me stands, perfect in every part. Not Aphrodite's self appeared more fair. When first upwafted by caressing winds She came to high Olympus, and the gods Paid homage to her beauty. Thus her hair Was cinctured ; thus her floating drapery Was like a cloud about her, and her face Was radiant with the sunshine and the sea. THE VOICE or ZEUS. Is thy work done, Hephaestus ? 148 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA HEPttESTUS. It is finished ! THE VOICK. Not finished till I breathe the breath of life Into her nostrils, and she moves and speaks. HEPH^STirS. WiU she become immortal like ourselves ? THE VOICE. The form that thou hast fashioned out of clay Is of the earth and mortal ; but the spirit, The life, the exhalation of my breath. Is of diviner essence and immortal. The gods shall shower on her their benefactions. She shall possess all gifts : the gift of song, The gift of eloquence, the gift of beauty, The fascination and the nameless charm That shall lead all men captive. HEPOESTUS. Wherefore? wherefore? A wind shakes the house. I hear the rushing of a mighty wind Through all the haUs and chambers of my house ! Her parted lips inhale it, and her bosom Heaves with the inspiration. As a reed Beside a river in the rippling current Bends to and fro, she bows or lifts her head. She gazes round about as if amazed ; She is alive ; she breathes, but yet she speaks notl Pandora descends from the pedestal. THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 149 CHOKUS OF THE GRACES. AGLAIA. In the workshop of Hephaestus What is this I see ? Have the Gods to four increased us Who were only three ? Beautiful in form and feature, Lovely as the day, Can there be so fair a creature Formed of common clay ? sweet, pale face ! O lovely eyes of azure, Clear as the waters of a brook that run Limpid and laughing in the summer sun ! O golden hair, that like a miser's treasure In its abundance overflows the measure ! O graceftd form, that cloudlike floatest on With the soft, undulating gait of one Who moveth as if motion were a pleasure ! By what name shall I call thee ? Nymph or Muse, Callirrhoe or Urania ? Some sweet name Whose every syllable is a caress Would best befit thee ; but I cannot choose. Nor do I care to choose ; for still the same. Nameless or named, wiU be thy loveliness. EUPHBOSYlfE. Dowered with all celestial gifts, Skilled in every art That ennobles and uplifts And delights the heart. 160 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA Fair on earth shall be thy fame As thy face is fair, And Pandora be the name Thou henceforth shalt bear. II. OLYMPUS. HERMES (putting on his sandals). Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods, And I, who am their herald, most of all. No rest have I, nor respite. I no sooner Unclasp the winged sandals from my feet, Than I again must clasp them, and depart Upon some foolish errand. But to-day The errand is not foolish. Never yet With greater joy did I obey the summons That sends me earthward. I wiU fly so swiftly That my caduceus in the whistling air Shall make a sound like the Pandtean pipes. Cheating the shepherds ; for to-day I go, Commissioned by high-thundering Zeus, to lead A maiden to Prometheus, in his tower. And by my cunning arguments persuade him To marry her. What mischief lies concealed In this design I know not ; but I know Who thinks of marrying hath already taken One step upon the road to penitence. Such embassies delight me. Forth I launch On the sustaining air, nor fear to fall Like Icarus, nor swerve aside like him Who drove amiss Hyperion's fiery steeds. THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 151 I sink, I fly ! The yielding element Folds itself round about me like an arm, And holds me as a mother holds her child. III. TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS. PROMETHEUS. I hear the trumpet of Alectryon Proclaim the dawn. The stars begin to fade, And all the heavens are full of prophecies And evil auguries. Blood-red last night 1 saw great Kronos rise ; the crescent moon Sank through the mist, as if it were the scythe His parricidal hand had flung far down The western steeps. O ye Immortal Gods, What evil are ye plotting and contriving ? Hebmbs and Pandoba at the threshold. PANDOKA. I cannot cross the threshold. An unseen And icy hand repels me. These blank walls Oppress me with their weight ! PROMETHEUS. Powerful ye are, But not omnipotent. Ye cannot fight Against Necessity. The Fates control you, As they do us, and so far we are equals 1 PANDORA. Motionless, passionless, companionless, 152 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA He sits there muttering in Ms beard. His voice Is like a river flowing underground I HERMES. Prometheus, hail ! PKOMETHEUS. Who calls me ? HEBMBS. It is I. Dost thou not know me ? PKOMETHEUS. By thy winged cap And winged heels I know thee. Thou art Hermes, Captain of thieves ! Hast thou again been steal- ing The heifers of Admetus in the sweet Meadows of asphodel ? or Hera's girdle ? Or the earth-shaking trident of Poseidon ? And thou, Prometheus ; say, hast thou again Been stealing fire from Helios' chariot-wheels To light thy furnaces ? PROMETHE0S. Why comest thou hither So early in the dawn ? HERMES. The Immortal Gods THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 153 Know naught of late or early. Zeus himself, The omnipotent hath sent me. PROMETHEUS. For what purpose ? HERMES. To bring this maiden to thee. PROMETHEUS. I mistrust The Gods and aU their gifts. If they have sent her It is for no good purpose. HERMES. What disaster Could she bring on thy house, who is a woman ? PROMETHEUS. The Gods are not my friends, nor am I theirs. Whatever comes from them, though in a shape As beautiful as this, is evil only. Who art thou? PANDORA. One who, though to thee unknown. Yet knoweth thee. PROMETHEUS. How shouldst thou know me, woman ? PANDORA. Who knoweth not Prometheus the humane ? 154 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA PK0MBTHEU8. Prometheus the unfortunate ; to whom Both Gods and men have shown themselves un- grateful. When every spark was quenched on every hearth Throughout the earth, I brought to man the fire And all its ministrations. My reward Hath been the rock and vulture. HERMES. But the Gods At last relent and pardon. PROMETHEUS. They relent not ; They pardon not ; they are implacable, Eevengef ul, unforgiving ! HERMES. As a pledge Of reconciliation they have sent to thee This divine being, to be thy companion, And bring into thy melancholy house The sunshine and the fragrance of her youth. PROMETHEUS. I need them not. I have within myself All that my heart desires ; the ideal beauty Which the creative faculty of mind Fashions and follows in a thousand shapes More lovely than the real. My own thoughts Are my companions ; my designs and labors And aspirations are my only friends. THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 155 HERME8. Decide not rashly. The decision made Can never be recalled. The Gods implore not, Plead not, solicit not ; they only offer Choice and occasion, which once being passed Return no more. Dost thou accept the gift ? PROMETHEUS. No gift of theirs, in whatsoever shape It comes to me, with whatsoever charm To fascinate my sense, will I receive. Leave me. PANDORA. Let us go hence. I will not stay. HERMES. We leave thee to thy vacant dreams, and all The silence and the solitude of thought, The endless bitterness of unbelief, The loneliness of existence without love. CHOEUS OF THE FATES. CLOTHO. How the Titan, the defiant, The self-centred, self-reliant, Wrapped in visions and illusions, Eobs himself of life's best gifts ! Till by aU the storm-winds shaken, By the blast of fate o'ertaken, Hopeless, helpless, and forsaken, In the mists of his confusions To the reefs of doom he drifts ! 156 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA LACHESI8. Sorely tried and sorely tempted. From no agonies exempted, In the penance of his trial, And the discipline of pain ; Often by illusions cheated. Often baffled and defeated In the tasks to be completed. He, by toil and self-denial. To the highest shall attain. ATKOPOS. Tempt no more the noble schemer ; Bear unto some idle dreamer This new toy and fascination. This new dalliance and delight ! To the garden where reposes Epimetheus crowned with roses, To the door that never closes Upon pleasure and temptation, Bring this vision of the night I IV. THE AIE. HERMES (returning to Olympus). As lonely as the tower that he inhabits, As firm and cold as are the crags about him, Prometheus stands. The thunderbolts of Zeus Alone can move him ; but the tender heart Of Epimetheus, burning at white heat, THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 157 Hammers and flames like all Ms brother's forges ! Now as an arrow from Hyperion's bow, My errand done, I fly, I float, I soar. Into the air, returning to Olympus. joy of motion ! O delight to cleave The infinite realms of space, the liquid ether, Through the warm sunshine and the cooling cloud. Myself as light as sunbeam or as cloud ! With one touch of my swift and winged feet, 1 spurn the solid earth, and leave it rocking As rocks the bough from which a bird takes wing. THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. EPIMETHEUS. Beautiful apparition ! go not hence ! Surely thou art a Goddess, for thy voice Is a celestial melody, and thy form Self -poised as if it floated on the air ! No Goddess am I, nor of heavenly birth, But a mere woman fashioned out of clay And mortal as the rest. EPIMETHEUS. Thy face is fair ; There is a wonder in thine azure eyes That fascinates me. Thy whole presence seems A soft desire, a breathing thought of love. 158 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA Say, would thy star like Merope's grow dim If thou shouldst wed beneath thee ? PANDORA. Ask me not ; I cannot answer thee. I only know The Gods have sent me hither. KPIMETHEUS. I believe, And thus believing am most fortunate. It was not Hermes led thee here, but Eros, And swifter than his arrows were thine eyes In wounding me. There was no moment's space Between my seeing thee and loving thee. Oh, what a telltale face thou hast ! Again I see the wonder in thy tender eyes. They do but answer to the love in thine, Yet secretly I wonder thou shouldst love me. Thou knowest me not. EPIMETHEUS. Perhaps I know thee better Than had I known thee longer. Yet it seems That I have always known thee, and but now Have found thee. Ah, I have been waiting long. How beautiful is this house ! The atmosphere Breathes rest and comfort, and the many cham- bers Seem full of welcomes. THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 159 KPIMETHEU8. They not only seem, But truly are. This dwelling and its master Belong to thee. PANDORA. Here let me stay forever I There is a speU upon me. EPIMETHEUS. Thou thyself Art the enchantress, and I feel thy power Envelop me, and wrap my soul and sense In an Elysian dream. Oh, let me stay. How beautiful are all things round about me, Multiplied by the mirrors on the walls I What treasures hast thou here ! Yon oaken chest, Carven with figures and embossed with gold, Is wonderful to look upon ! What choice And precious things dost thou keep hidden in it ? EPIMETHEUS. I know not. 'T is a mystery. Hast thou never PANDOKA. Lifted the lid? EPIMETHEUS. The oracle forbids. Safely concealed there from all mortal eyes 160 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA Forever sleeps the secret of the Gods. Seek not to know what they have hidden from thee, Till they themselves reveal it. PASDORA. As thou wilt. EPIMETHEUS. Let us go forth from this mysterious place. The garden walks are pleasant at this hour ; The nightingales among the sheltering boughs Of populous and many-nested trees Shall teach me how to woo thee, and shall tell me By what resistless charms or incantations They won their mates. PANDORA. Thou dost not need a teacher. They go out. CHORUS OP THE EUMENIDES. What the Immortals Confide to thy keeping. Tell unto no man ; Waking or sleeping, Closed be thy portals To friend as to foeman. Silence conceals it ; The word that is spoken Betrays and reveals it; By breath or by token The charm may be broken. THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 161 With shafts of their splendors The Gods unforgiving Pursue the offenders, The dead and the living !• Fortune forsakes them, Nor earth shall abide them, Nor Tartarus hide them ; Swift wrath overtakes them. With useless endeavor, Forever, forever. Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain ! Immersed in the fountain, Tantalus tastes not The water that wastes not ! Through ages increasing The pangs that afflict him, With motion unceasing The wheel of Ixion Shall torture its victim I VI. IN THE GARDEN. EPIMETHEUS. Yon snow-white cloud that sails sublime in ether Is but the sovereign Zeus, who like a swan Flies to fair-ankled Leda I PANDOKA. Or perchance 162 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA Ixion's cloud, the shadowy shape of Hera, That bore the Centaurs. EPIMETHEtJS. The divine and human. CHOEUS OF BIRDS. Gently swaying to and fro, Koeked by all the winds that blow. Bright with sunshine from above. Dark with shadow from below, Beak to beak and breast to breast In the cradle of their nest, Lie the fledglings of our love. Love ! love ! EPIMETHEU8. Hark ! listen ! Hear how sweetly overhead The feathered flute-players pipe their songs of love, And Echo answers, love and only love. CHORUS OF BIRDS. Every flutter of the wing, Every note of song we sing, Every murmur, every tone. Is of love and love alone. Love alone I EPIMETHEUS. Who would not love, if loving she might be Changed like Callisto to a star in heaven ? THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 163 Ah, who would love, if loving she might be Like Semele consumed and burnt to ashes ? EPIMETHEUS. Whence knowest thou these stories ? PANDOKA. Hermes taught me ; He told me all the history of the Gods. CHOKUS OF BEEDS. Evermore a sound shall be In the weeds of Arcady, Evermore a low lament Of unrest and discontent. As the story is retold Of the nymph so coy and cold. Who with frightened feet outran The pursuing steps of Pan. EPIMETHEUS. The pipe of Pan out of these reeds is made, And when he plays upon it to the shepherds They pity him, so mournful is the sound. Be thou not coy and cold as Syrinx was. PANDORA. Nor thou as Pan be rude and mannerless, PKOMETHEUS (withoUt). Ho 1 Epimetheus I 164 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA EPIMETHEU8. 'T is my brother's voice ; A sound unwelcome and inopportune As was the braying of Silenus' ass, Once heard in Cybele's garden. PANDOKA. Let me go. I would not be found here. I would not see him. She escapes among the trees. CHORUS OP DRTADES. Haste and hide thee, Ere too late, In these thickets intricate ; Lest Prometheus See and chide thee. Lest some hurt Or harm betide thee. Haste and hide thee ! PROMETHEUS (entering). Who was it fled from here ? I saw a shape Flitting among the trees. EPIMETHBUS. It was Pandora. PROMETHEUS. Epimetheus ! Is it then in vain That I have warned thee ? Let me now implore. Thou harborest in thy house a dangerous guest. THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 165 EPIMETHEUS. Whom tlie Gods love they honor with such guests. PKOMETHBUS. Whom the Gods would destroy they first make mad. EPIMETHErS. Shall I refuse the gifts they send to me ? PROMETHEUS. Reject all gifts that come from higher powers. EPIMETHEtrS. Such gifts as this are not to be rejected. PROMETHEUS. Make not thyself the slave of any woman. EPIMETHEUS. Make not thyself the judge of any man. PROMETHEUS. I judge thee not ; for thou art more than man ; Thou art descended from Titanic race, And haSt a Titan's strength and faculties That make thee godlike ; and thou sittest here Like Heracles spinning Omphale's flax, And beaten with her sandals. EPIMETHEUS. O my brother I Thou drivest me to madness with thy taunts. 166 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA PROMETHEUS. And me thou drivest to madness with thy follies. Come with me to my tower on Caucasus : See there my forges in the roaring caverns, Beneficent to man, and taste the joy That springs from labor. Read with me the stars, And learn the virtues that lie hidden in plants, And all things that are useful. EPIMETHEUS. O my brother ! I am not as thou art. Thou dost inherit Our father's strength, and I our mother's weak- ness: The softness of the Oeeanides, The yielding nature that cannot resist. PROMETHEUS. Because thou wilt not. EPIMETHEUS. Nay ; because I cannot. PROMETHEUS. Assert thyself ; rise up to thy full height; Shake from thy soul these dreams effeminate, These passions born of indolence and ease. Eesolve, and thou art free. But breathe the air Of mountains, and their unapproachable siun- mits Will lift thee to the level of themselves. THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 167 EPIMETHEUS. The roar of forests and of waterfalls, The rushing of a mighty wind, with loud And undistinguishable voices calling, Are in my ear ! PROMETHEUS. Oh, listen and obey. EPIMETHEUS. Thou leadest me as a child. I foUow thee. They go out. CHOEUS OE OBEADES. Centuries old are the mountains ; Their foreheads wrinkled and rifted Helios crowns by day, Pallid Selene by night ; From their bosoms uptossed The snows are driven and drifted. Like Tithonus' beard Streaming dishevelled and white. Thunder and tempest of wind Their trumpets blow in the vastness ; Phantoms of mist and rain, Cloud and the shadow of cloud. Pass and repass by the gates Of their inaccessible fastness ; Ever unmoved they stand, Solemn, eternal, and proud. 168 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA VOICES OF THE WATEES. Flooded by rain and snow In their inexhaustible sources, Swollen by affluent streams Hurrying onward and hurled Headlong over the crags, The impetuous water-courses Rush and roar and plunge Down to the nethermost world. Say, have the solid rocks Into streams of silver been melted, Flowing over the plains. Spreading to lakes in the fields ? Or have the mountains, the giants. The ice-helmed, the forest-belted. Scattered their arms abroad ; Flung in the meadows their shields ? VOICES OP THE WnSTDS. High on their turreted cliffs That bolts of thunder have shattered, Storm-winds muster and blow Trumpets of terrible breath ; Then from the gateways rush. And before them routed and scattered Sullen the cloud-rack flies. Pale with the pallor of death. Onward the hurricane rides, And flee for shelter the shepherds ; White are the frightened leaves. THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 169 Harvests with terror are white ; Panic seizes the herds, And even the lions and leopards, Prowling no longer for prey, Crouch in their caverns with fright. VOICES OF THE FORESTS. Guarding the mountains around Majestic the forests are standing. Bright are their crested helms, Dark is their armor of leaves ; Filled with the breath of freedom Each bosom subsiding, expanding, Now like the ocean sinks. Now like the ocean upheaves. Planted firm on the rock, With foreheads stern and defiant. Loud they shout to the winds. Loud to the tempest they call ; Naught but Olympian thunders. That blasted Titan and Giant, Them can uproot and o'erthrow, Shaking the earth with their fall. CHOEUS OF OEEADES. These are the Voices Three Of winds and forests and fountains. Voices of earth and of air, Murmur and rushing of streams. Making together one sound. The mysterious voice of the mountains. Waking the sluggard that sleeps, Waking the dreamer of dreams. 170 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA These are the Voices Three, That speak of endless endeavor, Speak of endurance and strength. Triumph and fulness of fame, Sounding about the world, An inspiration forever. Stirring the hearts of men. Shaping their end and their aim. VII. THE HOUSE OP EPIMETHEUS. Left to myself I wander as I wiU, 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. No mansion of Olympus, framed to be The habitation of the Immortal Gods, Can be more beautiful. And this is mine. And more than this, the love wherewith he crowns me. As if impelled by powers invisible And irresistible, my steps return Unto this spacious hall. All corridors And passages lead hither, and all doors But open into it. Yon mysterious chest Attracts and fascinates me. Would I knew What there lies hidden I But the oracle Forbids. Ah me ! The secret then is safe. So would it be if it were in my keeping. A crowd of shadowy faces from the mirrors THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 171 That line these walls are watching me. I dare not Lift up the lid. A hundred times the act Would be repeated, and the secret seen By twice a hundred incorporeal eyes. She walks to the other side of the hall. My feet are weary, wandering to and fro, My eyes with seeing and my heart with wait- ing. I will lie here and rest till he returns, Who is my dawn, my day, my Helios. Throws herself upon a couch, and falls asleep. ZEPHYKUS. Come from thy caverns dark and deep, O son of Erebus and Night ; All sense of hearing and of sight Enfold in the serene delight And quietude of sleep ! Set all thy silent sentinels To bar and guard the Ivory Gate, And keep the evil dreams of fate And falsehood and infernal hate Imprisoned in their cells. But open wide the Gate of Horn, Whence, beautiful as planets, rise The dreams of truth, with starry eyes, And aU the wondrous prophecies And visions of the morn. 172 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA CHOEUS OF DEBAMS FROM THE IVOEY GATE. Ye sentinels of sleep, It is in vain ye keep Your drowsy watch before the Ivory Gate ; Though closed the portal seems, The airy feet of dreams Ye cannot thus in walls incarcerate. We phantoms are and dreams Born by Tartarean streams. As ministers of the infernal powers ; O son of Erebus And Night, behold ! we thus Elude your watchful warders on the towers From gloomy Tartarus The Fates have summoned us To whisper in her ear, who lies asleep, A tale to fan the fire Of her insane desire To know a secret that the Gods would keep. This passion, in their ire. The Gods themselves inspire. To vex mankind with evils manifold. So that disease and pain O'er the whole earth may reign, And nevermore return the Age of Gold. PANDORA (waking'). A voice said in my sleep : " Do not delay : Do not delay ; the golden moments fly ! THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 173 The oracle hath forbidden ; yet not thee Doth it forbid, but Epimetheus only ! " I am alone. These faces in the mirrors Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself ; They cannot help nor hinder. No one sees me, Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing good And knowing evil, have created me Such as I am, and filled me with desire Of knowing good and evil like themselves. She approaches the chest. I hesitate no longer. Weal or woe, Or life or death, the moment shall decide. She lifts the lid. A dense mist rises from the chest, and fills the room. Pandoba falls senseless on the floor. Storm without. CHOKUS OF DEBAMS FEOM THE GATE OF HOKN. Yes, the moment shall decide ! It already hath decided ; And the secret once confided To the keeping of the Titan Now is flying far and wide, Whispered, told on every side, To disquiet and to frighten. Fever of the heart and brain, Sorrow, pestilence, and pain, Moans of anguish, maniac laughter, AU the evils that hereafter Shall afflict and vex mankind, AU into the air have risen From the chambers of their prison , Only Hope remains behind. 174 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA VIII. IN THE GARDEN. KPnVtETHEUS. The storm is past, but it hath, left behind it Ruin and desolation. All the walks Are strewn with shattered boughs ; the birds are silent ; The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, lie dead ; The swollen rivulet sobs with secret pain ; The melancholy reeds whisper together As if some dreadful deed had been committed They dare not name, and aU the air is heavy With an unspoken sorrow ! Premonitions, Foreshadowings of some terrible disaster Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the omen ! PANDOKA, coming from the house. O Epimetheus, I no longer dare To lift mine eyes to thine, nor hear thy voice, Being no longer worthy of thy love. EPIMETHEUS. What hast thou done ? PANDORA. Forgive me not, but kiU me. EPIMETHEUS. What hast thou done ? PANDOKA. I pray for death, not pardon. THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 175 EPIMETHEUS. What hast thou done ? PANDORA. I dare not speak of ito EPIMETHEUS. Thy pallor and thy silence terrify me ! PANDOKA. I have brought wrath and ruin on thy house ! My heart hath braved the oracle that guarded The fatal secret from us, and my hand Lifted the lid of the mysterious chest I EPIMETHEUS. Then all Is lost I I am indeed undone. PANDORA. I pray for punishment, and not for pardon. EPIMETHEUS. Mine is the fault, not thine. On me shall fall The vengeance of the Gods, for I betrayed Their secret when, in evil hour, I said It was a secret ; when, In evU hour, I left thee here alone to this temptation. Why did I leave thee ? PANDORA. Why didst thou return ? Eternal absence would have been to me The greatest punishment. To be left alone 176 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA And face to face with my own crime, Lad been Just retribution. Upon me, ye Gods, Let all your vengeance fall ! EPIMETHEUS. On thee and me. I do not love thee less for what is done, And cannot be undone. Thy very weakness Hath brought thee nearer to me, and henceforth My love wiU have a sense of pity in it. Making it less a worship than before. PANDORA. Pity me not ; pity is degradation. Love me and kill me. EPIMETHEUS. Beautifid Pandora ! Thou art a Goddess still ! PANDORA. I am a woman ; And the insurgent demon in my nature. That made me brave the oracle, revolts At pity and compassion. Let me die ; What else remains for me ? EPIMETHEUS. Youth, hope, and love : To build a new life on a ruined life. To make the future fairer than the past. And make the past appear a troubled dream. Even now in passing through the garden walks THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 177 Upon tlie ground I saw a fallen nest Ruined and full of rain ; and over me Beheld the uncomplaining birds already Busy in building a new habitation. PANDOKA. Auspicious omen ! EPIMETHEUS. May the Eumenides Put out their torches and behold us not, And fling away their whips of scorpions And touch us not. Me let them punish. Only through punishment of our evil deeds, Only through suffering, are we reconciled To the immortal Gods and to ourselves. CHOKTTS OF THE EUMEMTDES. Never shall souls like these Escape the Eumenides, The daughters dark of Acheron and Night J Unquenched our torches glare. Our scourges in the air Send forth prophetic sounds before they smite. Never by lapse of time The soul defaced by crime Into its former self returns again ; For every guilty deed Holds in itself the seed Of retribution and undying pain. 178 THE MASQUE OP, PANDORA Never shall be the loss ' Restored, till Helios Hath purified them with his heavenly fires ; Then what was lost is won, And the new life begun, Kindled with nobler passions and desires. THE HANGING OF THE CRANE "One morning in the spring of 1867," writes Mr. T. B. Aldrich, " Mr. Longfellow came to the little home in Pinckney Street, [Boston,] where we had set up housekeeping in the light of our honeymoon. As we lingered a moment at the dining-room door, Mr. Longfellow turning to me said, 'Ah, Mr. Aldrich, your small round table will not always be closed. By and by you will find new young faces clustering about it ; as years go on, leaf after leaf will be added until the time comes when the young guests will take flight, one by one, to build nests of their own elsewhere. Gradually the long table will shrink to a circle again, leaving two old people sitting there alone together. This is the story of life, the sweet and pathetic poem of the fireside. Make an idyl of it. I give the idea to you.' Seyeral months afterward, I received a note from Mr. Longfellow in which he expressed a desire to use this motif in case I had done nothing in the matter. The theme was one peculiarly adapted to his sympathetic han- dling, and out of it grew The Hanging of the Crane." Just when the poem was written does not appear, but its first publication was in the New York Ledger, March 28, 1874. Mr. Longfellow's old friend, Mr. Sam. Ward, had heard the poem, and offered to secure it for Mr. Robert Bonner, the proprietor of the Ledger, "touched," as he wrote to Mr. Longfellow, "by your kindness to poor , and haunted by the idea of increasing handsomely your noble charity fund." Mr. Bonner paid the poet tne sum of three thousand dollars for this poem. The lights are out, and gone are all the guests That thronging came with merriment and jests To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane In the new house, — into the night are gone ; But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, And I alone remain. 180 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE O fortunate, O happy day, When a new household finds its place Among the myriad homes of earth, Like a new star Just sprung to birth. And rolled on its Wmonidus way Into the boundless realms of space ! So said the guests in speech and song. As in the chimney, burning bright, We hung the iron crane to-night, And merry was the feast and long. II. And now I sit and muse on what may be, And in my vision see, or seem to see, Through floating vapors interfused with light, Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade. As shadows passing into deeper shade Sink and elude the sight. For two alone, there in the hall. Is spread the table round and small ; Upon the polished silver shine The evening lamps, but, more divine. The light of love shines over all ; Of love, that says not mine and thine, But ours, for ours is thine and mine. They want no guests, to come between Their tender glances like a screen, And tell them tales of land and sea, And whatsoever may betide The great, forgotten world outside ; THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 181 They want no guests ; they needs must be Each other's own best company. III. The picture fades ; as at a village fair A showman's views, dissolving into air, Again appear transfigured on the screen, So in my fancy this ; and now once more, In part transfigured, through the open door Appears the selfsame scene. Seated, I see the two again. But not alone ; they entertain A little angel unaware. With face as round as is the moon, A royal guest with flaxen hair. Who, throned upon his lofty chair. Drums on the table with his spoon, Then drops it careless on the floor. To grasp at things unseen before. Are these celestial manners ? these The ways that win, the arts that please ? Ah yes ; consider well the guest, And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; He ruleth by the right divine Of helplessness, so lately born In purple chambers of the morn, As sovereign over thee and thine. He speaketh not ; and yet there lies A conversation in his eyes ; The golden silence of the Greek, The gravest wisdom of the wise. 182 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE Not spoken in language, but in looks More legible than printed books, As if he could but would not speak. And now, O monarch absolute. Thy power is put to proof ; for, lo ! Resistless, fathomless, and slow, The nurse comes rustling like the sea, And pushes back thy chair and thee, And so good night to King Canute. IV. As one who walking in a forest sees A lovely landscape through the parted trees. Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene ; Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed Through drifting clouds, and then again concealed, So I behold the scene. There are two guests at table now ; The king, deposed and older grown, No longer occupies the throne, — The crown is on his sister's brow ; A Princess from the Fairy Isles, The very pattern girl of girls, All covered and embowered in curls, Eose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, And sailing with soft, silken sails From far-off Dreamland into ours. Above their bowls with rims of blue Four azure eyes of deeper hue Are looking, dreamy with delight ; Limpid as planets that emerge Above the ocean's rounded verge. THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 183 Soft-shining through the summer night. Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; Nor care they for the world that rolls With all its freight of troubled souls * Into the days that are to be. Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, Again the drifting vapors intervene. And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite ; And now I see the table wider grown, As round a pebble into water thrown Dilates a ring of light. I see the table wider grown, I see it garlanded with guests, As if fair Ariadne's Crown Out of the sky had fallen down ; Maidens within whose tender breasts A thousand restless hopes and fears. Forth reaching to the coming years. Flutter awhile, then quiet lie. Like timid birds that fain would fly. But do not dare to leave their nests ; — And youths, who in their strength elate Challenge the van and front of fate. Eager as champions to be In the divine knight-errantry Of youth, that travels sea and land Seeking adventures, or pursues, Through cities, and through solitudes Frequented by the lyric Muse, 184 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE The phantom with the beckoning hand, That still allures and still eludes. O sweet illusions of the brain ! sudden thrills of fire and frost ! Hie world is bright while ye remain, And dark and dead when ye are lost ! TI. The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, Quickens its current as it nears the mUl ; And so the stream of Time that lingereth In level places, and so dull appears, Euns with a swifter current as it nears The gloomy mills of Death. And now, like the magician's scroll, That in the owner's keeping shrinks With every wish he speaks or thinks, Till the last wish consumes the whole, The table dwindles, and again 1 see the two alone remain. The crown of stars is broken in parts ; Its jewels, brighter than the day. Have one by one been stolen away To shine in other homes and hearts. One is a wanderer now afar In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, Or sunny regions of Cathay ; And one is in the boisterous camp Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp. And battle's terrible array. I see the patient mother read, With aching heart, of wrecks that float THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 185 Disabled on those seas remote, Or of some great heroic deed On battle-fields, where thousands bleed To lift one hero into fame. Anxious she bends her graceful head Above these chronicles of pain, And trembles with a secret dread Lest there among the drowned or slain She find the one beloved name. VII. After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And, touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing. Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring Drops down into the night. "What see I now ? The night is fair, The storm of grief, the clouds of care. The wind, the rain, have passed away ; The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light • It is the Golden Wedding day. The guests come thronging in once more. Quick footsteps sound along the floor, The trooping children crowd the stair, And in and out and everywhere Flashes along the corridor The sunshine of their golden hair. On the round table in the hall Another Ariadne's Crown Out of the sky hath fallen down ; 186 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE More than one Monarch of the Moon Is drumming with his silver spoon ; The light of love shines over all. O fortunate, O happy day ! The people sing, the people say. The ancient bridegroom and the bride, Smiling contented and serene Upon the blithe, bewildering scene. Behold, well pleased, on every side Their forms and features multiplied. As the reflection of a light Between two burnished mirrors gleams, Or lamps upon a bridge at night Stretch on and on before the sight, TiU the long vista endless seems. MORITURI SALUTAMUS POEM FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS OF 1825 IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. Tempoia labtintur, tacitisque senescimus annis, Et f ugiunt fieno non remorante dies. Oyid, Fastorum, Lib. vi. In October, 1874, Mr. Longfellow was nrged to write a poem for the fiftieth anniversary of the graduation of his college class to be held the next summer. At first he said that he could not write the poem, so averse was he from occasional poems, but a sudden thought seems to have struck him, very likely upon see- ing a representation of Gerome's famous picture, and ten days later he notes in his diary that he had finished the writing. He not only wrote the poem, but what was a rare act with him, read it before the audience gathered in the church at Brunswick on the occasion of the anniversary. He expressed his relief when he found that he could read his poem from the pulpit, and said, " Let me cover myself as much as possible ; I wish it might be entirely." " O C^SAE, 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. O ye familiar scenes, — ye groves of pine. That once were mine and are no longer mine, — Thou river, widening through the meadows green To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen, — Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose 188 MORITURI SALUTAMUS Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose And vanished, — we who are about to die, Salute you ; earth and air and sea and sky. And the Imperial Sun that scatters down His sovereign splendors upon grove and town. Ye do not answer us ! ye do not hear ! We are forgotten ; and in your austere And calm indifference, ye little care Whether we come or go, or whence or where. What passing generations fill these halls. What passing voices echo from these walls, Ye heed not ; we are only as the blast, A moment heard, and then forever past. Not so the teachers who in earlier days Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze ; They answer us — alas ! what have I said ? What greetings come there from the voiceless dead? What salutation, welcome, or reply ? What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie ? They are no longer here ; they aU. are gone Into the land of shadows, — all save one. Honor and reverence, and the good repute That follows faithful service as its fruit, Be unto him, whom living we salute. The great Italian poet, when he made His dreadful journey to the realms of shade, Met there the old instructor of his youth. And cried in tones of pity and of ruth: " Oh, never from the memory of my heart MORITURI SALUTAMUS 189 Your dear, paternal image shall depart, Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised, Taught me how mortals are immortalized ; How grateful am I for that patient care All my life long my language shall declare." To-day we make the poet's words our own, And utter them in plaintive undertone ; Nor to the living only be they said. But to the other living called the dead. Whose dear, paternal images appear Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here ; Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw, Were part and parcel of great Nature's law ; Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid, " Here is thy talent in a napkin laid," But labored in their sphere, as men who live In the delight that work alone can give. Peace be to them ; eternal peace and rest. And the fulfilment of the great behest : " Ye have been faithful over a few things, Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings." And ye who fill the places we once filled, And follow in the furrows that we tUled, Young men, whose generous hearts are beating high, We who are old, and are about to die. Salute you ; hail you ; take your hands in ours. And crown you with our welcome as with fiowers ! How beautiful is youth ! how bright it gleams With its illusions, aspirations, dreams ! 190 MORITURl SALUTAMUS Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend ! Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse, That holds the treasures of the universe I All possibilities are in its hands, No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands ; In its sublime audacity of faith, " Be thou removed ! " it to the mountain saith, And with ambitious feet, secure and proud. Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud ! As ancient Priam at the Scsean gate Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state With the old men, too old and weak to fight, Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield. Of Trojans and Achaians in the field ; So from the snowy summits of our years We see you in the plain, as each appears. And question of you ; asking, " Who is he That towers above the others ? Which may be Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus ? " Let him not boast who puts his armor on As he who puts it off, the battle done. Study yourselves ; and most of all note well Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel. Not every blossom ripens into fruit ; Minerva, the inventress of the flute. Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed Distorted in a fountain as she played ; The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate Was one to make the bravest hesitate. UORirURl SALUTAMUS 191 Write on your doors the saying wise and old, " Be bold ! be bold ! " and everywhere, " Be bold ; Be not too bold ! " Yet better the excess Than the defect ; better the more than less ; Better like Hector in the field to die, Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly. And now, my classmates ; ye remaining few That number not the half of those we knew, Ye, against whose familiar names not yet The fatal asterisk of death is set. Ye I salute ! The horologe of Time Strikes the half-century with a solemn chime, And summons us together once again. The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain. Where are the others ? Voices from the deep Caverns of darkness answer me : " They sleep ! " I name no names ; instinctively I feel Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel. And from the inscription wipe the weeds and moss. For every heart best knoweth its own loss. I see their scattered gravestones gleaming white Through the pale dusk of the impending night ; O'er all alike the impartial sunset throws Its golden lilies mingled with the rose ; We give to each a tender thought, and pass Out of the graveyards with their tangled grass, Unto these scenes frequented by our feet When we were young, and life was fresh and sweet. What shall I say to you ? What can I say Better than silence is ? When I survey This throng of faces turned to meet my own, 192 MORITURI SALUTAMUS Friendly and fair, and yet to me unknown, Transformed the very landscape seems to be ; It is the same, yet not the same to me. So many memories crowd upon my brain. So many ghosts are in the wooded plain, I fain would steal away, with noiseless tread, As from a house where some one lieth dead. I cannot go ; — I pause ; — I hesitate ; My feet reluctant linger at the gate ; As one who struggles in a troubled dream To speak and cannot, to myself I seem. Vanish the dream ! Vanish the idle fears ! Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years ! Whatever time or space may intervene, I will not be a stranger in this scene. Here every doubt, all indecision, ends ; Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, friends ! Ah me ! the fifty years since last we met Seem to me fifty folios bound and set By Time, the great transcriber, on his shelves, Wherein are written the histories of ourselves. What tragedies, what comedies, are there ; What joy and grief, what rapture and despair ! What chronicles of triumph and defeat, Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat ! What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears ! What pages blotted, blistered by our tears ! What lovely landscapes on the margin shine, What sweet, angelic faces, what divine And holy images of love and trust, Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or dust ' MORITURl SALUTAMUS 193 Whose hand shall dare to open and explore These volumes, closed and clasped f orevermore ? Not mine. With reverential feet I pass ; I hear a voice that cries, " Alas ! alas ! Whatever hath been written shall remain. Nor be erased nor written o'er again ; The unwritten only stiU belongs to thee : Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be." As children frightened by a thunder-oloud Are reassured if some one reads aloud A tale of wonder, with enchantment fraught. Or wild adventure, that diverts their thought, Let me endeavor with a tale to chase The gathering shadows of the time and place, And banish what we all too deeply feel Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal. In mediaeval Eome, I know not where, There stood an image with its arm in air, And on its lifted finger, shining clear, A golden ring with the device, " Strike here ! " Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed The meaning that tliese words but half expressed. Until a learned clerk, who at noonday With downcast eyes was passing on his way, Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it well. Whereon the shadow of the finger fell ; And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found A secret stairway leading underground. Down this he passed into a spacious hall, Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall ; And opposite, in threatening attitude. 194 MORITURI SALUTAMUS With bow and shaft a brazen statue stood. Upon its forehead, like a coronet, "Were these mysterious words of menace set : " That which I am, I am ; my fatal aim None can escape, not even yon luminous flame ! " Midway the hall was a fair table placed, With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold, And gold the bread and viands manifold. Around it, silent, motionless, and sad. Were seated gallant knights in armor clad, And ladies beautiful with plume and zone, But they were stone, their hearts within were stone ; And the vast hall was filled in every part With silent crowds, stony in face and heart. Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed ; Then from the table, by his greed made bold. He seized a goblet and a knife of gold. And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang, The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang. The archer sped his arrow, at their call, Shattering the lambent jewel on the waU, And all was dark around and overhead ; — Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead ! The writer of this legend then records Its ghostly application in these words : The image is the Adversary old, Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold ; Our lusts and passions are the downward stair MORITURI SALUTAMUS 195 That leads tlie soul from a diviner air ; The archer, Death ; the flaming jewel, Life ; Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife ; The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone By avarice have been hardened into stone ; The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf Tempts from his books and from his nobler self. The scholar and the world ! The endless strife, The discord in the harmonies of life ! The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books ; The market-place, the eager love of gain, Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain ! But why, you ask me, should this tale be told To men grown old, or who are growing old ? It is too late ! Ah, nothing is too late TiU the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. Cato learned Greek at eighty ; Sophocles Wrote his grand CEdipus, and Simonides Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers, When each had numbered more than fourscore years. And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten, Had but begun his " Characters of Men." Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales, At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales ; Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last. Completed Faust when eighty years were past. These are indeed exceptions ,• but they show How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives. 196 MORITURI SALUTAMUS As the barometer foretells the storm While still the skies are clear, the weather warm So something in us, as old age draws near, Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere. The nimble mercury, ere we are aware, Descends the elastic ladder of the air ; The telltale blood in artery and vein Sinks from its higher levels in the brain ; Whatever poet, orator, or sage May say of it, old age is still old age. It is the waning, not the crescent moon ; The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon ; It is not strength, but weakness ; not desire, But its surcease ; not the fierce heat of fire. The burning and consuming element. But that of ashes and of embers spent. In which some living sparks we still discern, Enough to warm, but not enough to burn. What then ? Shall we sit idly down and say The night hath come ; it is no longer day ? The night hath not yet come ; we are not quite Cut off from labor by the failing light ; Something remains for us to do or dare ; Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear ; Not CEdipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode, Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn, But other something, would we but begin ; For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. A BOOK OF SONNETS THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. I. Written September 5, 1874. When I remember them, those friends of mine, Who are no longer here, the noble three, Who half my life were more than friends to me, And whose discourse was like a generous wine, I most of all remember the divinS Something, that shone in them, and made us see The archetypal man, and what might be The amplitude of Nature's first design. In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands ; I cannot find them. Nothing now is left But a majestic memory. They meanwhile Wander together in Elysian lands, Perchance remembering me, who am bereft Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile. II. Written at Kahant, September 6, 1874. In Attica thy birthplace should have been, Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene 198 A BOOK OF SONNETS And childlike joy of life, O PhUhellene I Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees; Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. For thee old legends breathed historic breath ; Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold ! Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee. That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old! ni. I stand again on the familiar shore. And hear the waves of the distracted sea Piteously calling and lamenting thee. And waiting restless at thy cottage door. The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor, The willows in the meadow, and the free Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me ; Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more? Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men Are busy with their trivial affairs, Having and holding ? Why, when thou hadst read Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears. Why art thou silent? Why shouldst thou be dead? THREE FRIENDS OF MINE 199 IT. Written June 15, 1874. River, that stealest with such silent pace Around the City of the Dead, where lies A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes Shall see no more in his accustomed place, Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace, And say good night, for now the western skies Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise Like damps that gather on a dead man's face. Good night ! good night ! as we so oft have said Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days That are no more, and shaU no more return. Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed ; I stay a little longer, as one stays To cover up the embers that still burn. Written June 5, 1874. The doors are all wide open ; at the gate The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze, And seem to warm the air ; a dreamy haze Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate, And on their margin, with sea-tides elate. The flooded Charles, as in the happier days, Writes the last letter of his name, and stays His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. I also wait ; but they will come no more, Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied 200 A BOOK OF SONNETS The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah mei They have forgotten the pathway to my door ! Something is gone from nature since they died. And summer is not summer, nor can be. CHAUCER. An old man in a lodge within a park ; The chamber walls depicted all around With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound. And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark. Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound ; He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound. Then writeth in a book like any clerk. He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote The Canterbury Tales, and his old age Made beautiful with song ; and as I read I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note Of lark and linnet, and from every page Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead, SHAKESPEARE. A VISION as of crowded city streets, With human life in endless overflow ,* Thunder of thoroughfares ; trumpets that blow To battle ; clamor, in obscure retreats, Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets ; Tolling of bells in turrets, and below Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw KEATS 201 O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets ! This vision comes to me when I unfold The volume of the Poet paramount, Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone ; — Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount. Placed him as Musagetes on their throne. MILTON. I PACE the sounding sea-beach and behold How the voluminous billows roll and run, Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun Shines through their sheeted emerald far un- rolled. And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold All its loose-flowing garments into one. Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold. So in majestic cadence rise and fall The mighty undulations of thy song, O sightless bard, England's Mseonides ! And ever and anon, high over all Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong, Floods all the soul with its melodious seas. KEATS. Written December 4, 1873. The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep ; The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told ! The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold To the red rising moon, and loud and deep 202 A BOOK OF SONNETS The nightingale is singing from the steep ; It is midsummer, but the air is cold ; Can it be death ? Alas, beside the fold A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near his sheep. Lo ! in the moonlight gleams a marble white. On which I read : " Here lieth one whose name Was writ in water." And was this the meed Of his sweet singing? Rather let me write : " The smoking flax before it burst to flame Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed." THE GALAXY. Written August 4, 1874. ToKRENT of light and river of the air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen Like gold and silver sands in some ravine Where mountain streams have left their chan- nels bare ! The Spaniard sees in thee the pathway, where His patron saint descended in the sheen Of his celestial armor, on serene And quiet nights, when all the heavens were fair. Not this I see, nor yet the ancient fable Of Phaeton's wild course, that scorched the skies Where'er the hoofs of his hot coursers trod ; But the white drift of worlds o'er chasms of sable. The star-dust, that is whirled aloft and flies From the invisible chariot-wheels of God. A SUMMER DAY BY THE SEA 203 THE SOUND OF THE SEA. Written July 27, 1874. The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, And round the pebbly beaches far and wide I heard the first wave of the rising tide Kush onward with uninterrupted sweep ; A voice out of the silence of the deep, A sound mysteriously multiplied As of a cataract from the mountain's side, Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. So comes to us at times, from the unknown And inaccessible solitudes of being. The rushing of the sea/-tides of the soul ; And inspirations, that we deem our own, Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing Of things beyond our reason or control. A SUMMER DAY BY THE SEA. The sun is set ; and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold. Slowly upon the amber air unrolled. The falling mantle of the Prophet seems. From the dim headlands many a light -house gleams. The street-lamps of the ocean ; and behold, O'erhead the banners of the night unfold ; The day hath passed into the land of dreams. summer day beside the joyous sea ! O summer day so wonderful and white. So full of gladness and so full of pain ! 204 A BOOK OF SONNETS Forever and forever slialt thou be To some the gravestone of a dead delight, To some the landmark of a new domain. THE TIDES. Written September 4, 1874. I SAW the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand. As if the ebbing tide would flow no more. Then heard I, more distinctly than before. The ocean breathe and its great breast expand, And hurrying came on the defenceless land The insurgent waters with tumultuous roar. All thought and feeling and desire, I said, Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of song Have ebbed from me forever ! Suddenly o'er me They swept again from their deep ocean bed, And in a tumult of delight, and strong As youth, and beautiful as youth, upbore me. A SHADOW. 1 SAID unto myself, if I were dead, What would befall these children ? What would be Their fate, who now are looking up to me For help and furtherance ? Their lives, I said, Would be a volume wherein I have read But the first chapters, and no longer see To read the rest of their dear history, So full of beauty and so full of dread. A NAMELESS GRAVE 205 Be comforted ; the world is very old, And generations pass, as they have passed, A troop of shadows moving with the sun ; Thousands of times has the old tale been told ; The world belongs to those who come the last. They will find hope and strength as we have done. A NAMELESS GRAVE. A newspaper description of a Tjurymg' ground in Newport News, where, on the head-board of a soldier were the words, "A Union Soldier mustered out," was sent to Mr. Longfellow in 1864. He acknowledged its receipt in a letter in which he said : "In the writing of letters more perhaps than in anything else, Shake- speare's words are true, and The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it. For this reason, the touching incident you have sent me has not yet shaped itself poetically in my mind, as I hope it some day will. Meanwhile, I thank you most sincerely for bringing it to my notice, and I agree with you in thinking it very beautiful." Ten years passed before the poet used the incident, for be wrote the sonnet November 30, 1874. " A SOLDIER of the Union mustered out," Is the inscription on an unknown grave At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave, Nameless and dateless ; sentinel or scout Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout Of battle, when the loud artillery drave Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt. Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea In thy forgotten grave ! with secret shame I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn. 206 A BOOK OF SONNETS When I remember thou hast given for me All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name, And I can give thee nothing in return. SLEEP. Written April 7, 1875. Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound Seems from some faint -^olian harpstring caught ; Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound ; For I am weary, and am overwrought With too much toil, with too much care dis- traught. And with the iron crown of anguish crowned. Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek, peaceful Sleep ! until from pain released 1 breathe again uninterrupted breath ! Ah, with what subtile meaning did the Greek Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast Whereof the greater mystery is death ! THE OLD BEIDGE AT FLORENCE. Written November 8, 1874. Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old. Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold Beneath me as it struggles, I behold Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown My kindred and companions. Me alone NATURE 207 It movetli not, but is by me controlled. I can remember when the Medici Were driven from Florence ; longer still ago The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf. Florence adorns me with her jewelry ; And when I think that Michael Angelo Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself. IL PONTE VECCHIO DI FIEENZE. Written November 26, 1874. GrADDl mi f ece ; il Ponte Vecchio sono ; Cinquecent' anni gia suU' Arno pianto II piede, come il suo Michele Santo Piant6 sul draco. Mentre ch' io ragiono Lo vedd torcere con flebil suono Le rilucenti scaglie. Ha questi affranto Due volte i miei maggior. Me solo intanto Neppure muove, ed io non 1' abbandono. Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati I Medici ; pur quando Ghibellino E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento. Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati ; E quando penso ch' Agnolo il divino Su me posava insuperbir mi sento. NATUEE. As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed. Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door. Nor whoUy reassured and comforted 208 A BOOK OF SONNETS By promises of others in their stead, "Which, though more splendid, may not please him more ; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay. Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know. IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN. Here lies the gentle humorist, who died In the bright Indian Summer of his fame ! A simple stone, with but a date and name, Marks his secluded resting-place beside The river that he loved and glorified. Here in the autumn of his days he came, But the dry leaves of life were aU afiame With tints that brightened and were multiplied. How sweet a life was his ; how sweet a death ! Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours. Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer ; Dying, to leave a memory like the breath Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, A grief and gladness in the atmosphere. ELIOT'S OAK. Thou ancient oak ! whose myriad leaves are loud With sounds of unintelligible speech, Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach. THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES 209 Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd ; Witli some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, Thou speakest a different dialect to each ; To me a language that no man can teach, Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud. For underneath thy shade, in days remote, Seated like Abraham at eventide Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote His Bible in a language that hath died And is forgotten, save by thee alone. THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES. Mr. Longfellow was one day visiting Wellesley College, and was asked to write one of his poems. He begged for a few mo- ments' delay, wrote this sonnet from memory, — it had not been printed, — and read it to the ladies. 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. Then seemed the world to change. All time and space. Splendor of cloudless days and starry nights. And men and manners, and all sounds and sights, Had a new meaning, a diviner grace. Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud To teach in schools of little country towns Science and song, and all the arts that please ; So that while housewives span, and farmers ploughed. Their comely daughters, clad in homespun gowns, Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides. 210 A BOOK OF SONNETS VENICE. White swan of cities, slumbering In thy nest So wonderfully built among the reeds Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds, As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest ! White water-lily, cradled and caressed By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds. Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest ! White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of palaces and strips of sky ; I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting In air their unsubstantial masonry. THE POETS. O TE dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kiU, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil ? Yes ; for the gift and ministry of Song Have something in them so divinely sweet. It can assuage the bitterness of wrong ; Not in the clamor of the crowded street. Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat. THE HARVEST MOON 211 PARKER CLEAVELAND. WKITTEN ON REVISITING BRUNSWICK IN THE SUMMER OF 1875. Among the many lives that I have known, None I remember more serene and sweet, More rounded in itself and more complete. Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone. These pines, that murmur in low monotone. These walks frequented by scholastic feet, Were all his world ; but in this calm retreat For him the Teacher's chair became a throne. With fond affection memory loves to dwell On the old days, when his example made A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen ; And now, amid the groves he loved so well That naught could lure him from their grateful shade, He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen ! THE HARVEST MOON. It is the Harvest Moon ! On gilded vanes And roofs of villages, on woodland crests And their aerial neighborhoods of nests Deserted, on the curtained window-panes Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests ! Gone are the birds that were our summer guests ; With the last sheaves return the laboring wains J AH things are symbols : the external shows 212 A BOOK OF SONNETS Of Nature Have their image in the mind, As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves ; The song-birds leave us at the summer's close, Only the empty nests are left behind, And pipings of the quail among the sheaves. TO THE RIVER RHONE. Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower In chambers purple with the Alpine glow. Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow And rocked by tempests ! — at the appointed hour Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a tower. With clang and clink of harness dost thou go To meet thy vassal torrents, that below Rush to receive thee and obey thy power. And now thou movest in triumphal march, A king among the rivers ! On thy way A hundred towns await and welcome thee ; Bridges uplift for thee the stately arch. Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay, And fleets attend thy progress to the sea ! THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS. TO JOHN GBEBNLEAF WHITTIEE. Written to be read at the dinner given by the publishers ol The Atlantic Monthly to Mr. Wliittier upon his seventieth birth- day, December 18, 1877. Three Silences there are : the first of speech, The second of desire, the third of thought ; THE TWO RIVERS 213 This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught With dreams and visions, was the first to teach. These Silences, commingling each with each. Made up the perfect Silence that he sought And prayed for, and wherein at timeS he caught Mysterious sounds from realms beyond our reach. O thou, whose daily life anticipates The life to come, and in whose thought and word The spiritual world preponderates. Hermit of Amesbury ! thou too hast heard Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, And speakest only when thy soul is stirred ! THE TWO EIVEES. I. Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round ; So slowly that no human eye hath power To see it move ! Slowly in shine or shower The painted ship above it, homeward bound. Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground ; Yet both arrive at last ; and in his tower The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour, A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. Midnight ! the outpost of advancing day 1 The frontier town and citadel of night ! The watershed of Time, from which the streams Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way. One to the land of promise and of light. One to the land of darkness and of dreams 1 214 A BOOK OF SONNETS II. O River of Yesterday, with current swift Through chasms descending, and soon lost to sigfit, I do not care to follow in their flight The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift ! River of To-morrow, 1 uplift Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night Wanes into morning, and the dawning light Broadens, and aU the shadows fade and shift ! 1 follow, follow, where thy waters run Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, Fragrant with flowers and musical with song ; Still foUow, follow ; sure to meet the sun. And confident, that what the future yields Will be the right, unless myself be wrong. III. Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday, Through chasms of darkness to the deep de- scending, I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending Thy voice with other voices far away. I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay. But turbulent, and with thyself contending, And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending. Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay. Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings. Regrets and recollections of things past. With hints and prophecies of things to be. And inspirations, which, could they be things, And stay with us, and we could hold them fast, Were our good angels, — these I owe to thee. BOSTON 215 IV. And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing Between thy narrow adamantine walls, But beautiful, and white with waterfalls. And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing ; I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing, I hear thy mighty voice, that caUs and calls, And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's haUs, Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going I It is the mystery of the unknown That fascinates us ; we are children still. Wayward and wistful ; with one hand we cling To the familiar things we call our own, And with the other, resolute of will, Grope in the dark for what the day wiU bring. BOSTON. St. Botolph's Town ! Hither across the plains And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere. There came a Saxon monk, and founded here A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes, So that thereof no vestige now remains ; Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear, And echoed in another hemisphere. Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes. St. Botolph's Town ! Far over leagues of land And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower, And far around the chiming bells are heard ; So may that sacred name forever stand A landmark, and a symbol of the power, That lies concentred in a single word. 216 A BOOK OF SONNETS ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE. The memorial chapel of St. John's, erected by Eohert Means Mason in connection with the Episcopal Theologieal School, stands close by the home of Mr. Longfellow. I STAND beneath the tree, whose branches shade Thy western window, Chapel of St. John ! And hear its leaves repeat their benison On him, whose hand thy stones memorial laid ; Then I remember one of whom was said In the world's darkest hour, " Behold thy son ! " And see him living still, and wandering on And waiting for the advent long delayed. Not only tongues of the apostles teach Lessons of love and light, but these expanding And sheltering boughs with aU their leaves im- plore. And say in language clear as human speech, "The peace of God, that passeth understand- ing. Be and abide with you forevermore ! " MOODS. Oh that a Song would sing itself to me Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art, Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea. With just enough of bitterness to be A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start The life-blood in my veins, and so impart Healing and help in this dull lethargy ! Alas I not always doth the breath of song THE FOUR PRINCESSES AT WILNA '211 Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth At its own will, not ours, nor tarrieth long ; W^e hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth From whence it comes, so sudden and swift and strong. Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth. WOODSTOCK PAEK. Here in a little rustic hermitage Alfred the Saxon King, Alfred the Great, Postponed the cares of king-craft to translate The Consolations of the Roman sage. Here Geoffrey Chaucer in his ripe old age Wrote the unrivalled Tales, which soon or late The venturous hand that strives to imitate Vanquished must fall on the unfinished page. Two kings were they, who ruled by right divine, And both supreme ; one in the realm of Truth, One in the realm of Fiction and of Song. What prince hereditary of their line, Uprising in the strength and flush of youth, Their glory shall inherit and prolong ? THE FOUE PEINCESSES AT WTLNA. A PHOTOGKAPH. Sweet faces, that from pictured casements lean As from a castle window, looking down On some gay pageant passing through a town, Yourselves the fairest figures in the scene ; 218 A BOOK OF SONNETS With what a gentle grace, with what serene Unconsciousness ye wear the triple crown Of youth and beauty and the fair renown Of a great name, that ne'er hath tarnished been! From your soft eyes, so innocent and sweet, Four spirits, sweet and innocent as they. Gaze on the world below, the sky above ; Hark ! there is some one singing in the street ; " Faith, Hope, and Love ! these three," he seems to say ; " These three ; and greatest of the three is Love." HOLIDAYS. The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart ; The secret anniversaries of the heart, When the full river of feeling overflows ; — The happy days unclouded to their close ; The sudden joys that out of darkness start As flames from ashes ; swift desires that dart Like swallows singing down each wind that blows ! White as the gleam of a receding sail, White as a cloud that floats and fades in air, White as the whitest lily on a stream. These tender memories are ; — a fairy tale Of some enchanted land we know not where, But lovely as a landscape in a dream. THE BROKEN OAR 219 WAPENTAKE. TO ALFRED TENNYSON. Poet ! T come to touch thy lance with muie ; Not as a knight, who on the listed field Of tourney touched his adversary's shield In token of defiance, but in sign Of homage to the mastery, which is thine, In English song ; nor will I keep concealed, And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed, My admiration for thy verse divine. Not of the howling dervishes of song, Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart ! Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong. To thee our love and our allegiance, For thy allegiance to the poet's art. THE BROKEN OAR. "November 13, 1864. Stay at home and ponder upon Dante. I am frequently tempted to write upon my work the inscription found upon an oar oast on the coast of Iceland, — Oft war ek dasa durek &ro thick. Oft was I weary when I tugged at thee." Once upon Iceland's solitary strand A poet wandered with his book and pen, Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen, Wherewith to close the volume in his hand. The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand, The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken, And from the parting cloud-rack now and then Flashed the red sunset over sea and land. 220 A BOOK OF SONNETS Then by the billows at his feet was tossed A broken oar ; and carved thereon he read : " Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee " ; And like a nyin, who findeth what was lost, He wrote the words, then lifted up his head, And flung his useless pen into the sea. THE CROSS OF SNOW. Written July 10, 1879. "Looking over one day," says Mr. Longfellow's biographer, " an illustrated book of Western scenery, liis attention was arrested by a picture of that mysterious moun- tain upon whose lonely, lofty breast the snow lies in long furrows that make a rude but wonderfully clear image of a vast cross. At night, as he looked upon the pictured countenance that hung upon his chamber wall, his thoughts framed themselves into the verees that follow. He put them away in his portfolio, where they were found after his death. ' ' In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face — the face of one long dead — Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. Here in this room she died ; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose ; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight. There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died. KERAMOS ' ' On the 1th. of May, 1877, he is ' trying to write a poem on the potter's wheel.' The then new interest in Ceramics had brought out a number of books upon that subject, one of which, it is likely, turned his thoughts in that direction. His memory recalled the old pottery, still standing in Portland, near Deering's Woods, where it had 'been a delight of his boyhood to stop and watch the bowl or pitcher of clay rise up under the workman's hand, as he stood at his wheel under the shadow of a thorn-tree. There, within doors, amid the shelres of pots and pans, he may have read the inscription upon a glazed tile, — No handicraftmau's art can with our art compare ; We potters make our pots of what we potters are. On the 3d of August is an entry in the journal, ' Keceived, from the Harpers, one thousand dollars for Ke'ramos.' The poem was published in their magazine with illustrations." S. Longfel- low : Life of Henry Wadswarth Longfellow, II. 460. The poem was the first in the volume Ke'ramos and other Foems, published in 1878. Turn, turn, iny wlieel 1 Turn round and round Without a pause, without a sound : So spins the flying world away ! This clay, well mixed with marl and sand. Follows the motion of my hand ; For some must follow, and some command, Though all are made of clay ! Thus sang the Potter at his task Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree, While o'er his features, like a mask, The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade 222 K^ RAMOS Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, And clothed him, till he seemed to be A figure woven in tapestry, So sumptuously was he arrayed In that magnificent attire Of sable tissue flaked with fire. Like a magician he appeared, A conjurer without book or beard ; And while he plied his magic art — For it was magical to me — I stood in silence and apart. And wondered more and more to see That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay Rise up to meet the master's hand, And now contract and now expand. And even his slightest touch obey ; While ever in a thoughtful mood He sang his ditty, and at times Whistled a tune between the rhymes, As a melodious interlude. Turn, turn, my wheel ! All things must change To something new, to something strange ; Nothing that is can pause or stay ; The moon will wax, the moon will wane. The mist and cloud will turn to rain. The rain to mist and cloud again, To-morrow be to-day. Thus still the Potter sang, and stUl, By some unconscious act of will, The melody and even the words Were intermingled with my thought, As bits of colored thread are caught K^RAMOS 223 And woven into nests of birds. And thus to regions far remote, Beyond the ocean's vast expanse, This wizard in the motley coat Transported me on wings of song, And by the northern shores of France Bore me with restless speed along. "What land is this that seems to be A mingling of the land and sea ? This land of sluices, dikes, and dunes ? This water-net, that tessellates The landscape ? this unending maze Of gardens, through whose latticed gates The imprisoned pinks and tulips gaze ; Where in long summer afternoons The sunshine, softened by the haze, Comes streaming down as through a screen ; Where over fields and pastures green The painted ships float high in air. And over all and everywhere The sails of windmills sink and soar Like wings of seargulls on the shore ? What land is this ? Yon pretty town Is Delft, with all its wares displayed ; The pride, the market-place, the crown And centre of the Potter's trade. See ! every house and room is bright With glimmers of reflected light From plates that on the dresser shine ; Flagons to foam with Flemish beer, Or sparkle with the Ehenish wine. And pilgrim flasks with fleurs-de-lis, 224 K:^ RAMOS And ships upon a rolling sea, And tankards pewter topped, and queer With comic mask and musketeer ! Each hospitable chimney smiles A welcome from its painted tiles ; The parlor walls, the chamber floors, The stairways and the corridors, The borders of the garden walks. Are beautiful with fadeless flowers, That never droop in winds or showers, And never wither on their stalks. Turn, turn, my wheel! All life is brief; What now is bud will soon be leaf, What now is leaf will soon decay ; The wind blows east, the wind blows west ; The blue eggs in the robin's nest Will soon have wings and beah and breast, And flutter and fly away. Now southward through the air I glide, The song my only pursuivant. And see across the landscape wide The blue Charente, upon whose tide The belfries and the spires of Saintes Ripple and rock from side to side, As, when an earthquake rends its walls> A crumbling city reels and falls. Who is it in the suburbs here. This Potter, working with such cheer. In this mean house, this mean attire, His manly features bronzed with fire, Whose figulines and rustic wares K^RAMOS 225 Scarce find him bread from day to day ? This madman, as the people say, Who breaks his tables and his chairs To feed his furnace fires, nor cares Who goes unfed if they are fed. Nor who may live if they are dead ? This alchemist with hollow cheeks And sunken, searching eyes, who seeks, By mingled earths and ores combined With potency of fire, to find Some new enamel, hard and bright. His dream, his passion, his delight ? O Palissy ! within thy breast Burned the hot fever of unrest ; Thine was the prophet's vision, thine The exultation, the divine Insanity of noble minds. That never falters nor abates. But labors and endures and waits, Till all that it foresees it finds, Or what it cannot find creates ! Turn, turn, my wheel / This earthen jar A touch can make, a touch can mar ; And shall it to the Potter say, What m,akest thou ? Thou hast no hand ? As men who think to understand A world by their Creator planned, Who wiser is than they. Still guided by the dreamy song, As in a trance I float along Above the Pyrenean chain, Above the fields and farms of Spain, 226 KERAMOS Above the bright Majorcan isle, That lends its softened name to art, — A spot, a dot upon the chart, Whose little towns, red-roofed with tile, Are ruby-lustred with the light Of blazing furnaces by night. And crowned by day with wreaths of smoka Then eastward, wafted in my flight On my enchanter's magic cloak, I sail across the Tyrrhene Sea Into the land of Italy, And o'er the windy Apennines, Mantled and musical with pines. The palaces, the princely halls. The doors of houses and the walls Of churches and of belfry towers. Cloister and castle, street and mart. Are garlanded and gay with flowers That blossom in the fields of art. Here Gubbio's workshops gleam and glow With brilliant, iridescent dyes. The dazzling whiteness of the snow, The cobalt blue of summer skies ; And vase and scutcheon, cup and plate, In perfect finish emulate Faenza, Florence, Pesaro. Forth from Urbino's gate there came A youth with the angelic name Of Raphael, in form and face Himself angelic, and divine In arts of color and design. K^ RAMOS 227 From him Francesco Xanto caught Something of his transcendent grace, And into fictile fabrics wrought Suggestions of the master's thought. Nor less Maestro Giorgio shines With madre-perl and golden lines Of arabesques, and interweaves His birds and fruits and flowers and leaves About some landscape, shaded brown, With olive tints on rock and town. Behold this cup within whose bowl, Upon a ground of deepest blue With yellow-lustred stars o'erlaid. Colors of every tint and hue Mingle in one harmonious whole ! With large blue eyes and steadfast gaze, Her yellow hair in net and braid. Necklace and ear-rings all ablaze With golden lustre o'er the glaze, A woman's portrait ; on the scroll, Cana, the Beautiful ! A name Forgotten save for such brief fame As this memorial cau bestow, — A gift some lover long ago Gave with his heart to this fair dame. A nobler title to renown Is thine, O pleasant Tuscan town. Seated beside the Arno's stream ; For Luca della Robbia there Created forms so wondrous fair. They made thy sovereignty supreme. 228 K^RAMOS These choristers with lips of stone, Whose music is not heard, but seen, Still chant, as from their organ-screen, Their Maker's praise ; nor these alone, But the more fragile forms of clay, Hardly less beautiful than they. These saints and angels that adorn The walls of hospitals, and tell The story of good deeds so weU That poverty seems less forlorn, And life more like a holiday. Here in this old neglected church. That long eludes the traveller's search, Lies the dead bishop on his tomb ; Earth upon earth he slumbering lies. Life-like and death-like in the gloom ; Garlands of fruit and flowers in bloom And foliage deck his resting-place ; A shadow in the sightless eyes, A pallor on the patient face. Made perfect by the furnace heat ; All earthly passions and desires Burnt out by purgatorial fires ; Seeming to say, " Our years are fleet, And to the weary death is sweet." But the most wonderful of all The ornaments on tomb or waU. That grace the fair Ausonian shores Are those the faithful earth restores. Near some Apulian town concealed, In vineyard or in harvest field, — KERAMOS 229 Vases and urns and bas-reliefs, Memorials of forgotten griefs, Or records of heroic deeds Of demigods and mighty chiefs : Figures that almost move and speak, And, buried amid mould and weeds, Still in their attitudes attest The presence of the graceful Greek, — Achilles in his armor dressed, Alcides with the Cretan bull, And Aphrodite with her boy. Or lovely Helena of Troy, Still living and stUl beautiful. Turn, turn, my wheel! ' T is nature' s plan The child shovM grow into the man, The man grow wrinkled, old, and gray ; In youth the heart exults and sings. The pulses leap, the feet have wings ; In age the cricket chirps, and brings The harvest-home of day. And now the winds that southward blow, And cool the hot Sicilian isle, Bear me away. I see below The long line of the Libyan Nile, Flooding and feeding the parched lands With annual ebb and overflow, A fallen palm whose branches lie Beneath the Abyssinian sky. Whose roots are in Egyptian sands. On either bank huge water-wheels. Belted with jars and dripping weeds. 230 k£RAMOS Send forth their melancholy moans, As if, in their gray mantles hid, Dead anchorites of the Thebaid Knelt on the shore and told their beads, Beating their breasts with loud appeals And penitential tears and groans. This city, walled and thickly set With glittering mosque and minaret. Is Cairo, in whose gay bazaars The dreaming traveller first inhales The perfume of Arabian gales. And sees the fabulous earthen jars. Huge as were those wherein the maid Morgiana found the Forty Thieves Concealed in midnight ambuscade ; And seeing, more than half believes The fascinating tales that run Through all the Thousand Nights and One, Told by the fair Scheherezade. More strange and wonderful than these Are the Egyptian deities, Ammon, and Emeth, and the grand Osiris, holding in his hand The lotus ; Isis, crowned and veiled ; The sacred Ibis, and the Sphinx ; Bracelets with blue enamelled links ; The Scarabee in emerald mailed, Or spreading wide his funeral wings ; Lamps that perchance their night-watch kept O'er Cleopatra while she slept, — All plundered from the tombs of kings. KSRAMOS 231 Turn, turn, my wheel ! The human race. Of every tongue, of every place, Caucasian, Coptic, or Malay, All that inhabit this great earth, Whatever he their rank or worth, Are Icindred and allied by birth, And Tnade of the same clay. O'er desert sands, o'er gulf and bay, O'er Ganges and o'er Himalay, Bird-like I fly, and flying sing, To flowery kingdoms of Cathay, And bird-like poise on balanced wing Above the town of King-te-tehing, A burning town, or seeming so, — Three thousand furnaces that glow Incessantly, and fill the air With smoke uprising, gyre on gyre. And painted by the lurid glare, Of jets and flashes of red fiire. As leaves that in the autumn fall. Spotted and veined with various hues. Are sv/ept along the avenues. And lie in heaps by hedge and wall, So from this grove of chimneys whirled To all the markets of the world, These porcelain leaves are wafted on, Light yellow leaves with spots and stains Of violet and of crimson dye. Or tender azure of a sky Just washed by gentle April rains, And beautiful with celadon. 232 KERAMOS Nor less the coarser household wares, The willow pattern, that we knew In childhood, with its bridge of blue Leading to unknown thoroughfares ; The solitary man who stares At the white river flowing through Its arches, the fantastic trees And wild perspective of the view ; And intermingled among these The tiles that in our nurseries Filled us with wonder and delight. Or haunted us in dreams at night. And yonder by Nankin, behold ! The Tower of Porcelain, strange and old, Uplifting to the astonished skies Its ninefold painted balconies. With balustrades of twining leaves. And roofs of tile, beneath whose eaves Hang porcelain bells that all the time Ring with a soft, melodious chime ; "While the whole fabric is ablaze With varied tints, all fused in one Great mass of color, like a maze Of flowers illumined by the sun. Turn, turn, my wheel ! What is begun At dayhreah must at dark he done. To-morrow will he another day ; To-morrow the hot furnace flam,e Will search the heart and ti-y the frame, And stamp with honor or with shame These vessels made of clay. kiSramos 233 Cradled and rocked in Eastern seas, The islands of the Japanese Beneath me lie ; o'er lake and plain The stork, the heron, and the crane Through the clear realms of azure drift, And on the hillside I can see The villages of Imari, Whose thronged artd flaming workshops lift Their twisted columns of smoke on high, Cloud cloisters that in ruins lie. With sunshine streaming through each rift. And broken arches of blue sky. All the bright flowers that fill the land, Ripple of waves on rock or sand. The snow on Fusiyama's cone, The midnight heaven so thickly sown With constellations of bright stars. The leaves that rustle, the reeds that make A whisper by each stream and lake, The saffron dawn, the sunset red. Are painted on these lovely jars ; Again the skylark sings, again The stork, the heron, and the crane Float through the azure overhead, The counterfeit and counterpart Of Nature reproduced in Art. Art is the child of Nature ; yes. Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face. Her aspect and her attitude ; All her majestic loveliness 234 kMramos Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen. Who follows Nature. Never man, As artist or as artisan, Pursuing his own fantasies. Can touch the human heart, or please, Or satisfy our nobler needs. As he who sets his willing feet In Nature's footprints, light and fleet. And follows fearless where she leads. Thus mused I on that morn in May, Wrapped in my visions like the Seer, Whose eyes behold not what is near, But only what is far away. When, suddenly sounding peal on peal, The church-bell from the neighboring town Proclaimed the welcome hour of noon. The Potter heard, and stopped his wheel. His apron on the grass threw down. Whistled his quiet little tune. Not overloud nor overlonsr. And ended thus his simple song : Stop, stop, my wlieel ! Too soon, too soon The noon will be the afternoon, Too soon to-day be yesterday ; Behind us in our path we cast The broken potsherds of the past, And all are (/round to dust at last, And trodden into clay ! ULTIMA THULE The collection of poems under this title was published in 1880. The volume bore on the title-page these lines from Horace (Lib. I., Carmen XXX., Ad ApoUinem) : — Precor, Integra Cum mente, nee turpem senectara Degere, nee citharS carentem. The dedication is to his life-long friend, George Washington Greene, who himself dedicated his Life of Natkanael Greene to Mr. Longfellow in words which give a glowing picture of the aspirations of the two in the days of their young manhood. DEDICATION, TO G. W. G. With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, We sailed for the Hesperides, The land where golden apples grow ; But that, ah ! that was long ago. How far, since then, the ocean streams Have swept us from that land of dreams, That land of fiction and of truth. The lost Atlantis of our youth ! Whither, ah, whither ? Are not these The tempest-haunted Orcades, Where sea-gulls scream, and breakers roar, And wreck and sea^-weed line the shore ? Line 10. The tempest-haunted Hebrides, 236 ULTIMA THULE Ultima Thule ! Utmost Isle ! Here in thy harbors for a while We lower our sails ; a while we rest From the unending, endless quest. POEMS BAYARD TAYLOR. Written December 28, 1878. Dead he lay among his books I The peace of God was in his looks. As the statues in the gloom Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb, So those volumes from their shelves Watched him, silent as themselves. Ah ! his hand will nevermore Turn their storied pages o'er ; Nevermore his lips repeat Songs of theirs, however sweet. Let the lifeless body rest ! He is gone, who was its guest ; Gone, as travellers haste to leave An inn, nor tarry until eve. Traveller I in what realms afar, In what planet, in what star, THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE 237 In what vast, aerial space, Shines the light upon thy face ? In what gardens of delight Rest thy weary feet to-night ? Poet ! thou, whose latest verse Was a garland on thy hearse ; Thou hast sung, with organ tone. In Deukalion's life, thine own ; On the ruins of the Past Blooms the perfect flower at last. Iriend! but yesterday the bells Rang for thee their loud farewells ; And to-day they toll for thee, Lying dead beyond the sea ; Lying dead among thy books, The peace of God in all thy looks ! THE CHAMBEK OVER THE GATE. Written October 30, 1878. Snggested to the poet when -writ- ing a letter of condolence to the Bishop of Mississippi, •whose son, the Rev. Duncan C. Green, had died at his post at Green- ville, Mississippi, Septemher 15, during the prevalence of yellow fever. Is it so far from thee Thou canst no longer see. In the Chamber over the Gate, That old man desolate. 238 ULTIMA THULE Weeping and wailing sore For his son, who is no more ? O Absalom, my son ! Is it so long ago That cry of human woe From the walled city came. Calling on his dear name, That it has died away In the distance of to-day? O Absalom, my son ! There is no far or near, There is neither there nor here> There is neither soon nor late, In that Chamber over the Gate^ Nor any long ago To that cry of human woe, O Absalom, my son ! From the ages that are past The voice sounds like a blast. Over seas that wreck and drown, Over tumult of traffic and town ; And from ages yet to be Come the echoes back to me, O Absalom, my son ! Somewhere at every hour The watchman on the tower Looks forth, and sees the fleet Approach of the hurrying feet Of messengers, that bear FROM MY ARM-CHAIR 239 The tidings of despair. O Absalom, my son I He goes forth from the door, Who shall return no more. With him our joy departs ; The light goes out in our hearts ; In the Chamber over the Gate We sit disconsolate. O Absalom, my son 1 That 't is a common grief Bringeth but slight relief ; Ours is the bitterest loss, Ours is the heaviest cross ; And forever the cry -will be " Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son ! " FROM MY ARM-CHAIR. TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE, WHO PRESENTED TO MB, ON MY SEVENTY-SECOND BIBTHDAT, FEBBUAKT 27, 1879, THIS CHAIR MADE FROM THE WOOD OF THE VUiLAGE BLACKSMITH'S CHESTNUT THEE. Contributions for the purchase of the chair came from some seven hundred children of the public schools. The scheme was planned and carried out by Mr. Longfellow's friends and neigh- bors, Mr. and Mrs. E. N. Horsford. Mr. Longfellow had this poem, which he wrote on the same day, printed on a sheet, and was accustomed to giye a copy to each child who visited him and sat in the chair. Am I a king, that I should call my own This splendid ebon throne ? 240 ULTIMA THULE Or by what reason, or what right divine, Can I proclaim it mine ? Only, perhaps, by right diyine of song It may to me belong ; Only because the spreading chestnut tree Of old was sung by me. Well I remember it in all its prime, When in the summer-time The affluent foliage of its branches made A cavern of cool shade. There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street^ Its blossoms white and sweet Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive. And murmured like a hive. And when the winds of autumn, with a shout. Tossed its great arms about. The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath, Dropped to the ground beneath. And now some fragments of its branches bare, Shaped as a stately chair. Have by my hearthstone found a home at last, And whisper of the past. The Danish king could not in all his pride Repel the ocean tide, But, seated in this chair, I can In rhyme Koll back the tide of Time. JUGURTHA 241 I see again, as one in vision sees, The blossoms and the bees, And hear the children's voices shout and call. And the brown chestnuts fall. I see the smithy with its fires aglow, I hear the bellows blow, And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat The iron white with heat I And thus, dear children, have ye made for me This day a jubilee. And to my more than threescore years and ten Brought back my youth again. The heart hath its own memory, like the mind, And in it are enshrined The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought The giver's loving thought. Only yoiir love and your remembrance could Give life to this dead wood. And make these branches, leafless now so long, Blossom again in song. JUGURTHA. W/itten March 1, 1879. How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! Cried the African monarch, the splendid, As down to his death in the hoUow Dark dungeons of Eome he descended, 242 , ULTIMA THULE Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended; How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended, As the vision, that lured him to follow. With the mist and the darkness blended, And the dream of his life was ended ; How cold are thy baths, ApoUo ! THE IRON PEN. Written June 20, 1879. The pen was made of » Wt of iron from the prison of Bonnivard at Chillon ; the handle of wood from the Frigate Constitution, and bound with a circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones from Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine. . It was a gift from Miss Helen Hamlin, of Bangor, Maine. I THOUGHT this Pen would arise From the casket where it lies — Of itself would arise and write My thanks and my surprise. When you gave it me under the pines, I dreamed these gems from the mines Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines ; That this iron link from the chain Of Bonnivard might retain Some verse of the Poet who sang Of the prisoner and his pain ; That this wood from the frigate's mast Might write me a rhyme at last. THE IRON PEN 243 As it used to write on the sky The song of the sea and the blast. a But motionless as T wait, Like a Bishop lying in state Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold, And its jewels inviolate. Then must I speak, and say That the light of that sumjner day In the garden under the pines Shall not fade and pass away. I shall see you standing there, Caressed by the fragrant air, With the shadow on your face. And the sunshine on your hair. I shall hear the sweet low tone Of a voice before unknown, Saying, " This is from me to you — From me, and to you alone." And in words not idle and vain I shall answer and thank you again For the gift, and the grace of the gift, O beautiful Helen of Maine ! And forever this gift will be As a blessing from you to me. As a drop of the dew of your youth On the leaves of an aged tree. 244 ULTIMA THULE ROBERT BURNS. Written December 18, 1879. I SEE amid the fields of Ayr A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, Sings at his task So clear, we know not if it is The laverock's song we hear, or his, Nor care to ask. For him the ploughing of those fields A more ethereal harvest yields Than sheaves of grain ; Songs flush with purple bloom the rye, The plover's call, the curlew's cry. Sing in his brain. Touched by his hand, the wayside weed Becomes a flower ; the lowliest reed Beside the stream Is clothed with beauty ; gorse and grass And heather, where his footsteps pass, The brighter seem. He sings of love, whose flame illumes The darkness of lone cottage rooms ; He feels the force, The treacherous undertow and stress Of wayward passions, and no less The keen remorse. ROBERT BURNS 245 At moments, wrestling witli Ms fate. His voice is harsh, but not with hate ; The brush-wood, hung Above the tavern door, lets fall Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall Upon his tongue. But still the music of his song Kises o'er all, elate and strong ; Its master-chords Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood, Its discords but an interlude Between the words. And then to die so young and leave Unfinished what he might achieve ! Yet better sure Is this, than wandering up and down An old man in a country town. Infirm and poor. For now he haunts his native land As an immortal youth ; his hand Guides every plough ; He sits beside each ingle-nook, His voice is in each rushing brook, Each rustling bough. His presence haunts this room to-night, A form of mingled mist and light From that far coast. "Welcome beneath this roof of mine ! Welcome ! this vacant chair is thine. Dear guest and ghost ! 246 ULTIMA THULE HELEN OF TYRE. " February 26, 1872. Heard Professor Sophocles on Simon MagTiSj very interesting and curious. Helen of Tyre he called his JSpinoia, or self -consciousness. " The poem was written De- cember 1, 1879. The scene, Simon Magus and Helen of Tyre in The Divine Tragedy, was written in 1871. What pliantom is this that appears Through the purple mists of the years, Itself but a mist like these ? A woman of cloud and of fire ; It is she ; it is Helen of Tyre, The town in the midst of the seas, O Tyre ! in thy crowded streets The phantom appears and retreats, And the Israelites that sell Thy lilies and lions of brass, Look up as they see her pass. And murmur " Jezebel ! " Then another phantom is seen At her side, in a gray gabardine, With beard that floats to his waist ; It is Simon Magus, the Seer ; He speaks, and she pauses to hear The words he utters in haste. He says : " From this evil fame. From this life of sorrow and shame, I will lift thee and make thee mine ; Thou hast been Queen Candace, And Helen of Troy, and shalt be The Intelligence Divine I " ELEGIAC 247 Oh, sweet as tlie breath of morn, To the fallen and forlorn Are whispered words of praise ; For the famished heart believes The falsehood that tempts and deceives, And the promise that betrays. So she follows from land to land The wizard's beckoning hand, As a leaf is blown by the gust, Till she vanishes into night. O reader, stoop down and write "With thy finger in the dust. O town in the midst of the seas, With thy rafts of cedar trees. Thy merchandise and thy ships. Thou, too, art become as naught, A phantom, a shadow, a thought, A name upon men's lips. ELEGIAC. Daek is the morning with mist ; in the narrow mouth of the harbor Motionless lies the sea, under its curtain of cloud ; Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon. Like to the towers of a town, built on the verge of the sea. 248 ULTIMA THULE Slowly and stately and still, they sail forth into the ocean; With them sail my thoughts over the limitless deep, Farther and farther away, borne on by unsatisfied longings, Unto Hesperian isles, unto Ausonian shores. Now they have vanished away, have disappeared in the ocean ; Sunk are the towers of the town into the depths of the sea ! All have vanished but those that, moored in the neighboring roadstead, Sailless at anchor ride, looming so large in the mist. Vanished, too, are the thoughts, the dim, unsatis- fied longings ; Sunk are the turrets of cloud into the ocean of dreams ; While in a haven of rest my heart is riding at an- chor. Held by the chains of love, held by the anchors of trust ! OLD ST. DAVID'S AT RADNOR. At the time of the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia in 1876, Mr. Longfellow, who was a visitor, established himself with his family at Bosemont, a few miles from the city, in the im- mediate neighborhood of which is the old church of St. David's, OLD ST. DAVID'S AT RADNOR 249 the outgrowth ofc an English mission of Queen Anne's time. The poem was written March 22, 1880. What an image of peace and rest Is this little church among its graves ! All is so quiet ; the troubled breast, The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed, Here may find the repose it craves. See, how the ivy climbs and expands Over this humble hermitage, And seems to caress with its little hands The rough, gray stones, as a child that stands Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age ! You cross the threshold ; and dim and small Is the space that serves for the Shepherd's Fold ; The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall. The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall, Whisper and say : " Alas ! we are old." Herbert's chapel at Bemerton Hardly more spacious is than this ; But poet and pastor, blent in one, Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, That lowly and holy edifice. It is not the wall of stone without That makes the building small or great, But the soul's light shining round about, And the faith that overcometh doubt, And the love that stronger is than hate. Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, Were I a pastor of Holy Church, 250 ULTIMA THULE More than a Bishop's diocese Should I prize this place of rest and release From further longing and further search. Here would I stay, and let the world With its distant thunder roar and roU ; Storms do not rend the sail that is furled ; Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled In an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul. FOLK-SONGS THE SIFTING OF PETER. "Written November 2, 1879. In St. Luke's Gospel we are told How Peter in the days of old Was sifted ; And now, though ages intervene, Sin is the same, while time and scene Are shifted. Satan desires us, great and small, As wheat to sift us, and we aU Are tempted ; Not one, however rich or great, Is by his station or estate Exempted. No house so safely guarded is But he, by some device of his, Can enter ; THE SIFTING OF PETER 251 No heart hath armor so complete But he can pierce with arrows fleet Its centre. For all at last the cock will crow, Who hear the warning voice, but go Unheeding, Till thrice and more they have denied The Man of Sorrows, crucified And bleeding. One look of that pale suffering face Will make us feel the deep disgrace Of weakness ; We shall be sifted till the strength Of self-conceit be changed at length To meekness. Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache ; The reddening scars remain, and make Confession ; Lost innocence returns no more ; We are not what we were before Transgression. But noble souls, through dust and heat, Kise from disaster and defeat The stronger ; And conscious still of the divine Within them, lie on earth supine No longer. 2-52 ULTIMA THULE MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK. Written January 1, 1880. MAIDEN". Weathercock on the village spire, With your golden feathers all on fire, Tell me, what can you see from your perch Above there over the tower of the church ? WEATHERCOCK. 1 can see the roofs and the streets below, And the people moving to and fro. And beyond, without either roof or street. The great salt sea, and the fishermen's fleet. 1 can see a ship come sailing in Beyond the headlands and harbor of Lynn, And a young man standing on the deck, With a silken kerchief round his neck. Now he is pressing it to his lips. And now he is kissing his finger-tips. And now he is lifting and waving his hand. And blowing the kisses toward the land. MAIDEN. Ah, that is the ship from over the sea. That is bringing my lover back to me. Bringing my lover so fond and true, Who does not change with the wind like you. THE WINDMILL 253 WBATHEKCOCK. If I change witli all the winds that blow, It is only because they made me so, And people would think it wondrous strange, If I, a Weathercock, should not change. O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair. With your dreamy eyes and your golden hair. When you and your lover meet to-day You will thank me for looking some other way. THE WINDMILL. Written March 13, 1880. Behold ! a giant am I ! Aloft here in my tower, With my granite jaws I devour The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, And grind them into flour. I look down over the farms ; In the fields of grain I see The harvest that is to be. And I fling to the air my arms, For I know it is all for me. I hear the sound of flails Far off, from the threshing-floors In barns, with their open doors. And the wind, the wind in my sails. Louder and louder roars. 254 ULTIMA THULE I stand here in my place, With my foot on the rock below, And whichever way it may blow I meet it face to face, As a brave man meets his foe. And while we wrestle and strive, My master, the miller, stands And feeds me with his hands ; For he knows who makes him thrive, Who makes him lord of lands. On Sundays I take my rest ; Church-going bells begin Their low, melodious din ; I cross my arms on my breast, And all is peace within. THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS. Written September 11, 1879. The tide rises, the tide falls. The twilight darkens, the curlew calls ; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town. And the tide rises, the tide falls. Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls ; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands. And the tide rises, the tide falls. Line 22. But the sea in the darkness calls and calls. THE BURIAL OF THE POET 255 The morning breaks ; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls ; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls. SONNETS MY CATHEDEAL. Written April 20, 1879. Like two cathedral towers these stately pines Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones ; The arch beneath them is not built with stones. Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines. And carved this graceful arabesque of vines ; No organ but the wind here sighs and moans. No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones. No marble bishop on his tomb reclines. Enter ! the pavement, carpeted with leaves. Gives back a softened echo to thy tread ! Listen ! the choir is singing ; aU the birds, In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, Are singing ! listen, ere the sound be fled. And learn there may be worship without words. THE BURIAL OF THE POET. Written February 10, 1879. EICHABD HENRY DANA. In the old churchyard of his native town. And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall, 256 ULTIMA THULE "We laid him in the sleep that comes to all, And left him to his rest and his renown. The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped down White flowers of Paradise to strew his pall ; — The dead around him seemed to wake, and call His name, as worthy of so white a crown. And now the moon is shining on the scene. And the broad sheet of snow is written o'er With shadows cruciform of leafless trees. As once the winding-sheet of Saladin With chapters of the Koran ; but, ah ! more Mysterious and triumphant signs are these. NIGHT. Written AprU 18, ISTO. Into the darkness and the hush of night Slowly the landscape sinks, and fades away. And with it fade the phantoms of the day. The ghosts of men and things, that haunt the light. The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the flight. The unprofitable splendor and display, The agitations, and- the cares that prey Upon our hearts, all vanish out of sight. The better life begins ; the world no more Molests us ; all its records we erase From the dull commonplace book of our lives, That like a palimpsest is written o'er With trivial incidents of time and place. And lo ! the ideal, hidden beneath, revives. THE POET AND HIS SONGS 257 L'ENVOI Written April 8, 1880. THE POET AND HIS SONGS. As the birds come in the Spring, We know not from where ; As the stars come at evening From depths of the air ; As the rain comes from the cloud, And the brook from the ground ; As suddenly, low or loud, Out of silence a sound ; As the grape comes to the vine, The fruit to the tree ; As the wind comes to the pine, And the tide to the sea ; As come the white sails of ships O'er the ocean's verge ; As comes the smile to the lips. The foam to the surge; So come to the Poet his songs. All hitherward blown From the misty realm, that belongs To the vast Unknown. His, and not his, are the lays He sings ; and their fame 258 ULTIMA THULE. Is his, and not his ; and the praise And the pride of a name. For voices pursue him by day, And haunt him by night, And he listens, and needs must obey. When the Angel says : " Write ! " IN THE HAEBOR Shortly after Mr. Longfellow's death, the eolleotion entitled In the Harbor, Ultima Thide, Part II., was published, bearing upon the title-page for a motto the final stanza in the dedicatory poem which introduces Ultima Thule. The five translations con- tained in the volume will be found, with the other pieces of the same class, collected in the yolume which closes Mr. Longfellow's poetical works in tliis edition. BECALMED. Becalmed upon the sea of Thought, Still unattained the land it sought, My mind, with loosely-hanging sails, Lies waiting the auspicious gales. On either side, behind, before. The ocean stretches like a floor, — A level floor of amethyst, Crowned by a golden dome of mist. Blow, breath of inspiration, blow I Shake and uplift this golden glow I And fill the canvas of the mind With wafts of thy celestial wind. Blow, breath of song ! until I feel The straining sail, the lifting keel. The life of the awakening sea. Its motion and its mystery ! 260 IN THE HARBOR THE POET'S CALENDAR. These stanzas were written at vaiions times, on half-sheets of paper. March ia dated December 11, 1878 ; April, April 5, 1880 ; from June to December, between December 21, 1880, and Janu- ary 3, 1881. JAJSTJAET. Janus am I ; oldest of potentates ; Forward I look, and backward, and below I count, as god of avenues and gates. The years that through my portals come and go. I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow ; I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen ; My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow. My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men. FEBRUARY. I am lustration ; and the sea is mine ! I wash the sands and headlands with my tide; My brow is crowned with branches of the pine ; Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide. By me all things unclean are purified, By me the souls of men washed white again ; E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain. MARCH. I Martins am ! Once first, and now the third 1 To lead the Year was my appointed place ; THE POET'S CALENDAR 261 A mortal dispossessed me by a word, And set there Janus with the double face. Hence I make war on all the human race ; I shake the cities with my hurricanes ; I flood the rivers and their banks efface, And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains. APRIL. I open wide the portals of the Spring To welcome the procession of the flowers, With their gay banners, and the birds that sing Their song of songs from their aerial towers. I soften with my sunshine and my showers The heart of earth ; with thoughts of love I glide Into the hearts of men ; and with the Hours Upon the Bull with wreathed horns 1 ride. MAT. Hark ! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim My coming, and the swarming of the bees. These are my heralds, and behold ! my name Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees. I tell the mariner when to sail the seas ; I waft o'er all the land from far away The breath and bloom of the Hesperides, My birthplace. I am Maia. I am May. JUNE. Mine is the Month of Roses ; yes, and mine The Month of Marriages ! AU pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. 262 IN THE HARBOR Mine are the longest days, tlie loveliest nights ; The mower's scythe makes music to my ear ; I am the mother of all dear delights ; I am the fairest daughter of the year. JULY. My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land ; My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe, And bent before me the pale harvests stand. The lakes and rivers shrink at my command, And there is thirst and fever in the air ; The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand ; I am the Emperor whose name I bear. AUGUST. The Emperor Oetavian, called the August, I being his favorite, bestowed his name Upon me, and I hold it still in trust, In memory of him and of his fame. I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame Bums less intensely than the Lion's rage ; Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim The golden Harvests as my heritage. SEPTEMBER. I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise The night and day ; and when unto my lips I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships ; The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips ; Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing theii flight ; THE POET'S CALENDAR 263 The hedges are all red with haws and hips, The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night. OCTOBER. My ornaments are fruits ; my garments leaves, Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed ; I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves. O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside. Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, The dreamy air is full, and overflows With tender memories of the summer-tide. And mingled voices of the doves and crows. NOVEMBER. The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I, Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace ; With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly, A steed Thessalian with a human face. Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase The leaves, half dead already with affright ; I shroud myself in gloom ; and to the race Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight. DECEMBER. Eiding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair, I come, the last of all. This crown of mine Is of the hoUy ; in my hand I bear The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine« I celebrate the birth of the Divine, And the return of the Saturnian reign ; — My songs are carols sung at every shrine, Proclaiming " Peace on earth, good will to men." 264 IN THE HARBOR AUTUMN WITHIN. Written April 9, 1874. It is autumn ; not without, But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about ; It is I that have grown old. Birds are darting through the air. Singing, building without rest ; Life is stirring everywhere, Save within my lonely breast. There is silence : the dead leaves Fall and rustle and are stUl ; Beats no flail upon the sheaves. Comes no murmur from the mUl. THE FOUR LAKES OF MADISON. Written January 15, 1876. rouE limpid lakes, — four Naiades Or sylvan deities are these. In flowing robes of azure dressed ; Four lovely handmaids, that uphold Their shining mirrors, rimmed with gold. To the fair city in the West. By day the coursers of the sun Drink of these waters as they run Their swift diurnal round on high ; VICTOR AND VANQUISHED 265 By night tlie constellations glow Far down the hollow deeps below, And glimmer in another sky. Fair lakes, serene and full of light, Fair town, arrayed in robes of white. How visionary ye appear ! All like a floating landscape seems In cloud-land or the land of dreams. Bathed in a golden atmosphere ! VICTOR AND VANQUISHED. Written April 4, 1876. As one who long hath fled with panting breath Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall, I turn and set my back against the wall, And look thee in the face, triumphant Death. 1 call for aid, and no one answereth ; I am alone with thee, who conquerest all ; Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall. For thou art but a phantom and a wraith. Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt, With armor shattered, and without a shield, I stand unmoved ; do with me what thoa wilt ; I can resist no more, but will not yield. This is no tournament where cowards tilt ; The vanquished here is victor of the Held. 266 IN THE HARBOR MOONLIGHT. Written December 20, 18Y8, As a pale phantom with a lamp Ascends some ruin's haunted stair, So glides the moon along the damp Mysterious chambers of the air. Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed, As if this phantom, full of pain, Were by the crumbling walls concealed, And at the windows seen again. Until at last, serene and proud In all the splendor of her light, She walks the terraces of cloud, Supreme as Empress of the Night. I look, but recognize no more Objects familiar to my view ; The very pathway to my door Is an enchanted avenue. All things are changed. One mass of shade, The elm-trees drop their curtains down ; By palace, park, and colonnade I walk as in a foreign town. The very ground beneath my feet Is clothed with a diviner air ; While marble paves the silent street And glimmers in the empty square. THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE 267 Illusion ! Underneath there lies The common life of every day ; Only the spirit glorifies With its own tints the sober gray. In vain we look, in vain uplift Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind ; We see but what we have the gift Of seeing ; what we bring we find. THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE. [a fkagment.] The Children's Crusade was 'begiin March 23, 1879, but was left unfinished. It is founded upon an event which occurred in the year 1212. An army of twenty thousand children, mostly boys, under the lead of a boy of ten years, named Nicolas, set out from Cologne for the Holy Land. When they reached Genoa only seven thousand remained. There, as the sea did not divide to allow them to march dry-shod to the East, they broke up. Some got as far as Kome ; two ship-loads sailed from Fisa, and were not heard of again ; the rest straggled back to Germany. I. What is this I read in history, Full of marvel, full of mystery, Difficult to understand ? Is it fiction, is it truth ? Children in the flower of youth. Heart in heart, and hand in hand, Ignorant of what helps or harms, Without armor, without arms, Journeying to the Holy Land ! 268 IN THE HARBOR Who shall answer or divine ? Never since the world was made Such a wonderful crusade Started forth for Palestine. Never while the world shall last Will it reproduce the past ; Never will it see again Such an army, such a band, Over mountain, over main. Journeying to the Holy Land. Like a shower of blossoms blown From the parent trees were they ; Like a flock of birds that fly Through the unfrequented sky, Holding nothing as their own. Passed they into lands unknown, Passed to suffer and to die. O the simple, child-like trust ! O the faith that could believe What the harnessed, iron-mailed Knights of Christendom had failed. By their prowess, to achieve, They, the children, could and must ! Little thought the Hermit, preaching Holy Wars to knight and baron. That the words dropped in his teaching, His entreaty, his beseeching. Would by children's hands be gleaned. And the staff on which he leaned Blossom like the rod of Aaron. THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE 269 As a summer wind upheaves The innumerable leaves In the bosom of a wood, — Not as separate leaves, but massed AU together by the blast, — So for evil or for good His resistless breath upheaved All at once the many-leaved, Many-thoughted multitude. In the tumult of the air Rock the boughs with all the nests Cradled on their tossing crests ; By the fervor of his prayer Troubled hearts were everywhere Eoeked and tossed in human breasts. For a century, at least, His prophetic voice had ceased ; But the air was heated still By his lurid words and will. As from fires in far-off woods, In the autumn of the year. An unwonted fever broods In the sultry atmosphere. II. In Cologne the bells were ringing, In Cologne the nuns were singing Hymns and canticles divine ; Loud the monks sang in their stalls. And the thronging streets were loud With the voices of the crowd ; — 270 IN THE HARBOR Underneath the city walls Silent flowed the river Rhine. From the gates, that summer day. Clad in robes of hodden gray. With the red cross on the breast, Azure-eyed and golden-haired. Forth the young crusaders fared ; While above the band devoted Consecrated banners floated. Fluttered many a flag and streamer. And the cross o'er all the rest ! Singing lowly, meekly, slowly, " Give us, give us back, the holy Sepulchre of the Redeemer ! " On the vast procession pressed, Youths and maidens. . . . III. Ah ! what master hand shall paint How they journeyed on their way. How the days grew long and dreary. How their little feet grew weary. How their little hearts grew faint I Ever swifter day by day Flowed the homeward river ; ever More and more its whitening current Broke and scattered into spray. Till the calmly-flowing river Changed into a mountain torrent, Rushing from its glacier green Down through chasm and black ravine. THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE 271 Like a phoenix in its nest, Burned the red sun in the West, Sinking in an ashen cloud ; In the East, above the crest Of the sea-like mountain chain, Like a phcenix from its shroud, Came the red sun back again. Now around them, white with snow. Closed the mountain peaks. Below, Headlong from the precipice Down into the dark abyss. Plunged the cataract, white with foam ; And it said, or seemed to say : " Oh return, while yet you may, Foolish children, to your home, There the Holy City is ! " But the dauntless leader said : "Faint not, though your bleeding feet O'er these slippery paths of sleet Move but painfully and slowly ; Other feet than yours have bled ; Other tears than yours been shed. Courage ! lose not heart or hope ; On the mountains' southern slope Lies Jerusalem the Holy ! " As a white rose in its pride, By the wind in summer-tide Tossed and loosened from the branch. Showers its petals o'er the ground, From the distant mountain's side. Scattering all its snows around, 272 IN THE HARBOR With mysterious, muffled sound, Loosened, fell the avalanche. Voices, echoes far and near, Koar of winds and waters blending, Mists uprising, clouds impending. Filled them with a sense of fear, Formless, nameless, never ending. SUNDOWN. Written July 24, 1879. The summer sun is sinking low ; Only the tree-tops redden and glow : Only the weathercock on the spire Of the neighboring church is a flame of fire ; All is in shadow below. O beautiful, awful summer day, What hast thou given, what taken away ? Life and death, and love and hate, Homes made happy or desolate. Hearts made sad or gay ! On the road of life one mile-stone more ? In the book of life one leaf turned o'er ! Like a red seal is the setting sun On the good and the evil men have done, — Naught can to-day restore ! FOUR BY THE CLOCK 273 CHIMES. Written August 28, 1879. Sweet chimes ! that in the loneliness of night Salute the passing hour, and in the dark And silent chambers of the household mark The movements of the myriad orbs of light ! Through my closed eyelids, by the inner sight, I see the constellations in the arc Of their great circles moving on, and hark ! I almost hear them singing in their flight. Better than sleep it is to lie awake, O'er-canopied by the vast starry dome Of the immeasurable sky ; to feel The slumbering world sink under us, and make Hardly an eddy, — a mere rush of foam On the great sea beneath a sinking keel. FOUR BY THE CLOCK. "Nahant, September 8, 1880, four o'clock in the morning." Four by the clock ! and yet not day ; But the great world rolls and wheels away. With its cities on land, and its ships at sea, Into the dawn that is to be ! Only the lamp in the anchored bark Sends its glimmer across the dark. And the heavy breathing of the sea Is the only sound that comes to me. 274 IN THE HARBOR AUF WIEDERSEHEN. IN MBMOKY OF J. T. F. In April, 1881, Mr. Longfellow notes in his diary : "A sorrow^ ful and distracted week. Fields died on Sunday, the 24th. Pal- frey died on Tuesday. Two intimate friends in one week ! " Tha poem was written April 30, 1881. Until we meet again ! That is the meaning Of the familiar words, that men repeat At parting in the street. Ah yes, till then ! but when death intervening Rends us asunder, with what ceaseless pain We wait for the Again I The friends who leave us do not feel the sorrow Of parting, as we feel it, who must stay Lamenting day by day, And knowing, when we wake upon the morrow. We shall not find in its accustomed place The one beloved face. It were a double grief, if the departed. Being released from earth, should still retain A sense of earthly pain ; It were a double grief, if the true-hearted. Who loved us here, should on the farther shore Kemember us no more. Believing, in the midst of our afflictions, That death is a beginning, not an end, We cry to them, and send ELEGIAC VERSE 275 Farewells, that better might be called predictions, Being fore-shadowings of the future, thrown Into the vast Unknown. Faith overleaps the confines of our reason, And if by faith, as in old times was said, Women received their dead Raised up to life, then only for a season Our partings are, nor shall we wait in vain Until W6 meet again ! ELEGIAC VERSE. Written at various times, mostly between April and July, 1881. In the notes at the end of the volume will he found further ex- amples. I. Peeadventuee 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, Breathing into his song motion and sound of the sea. For as the wave of the sea, upheaving in long un- dulations, Plunges loud on the sands, pauses, and turns, and retreats. So the Hexameter, rising and singing, with cadence sonorous, Falls ; and in refluent rhythm back the Pen- tameter flows. 276 IN THE HARBOR II. Not in his youth alone, but in age, may the heart of the poet Bloom into song, as the gorse blossoms in au- tumn and spring. III. Not in tenderness wanting, yet rough are the rhymes of our poet ; Though it be Jacob's voice, Esau's, alas ! are the hands. IV. Let us be grateful to writers for what is left in the inkstand ; When to leave off is an art only attained by the few. V. How can the Three be One ? you ask me ; I an- swer by asking, Hail and snow and rain, are they not three, and yet one ? VI. By the mirage uplifted, the land floats vague in the ether. Ships and the shadows of ships hang in the mo- tionless air ; So by the art of the poet our common life is up- lifted. So, transfigured, the world floats in a luminous haze. ELEGIAC VERSE 277 VII. Like a French poem is Life ; being only perfect in structure When with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are. VIII. Down from the mountain descends the brooklet, rejoicing in freedom ; Little it dreams of the miU hid in the valley below ; Glad with the joy of existence, the child goes sing- ing and laughing. Little dreaming what toils lie in the future con- cealed. IX. As the ink from our pen, so flow our thoughts and our feelings When we begin to write, however sluggish be- fore. X. Like the Kingdom of Heaven, the Fountain of Youth is within us ; If we seek it elsewhere, old shall we grow in the search. XI. If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it ; Every arrow that flies feels the attraction of earth. 278 IN THE HARBOR XII. Wisely the Hebrews admit no Present tense in their language ; While we are speaking the word, it is already the Past. XIII. In the twilight of age all things seem strange and phantasmal, As between daylight and dark ghost-like the landscape appears. XIV. Great is the art of beginning, but greater the art is of ending ; Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse. THE CITY AND THE SEA. Written May 12, 1881. The panting City cried to the Sea, " I am faint with heat, — Oh breathe on me ! " And the Sea said, " Lo, I breathe ! but my breath To some wiU be life, to others death ! " As to Prometheus, bringing ease In pain, come the Oceanides, So to the City, hot with the flame Of the pitiless sun, the east wind came. HERMES TRISMEGISTUS 279 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 ? MEMORIES. Written Septemlier 18, 1881. Oft I remember those whom I have known In other days, to whom my heart was led As by a magnet, and who are not dead, But absent, and their memories overgrown With other thoughts and troubles of my own. As graves with grasses are, and at their head The stone with moss and lichens so o'er- spread. Nothing is legible but the name alone. And is it so with them ? After long years, Do they remember me in the same way. And is the memory pleasant as to me ? I fear to ask ; yet wherefore are my fears ? Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay, And yet the root perennial may be. HERMES TRISMEGISTUS. [Written October 5, 1881.] As Seleneus narrates, Hermes describes the principles that rank as wholes in two myriads of books ; or, as we are informed by Manetho, he perfectly unfolded these principles in three myriads six thousand five hundred and twenty-five volumes. . . . 280 IN THE HARBOR . . . Our ancestors dedicated the inventions of their wisdom to this deity, inscribing all their own writings with the name of Hermes. — Iambucus. Still through Egypt's desert places Flows the lordly Nile, rrom its banks the great stone faces Gaze with patient smile. Still the pyramids imperious Pierce the cloudless skies, And the Sphinx stares with mysterious, Solemn, stony eyes. But where are the old Egyptian Demi-gods and kings ? Nothing left but an inscription Graven on stones and rings. Where are Helios and Hephaestus, Gods of eldest eld ? Where is Hermes Trismegistus, Who their secrets held ? Where are now the many hundred Thousand books he wrote ? By the Thaumaturgists plundered, Lost in lands remote ; In oblivion sunk forever. As when o'er the land Blows a storm-wind, in the river Sinks the scattered sand. Something unsubstantial, ghostly, Seems this Theurgist, HERMES TRISMEGISTUS 281 In deep meditation mostly Wrapped, as in a mist. Vague, phantasmal, and unreal To our thought he seems, Walking in a world ideal. In a land of dreams. Was he one, or many, merging Name and fame in one. Like a stream, to which, converging, Many streamlets run? Till, with gathered power proceeding. Ampler sweep it takes, Downward the sweet waters leading From unnumbered lakes. By the Nile I see him wandering. Pausing now and then. On the mystic union pondering Between gods and men ; Half believing, wholly feeling. With supreme delight, How the gods, themselves concealing, Lift men to their height. Or in Thebes, the hundred-gated. In the thoroughfare Breathing, as if consecrated, A diviner air ; And amid discordant noises. In the jostling throng. Hearing far, celestial voices Of Olympian song. 282 IN THE HARBOR Who shall call his dreams fallacious ? Who has searched or sought AU the unexplored and spacious Universe of thought? Who, in his own skill confiding, Shall with rule and line Mark the border-land dividing Human and divine ? Trismegistus ! three times greatest I How thy name sublime Has descended to this latest Progeny of time ! Happy they whose written pages Perish with their lives. If amid the crumbling ages Still their name survives ! Thine, O priest of Egypt, lately Found I in the vast. Weed-encumbered, sombre, stately, Grave-yard of the Past ; And a presence moved before me On that gloomy shore. As a waft of wind, that o'er me Breathed, and was no more. TO THE AVON. Flow on, sweet river ! like his verse Who lies beneath this sculptured hearse •, Nor wait beside the churchyard wall For him who cannot hear thy call. PRESIDENT GARFIELD 283 Thy playmate once ; I see Mm now A boy witli smishine on his brow, And hear in Stratford's quiet street The patter of his little feet. I see him by thy shallow edge Wading knee-deep amid the sedge ; And lost in thought, as if thy stream Were the swift river of a dream. He wonders whitherward it flows ; And fain would foUow where it goes. To the wide world, that shall erelong Be filled with his melodious song. Flow on, fair stream ! That dream is o'er ; He stands upon another shore ; A vaster river near him flows. And stiU. he follows where it goes. PRESIDENT GARFIELD. " E venni dal martirio a questa pace." Paradiso, XV. 148. Published in The Independent, October 6, 1881. Mr. Longfel- low quotes Dante's words in his own version. These words the poet heard in Paradise, Uttered by one who, bravely dying here. In the true faith was living in that sphere Where the celestial cross of sacrifice Spread its protecting arms athwart the skies ; And set thereon, like jewels crystal clear, 284 IN THE HARBOR The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear. Flashed their effulgence on his dazzled eyes. Ah me ! how dark the discipline of pain. Were not the suffering followed by the sense Of infinite rest and infinite release ! This is our consolation ; and again A great soul cries to us in our suspense, " I came from martyrdom unto this peace ! " MY BOOKS. Written December 27, 1881. Sadly as some old mediasval knight Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield, The sword two-handed and the shining shield Suspended in the hall, and full in sight, While secret longings for the lost delight Of tourney or adventure in the field Came over him, and tears but half concealed Trembled and fell upon his beard of white, So I behold these books upon their shelf, My ornaments and arms of other days ; Not wholly useless, though no longer used, For they remind me of my other self. Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways In which I walked, now clouded and confused. MAD RIVER 285 MAD EIVER, rCT THE WHITE MOUNTAINa. Written January 7, 1882. TKAVELLER. Why dost thou wildly rusli and roar, Mad Eiver, O Mad Eiver ? Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er This rocky shelf forever ? What secret trouble stirs thy breast ? Why all this fret and flurry ? Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest From over- work and worry? THE EIVEK. What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, O stranger from the city ? Is it perhaps some foolish freak Of thine, to put the words I speak Into a plaintive ditty ? TRAVELLER. Yes ; I would learn of thee thy song. With all its flowing numbers, And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long, And hear it in my slumbers. 286 IN THE HARBOR THE EIVEK. » A brooklet nameless and unknown Was I at first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of stone. Irresolute and trembling. Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wide world I panted ; Out of the forest, dark and dread, Across the open fields I fled, Like one pursued and haunted. I tossed my arms, I sang aloud. My voice exultant blending With thunder from the passing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending. I heard the distant ocean call. Imploring and entreating ; Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall Made answer to the greeting. And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow ; Compelled to carry from the hiUs These logs to the impatient mills Below there in the hollow. Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors ; POSSIBILITIES 287 Daily I water with, these arms The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors. Men call me Mad, and well they may, When, full of rage and trouble, I burst my banks of sand and clay. And sweep their wooden bridge away, Like withered reeds or stubble. Now go and write thy little rhyme. As of thine own creating. Thou seest the day is past its prime ; I can no longer waste my time ; The mills are tired of waiting. POSSIBILITIES. Written January 17, 1882. Where are the Poets, unto whom belong The Olympian heights ; whose singing shafts were sent Straight to the mark, and not from bows half bent, But with the utmost tension of the thong ? Where are the stately argosies of song. Whose rushing keels made music as they went Sailing in search of some new continent. With all sail set, and steady winds and strong ? Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, untaught In schools, some graduate of the field or street. Who shall become a master of the art, 238 IN THE HARBOR An admiral sailing the high seas of thought, Fearless and first, and steering with his fleet For lands not yet laid down in any chart. DECOKATION DAY. Written February 3, 1882. Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest On this Field of the Grounded Arms, Where foes no more molest. Nor sentry's shot alarms ! Ye have slept on the ground before, And started to your feet At the cannon's sudden roar, Or the drum's redoubling beat. But in this camp of Death No sound your slumber breaks ; Here is no fevered breath. No wound that bleeds and aches. All is repose and peace, Untrampled lies the sod ; The shouts of battle cease, It is the truce of God ! Eest, comrades, rest and sleep ! The thoughts of men shall be As sentinels to keep Your rest from danger free. LOSS AND GAIN 289 Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers ; Yours has thb suffering been, The memory shall be ours. A FRAGMENT, Awake 1 arise 1 the hour is late ! Angels are knocking at thy door I They are in haste and cannot wait, And once departed come no more. Awake ! arise ! the athlete's arm Loses its strength by too much rest ; The fallow land, the untilled farm Produces only weeds at best. LOSS AND GAIN. Whest 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 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 dare To measure loss and gain in this wise ? Defeat may be victory in disguise ; The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. 290 IN THE HARBOR THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS. The last poem written by Mr. Longfellow. The last Terse but one is dated March 12, 1882. The final verse was added March 15. Mr. Longfellow died March 24. The poem was suggested by an article in Harper's Magazine, which the poet had just read. What say the Bells of San Bias To the ships that southward pass From the harbor of Mazatlan ? To them it is nothing more Than the sound of surf on the shore, — Nothing more to master or man. But to me, a dreamer of dreams, To whom what is and what seems Are often one and the same, — The Bells of San Bias to me Have a strange, wild melody, And are something more than a name. For bells are the voice of the church ; They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old ; One sound to all, yet each Lends a meaning to their speech. And the meaning is manifold. They are a voice of the Past, Of an age that is fading fast, Of a power austere and grand ; When the flag of Spain unfurled Its folds o'er this western world, And the Priest was lord of the land. THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS 291 The chapel that once looked down On the little seaport town Has crumbled into the dust ; And on oaken beams below The bells swing to and fro, And are green with moidd and rust. " Is, then, the old faith dead," They say, " and in its stead Is some new faith proclaimed. That we are forced to remain Naked to sun and rain. Unsheltered and ashamed ? " Once in our tower aloof We rang over wall and roof Our warnings and our complaints ; And round about us there The white doves filled the air. Like the white souls of the saints. " The saints I Ah, have they grown Forgetful of their own ? Are they asleep, or dead, That open to the sky Their ruined Missions lie. No longer tenanted ? " Oh, bring us back once more The vanished days of yore, When the world with faith was filled ; Bring back the fervid zeal, The hearts of fire and steel. The hands that believe and build. 292 IN THE HARBOR " Then from our tower again We will send over land and main Our voices of command, Like exiled kings who return To their thrones, and the people learn That the Priest is lord of the land ! " O Bells of San Bias, in vain Ye caU back the Past again I The Past is deaf to your prayer ; Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light ; It is daybreak everywhereo FRAGMENTS Mr. Longfellow occasionally jotted down in his journal Teises which reflected the mood of the hour or caught some passing thought or sentiment. The following are taken from their place in the published Life, with the dates of their entry. Octoher 22, 1838. Neglected record of a mind neglected, Unto what " lets and stops " art thou subjected ! The day with all its toils and occupations, The night with its reflections and sensations. The future, and the present, and the past, — AU I remember, feel, and hope at last. All shapes of joy and sorrow, as they pass, — Find but a dusty image in this glass. August 18, 1847. faithful, indefatigable tides. That evermore upon God's errands go, — Now seaward bearing tidings of the land, Now landward bearing tidings of the sea, — And filling every frith and estuary. Each arm of the great sea, each little creek. Each thread and filament of water-courses. Full with your ministration of delight ! Under the rafters of this wooden bridge 1 see you come and go ; sometimes in haste 294 FRAGMENTS To reach your journey's end, which being done With feet unrested ye return again And re-commence the never-ending task ; Patient, whatever burdens ye may bear, And fretted only by the impeding rocks. December 18, 1847. Soft through the sUent air descend the feathery snow-flakes ; White are the distant hills, white are the neigh- boring fields ; Only the marshes are brown, and the river rolling among them Weareth the leaden hue seen in the eyes of the blind. August 4, 1856. A lovely morning, without the glare of the sun, the sea in great commotion, chafing and foaming. So from the bosom of darkness our days come roaring and gleaming. Chafe and break into foam, sink into darkness again. But on the shores of Time each leaves some trace of its passage, Though the succeeding wave washes it out from the sand. NOTES Page 20. That of our vices we can frame A ladder. The words of St. Augustine are, " De vitiis nostris sealam nobis faoimus, si vitia ipsa calcamus." — Sermon III. De Ascensione. Page 22. In Mather's Magnolia Christi. [The passage in Mather upon which the poem is based is found in Book I. chapter vi., and is in the form of a letter to Mather from the Kev. James Pierpont, Pastor of New Haven, as follows : — " In compliance with your desires, I now give you the re- lation of that apparition of a ship in the air, which I have received from the most credible, judicious and curious sur- viving observers of it. " In the year 1647, besides much other lading, a far more rich treasure of passengers, (five or six of which were per- sons of chief note and worth in Nexo-Haveri) put themselves on board a new ship, built at Rhode-Island, of about 150 tuns ; but so walty, that the master, {Lamberton) often said she would prove their grave. In the month of January, cutting their way through much ice, on which they were accompanied with the Reverend Mr. Davenport, besides many other friends, with many fears, as well as prayers and tears, they set sail. Mr. Davenport in prayer with an ob- servable emphasis used these words, Lord, if it he thy pleasure to hury these our friends in the bottom of the sea, they are thine ; save them ! The spring following, no tidings of these friends arrived with the ships from England: New-Haven's heart began to fail her : this put the godly people on imuih. prayer, both publick and private, that the Lord would (if it was his pleasure) let them hear what he had done with their dear 296 NOTES friends, and prepare them vnth a suitable submission to his Holy Will. In June next ensuing, a great thunder-storm arose out of the north-west; after which (the hemisphere be- ing serene) about an hour before sun-set a ship of like dimensions with the aforesaid, with her canvass and colours abroad (though the wind northernly) appeared in the air coming up from our harbour's mouth, which lyes southward from the town, seemingly with her sails filled under a fresh gale, holding her course north, and continuing under obser- vation, sailing against the wind for the space of half an hour. " Many were drawn to behold this great work of God ; yea, the very children eryed out. There 's a brave ship ! At length, crouding up as far as there is usually water sufficient for such a vessel, and so near some of the spectators, as that they imagined a man might hurl a stone on board her, her main-top seemed to be blown off, but left hanging in the shrouds ; then her missen-top ; then all her masting seemed blown away by the board ; quickly after the hulk brought unto a careen, she over set, and so vanished into a smoaky cloud, which in some time dissipated, leaving, as every where else, a clear air. The admiring spectators could dis- tinguish the several colours of each part, the principal rig- ging, and such proportions, as caused not only the generality of persons to say, This was the mould of their ship, and thus was her tragick end : but Mr. Davenport also in publick de- clared to this effect. That God had condescended, for the quieting of their afflicted spirits, this extraordinary account of his sovereign disposal of those for whom so many fervent prayers were made continually." To which Cotton Mather adds : " Reader, there being yet living so many credible gentle- men, that were eye-witnesses of this wonderful thing, I ven- ture to publish it for a thing undoubted, as 't is loonderfal."'] Page 29. And the Emperor but a Macho. Macho, in Spanish, signifies a mule. Golondrina is the feminine form for Golondrino, a swallow, and also a cant name for a deserter. Page 36. Oliver Basselin. Oliver Basselin, the " Pere joyeux du Vaudeville" flourt NOTES 297 ished in the flfteeuth century, and gave to his convivial songs the name of his native valleys, in which he sang them, Vaux-de-Vire. This name was afterwards corrupted into the modern Vaudeville. Page 42. And a verse of a Lapland song. [John Scheffier, in his The History of Lapland, puhlished at Oxford, 1674, gives some specimens of Lapp lyric verse, with translations, in one of which are the lines : — A youth's desire is the desire of wind, All his essaies Are loug delaies, No issue can they find.] Page 43. / remember the sea-fight far away. This was the engagement between the Enterprise and Boxer off the harbor of Portland, in which both captains were slain. They were buried side by side in the ceme- tery on Mountjoy. [The fight took place in 1813. The Enterprise was an American brig, the Boxer an English one. The fight, which could be seen from the shore, lasted for three quarters of an hour, when the Enterprise came into the harbor, bringing her captive with her.] Page 63. The palm, the lily, and the spear. " At Pisa the church of San Francisco contains a chapel dedicated lately to Santa FUomena ; over the altar is a pic- ture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint as a beautiful, nymph-like figure, floating down from heaven, attended by two angels bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are healed by her intercession." — Mrs. Jameson, Sacred and Legendary Art, II. 298. Page 62. Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer. [" Rabbi Eliezer hath said : ' There is an Angel who standeth on earth and reacheth with his head to the door of Heaven. It is taught in the Mishna that he is caUed San- dalphon.' " "There are three [angels] who weave or make garlands out of the prayers of the Israelites . . . the third is Sandal- phon." " There be Angels which are of Wind and there be An- gels which are of Fire." J 298 NOTES " The holy and blessed God creates every day a multitude of angels in heaven, who, after they have sung a hymn be- fore Him, do perish. . . . Except Michael and Gabriel . . . and Sandalphon and their equals, who remain in their glory wherewith they were invested in the six days' creation." " The prophet Elias is the Angel Sandalphon, who twist- eth or bindeth garlands out of the prayers, for his Lord." The above passages from J. P. Stehelin's The Traditions of the Jews were marked by Mr. Longfellow, and evidently furnished the material upon which he based his poem.] Page 108. Of the White Chief with yellow hair. [General George A. Custer, who was surprised and with his entire force put to death by the Sioux, June 25, 1876.] Page 111. A Ballad op the French Fleet. [The following is the passage from Hutchinson, giving the history of the calamity which befell the French fleet. " The beginning of September, [1746] vessels arrived at Boston from Hull and Liverpool with advice that the Brest fleet had saUed, and it was supposed for North America, and from the middle to the latter end of the month frequent accounts were brought of a great fleet seen to the westward of Newfoundland, which we flattered ourselves might be English as likely as French, but on the 28th an express ar- rived from Louisburgh with certain advice these ships were the French fleet, which it was affirmed consisted of 70 sail, 14 of which were capital ships, and that there were 20 smaller men of war, and the rest fire ships, bombs, tenders and transports for eight thousand troops. . . . England was not more alarmed with the Spanish armada in 1588 than Boston and the other North American seaports were with the arrival of this fleet in their neighbourhood. . . . The misfortunes of this grand armament are really very remark- able. The loss of Cape Breton filled the French with a, spirit of revenge against the British colonies. The duke d'Anville, a French nobleman in whose courage and con- duct great confidence was placed, was appointed to the com- mand of the expedition. As early as the beginning of May the fleet was ready to sail, but detained by contrary winds until the 22d of June, when it left Roohelle, and then con- NOTES 299 sisted of 11 ships of the line, 30 smaller vessels from 10 to 30 guns, and transport ships with 3130 land forces com- manded by Monsieur Pommerit, -a. brigadier general. The French of Nova^Scotia, it was expected, would join them, and Ramsay, a Trench officer, with 1700 Canadians and Indians were actually in arms there ready for their arrival. To this force Conflans with four ships from the West-Indies were to be addad. It was the third of August before the fleet had passed the western Islands. The 24th they were 300 leagues distant from Nova-Scotia, and one of their ships complained so much that they burnt her. The 15th, the Ardent, of 64 guns, most of her crew being sick, put back for Brest. " The duke d'Anville, in the Northumberland, arrived at Chibueto the 12th of September, with only one ship of the line, the Renommee, and tliree or four of the transports. There he found only one of the fleet, which had been in three days, and after waiting three days and finding that only three more, and those transports, had arrived, the 16th in the morning he died, the French said of an apoplexy, the English that he poisoned himself. In the afternoon the vice-admiral, d'Estournelle, with three or four more of the line came in. Mons. de la Jonquiere, governor of Canada, was aboard the Northumberland, and had been declared a chef d'escadre after the fleet left France, and, by this means, was next in command to the vice admiral. In a council of war, the 18th, the vice-admiral proposed returning to France. Four of the capital ships, the Ardent, Caribou, Mars and Alcide, and the Argonaute fire-ship they were deprived of, there was no news of Conflans and his ships, so that only seven ships of importance remained, more or less of the land forces were on board each of the missing ships, and what remained were in a very sickly condition. This mo- tion was opposed for seven or eight hours by Jonquiere and others of the council, who supposed that, at least, they were in a condition to recover Annapolis and Nova-Scotia, after which they might either winter securely at Casco-Bay or, at worst, then return to France. The sick men, by the con- stant supply of fresh provisions from the Acadians, were 800 NOTES daily recovering, and would be soon fit for service. The motion not prevailing, the vice-admiral's spirits were agi- tated to such a degree as to throw him into a fever attended with a delirium, in which he imagined himself among the English, and ran himself through the body. Jonquiere suc- ceeded, who was a man experienced in war and, although above 60, still more active than either of his predecessors, and the expectations of the fleet and army were much raised. From this time Annapolis seems to have been their chief object. An account, supposed to be authentic, having been received at Boston of the sailing of Admiral Lestock, Mr. Shirley sent an express to Louisburgh to carry the intelligence. The packet boat was taken and carried into Chibuoto, which accelerated the sailing of the fleet. Most of the sick had died at Chibucto, and but about one half their number remained alive. They sailed the 13th of October, and the 15th, being near Cape Sables, they met with a vio- lent cold storm, which, after some intermission, increased the 16th and 17th, and separated the fleet, two of which only, a 50 and a 36 gun ship, were discovered from the fort at An- napolis, where the Chester man of war, Captain Spry, then lay with the Shirley frigate and a small vessel in the service of the board of ordnance, who being discovered by the French to be under sail they made off, and this was the last of the expedition. The news of the beginning of the mis- fortunes of the French having reached France by some of the returned vessels, two men of war were sent immediately with orders, at all events, to take Annapolis, but the fleet had sailed three or four days before they arrived. " Pious men saw the immediate hand of divine providence in the protection or rather rescue of the British colonies this year, as they had done in the miraoilous success of the Cape Breton expedition the former year." — The History of the Province of Massachusetts Bay. By Mr. Hutchinson, II. 425^29. Prince's Thanksgiving sermon provided Mr. Longfellow with the general spirit of the preacher and supplied him also with characteristic phrases. Prince, in his sermon, quotes from the prayer which he had put up in the meeting-house NOTES 301 on the day of general prayer. " I saw the Tents of Cushan in Affliction, and the Curtains of the Land of Midian did tremble. Was thy Wrath against the Sea, that thou didst ride upon thy Horses ? But thy Chariots were Saloation ! " So exclaimed the fervent preacher. It may be observed that Mr. Longfellow, in making Prince say I stood in the Old South, was availing himself of a distinction still fresh, since the term "old" was introduced in 1717, when the new South meeting-house was built, over the successor to which the Keverend E. E. Hale presides. Mr. Hale informs the edi- tor that Mr. Longfellow contributed to the Old South fund the money received from the publication of the ballad in the Atlantic Monthly.'] Page 113. The Leap oi" Roushan Beg. [In Specimens of the Popular Poetry of the Persiatis, trans- lated by Alexander Chodzko, will be found an account of Kurroglou the Persian bandit-poet (whose real name was Koushan). Among other adventures is his escape from his pursuers on his steed Kyrat. " The brave Kyrat sprang forward and stood on the very brink of the precipice ; his four legs were gathered together like the leaves of a rose- bud ; he gave a spring and leaped to the other side of the ravine. As for Kurroglou, even the cap did not move on his head, nor did he look behind."] Page 117. Raised Trisanhu, king of nations. [The story of King Trisanku is told in the Ramayana. In Kalidasa's Sakuntala he is spoken of as " King Trisanku who was suspended between heaven and earth because the sage Viswamitra commanded him to mount up to heaven and the gods ordered him down again."] Page 187. " CcEsar, we who are about to die Salute you I " [This use of the phrase Morituri Salutamus agrees with the treatment of G^rome in his painting, beneath which he wrote the words, Ave Ccesar, Imperator, Morituri te Salutant. The reference to a gladiatorial combat, however, is doubted by some scholars, who quote Suetonius and Dion Cassius as 302 NOTES using the phrase in connection with the great sea-fight exhi- bition given by the Emperor on Lacus Fuoinus. The com- batants were condemned criminals, and they were to fight until one of the parties was killed, unless saved by the inter- position of the Emperor. J Page 188. All save one. [Professor Alpheus Spring Packard, since deceased.] Page 191. " Be hold ! be hold ! " [See Spenser's Faerie Queene, Book III. Canto xi. Stanza 54.] Page 193. Let me endeavor with a tale to chase. [The original of this story is to be found in Tale CVII. of Gesta Romanorum ; Of remembering death and forgetting things temporal.^ Page 197. In Attica thy birthplace should have been. [Cornelius Conway Felton, at one time Professor of Greek, and afterward President, at Harvard College.] Page 198. Piteously calling and lamenting thee. [Jean Louis Kodolphe Agassiz, the eminent naturalist, whose summer home at Nahant was near Mr. Longfellow's, while they were also fellow townsmen in Cambridge.] Page 199. A friend who bore thy name. [Charles Sumner, one of Mr. Longfellow's closest friends.] Page 208. He) e lies the gentle humorist. [Washington Irving. It is interesting to note the in- fluence which this writer had upon Mr. Longfellow, as shown not only in his early prose, but in his direct testi- mony. In presenting the resolutions upon the death of Ir- ving at a meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society, December 6, 1859, Mr. Longfellow said : " Every reader has his first book ; I mean to say, one book among all others which in early youth first fascinates his imagination, and at once excites and satisfies the desires of his mind. To me, this first book was the Sketch-Book of AVashington Irving. I was a school-boy when it was published, and read each succeeding number with ever increasing wonder and delight, spell-bound by its pleasant humor, its melancholy tender- ness, its atmosphere of revery, — nay, even by its gray- brown covers, the shaded letters of its titles, and the fair NOTES 303 elear type, which seemed an outward symbol of its style. How many delightful books the same author has given us, written before and since, — volumes of history and of fic- tion, most of which illustrate his native land, and some of which illuminate it and make the Hudson, I will not say as classic, but as romantic as the Rhine ! Yet still the charm of the Sketch-Book remains unbroken ; the old fascination remains about it ; and whenever I open its pages, I open also that mysterious door which leads back into the haunted chambers of youth." . . .] Page 208. Eliot's Oak. [At a spot in Brighton, under Nouantum Hill, at the junc- tion of what are now Washington, Faneuil, and Nonantum streets, about three miles from Mr. Longfellow's home in Cambridge. The oak was cut down in 1855. In early days an Indian trail led thence to Cambridge.] Page 210. As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest. [James Howell in his A Survay of the Signorie of Venice.'\ Page 211. Parker Cleaveland. [A distinguished naturalist who was senior professor at Bowdoin College, where Mr. Longfellow was first a student, and afterward an instructor. The father of the poet was an intimate friend of Professor Cleaveland, and when the son went to Brunswick he found in the older man one of his most cherished associates. When he went back to give his poem Morituri Salutamus, he made his stay at the Cleave- land mansion, with the daughter of the deceased professor.] Page 212. Three silences there are. [" There are three kinds of silence ; — the first is of words, the second of desires, the third of thoughts. ... By not speaking, not desiring, not thinking, one arrives at the true and perfect mystical silence wherein God speaks with the soul, communicating Himself to it, and in the abyss of its own depth teaches it the most perfect and exalted wis- dom.'' — Michael de Molinos : Spiritual Guide.] Page 217. The Four Princesses at Wilna. [The portraits were of the Princesses Ourosov.J Page 219. Poet ! I come to touch thy lance with mine. " When any came to take the government of the Hundred 304 NOTES or Wapentake in a day and place appointed, as they were accustomed to meete, all the better sort met him with lances, and he alighting from his horse, all rise up to him, and he setting or holding his lance upright, all the rest come with their lances, according to the auucient custome in confirm- ing league and publike peace and obedience, and touch his lance or weapon, and thereof called Wapentake, for the Saxon or old English wapun is weapon, and tac, tactus, a touching, thereby this meeting called Wapentake, or touch- ing of weapon, because that by that sigue and ceremonie of touching weapon or the lance, they were swome and con- federate." — Master Lamberd in Minshew. Page 228. Lies the dead bishop on his tomb. [Benozzo Federighi, Bishop of Fiesole, vir integerrima vita, as the. inscription says. See Vasari under Luca della Kobbia vol. 1, p. 343, Bohn's edition.] Page 236. Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb. In the Hof kirche at Innsbruck. Page 239. From my Akm-Chair. [This chair bears the inscription. To THE Axn:HOR of THE VILLAaE BLACKSMITH, This chair, made froiu the wood of the spieading chestnut-tree, is presented as An expression of grateful regard and veneratiOD by The children of Cambridge, "Who with their friends join in best wishes and congratulations on This Anniversary. February 27, 1879. In 1880, when the city of Cambridge celebrated the two hundred and fiftieth anniversai-y of the founding of the town, December 28th, there was a children's festival at Sanders Theatre in the morning, and the chair stood on the platform in full view of the thousand children assembled. Mr. George Riddle read the poem ; then, to the surprise of NOTES 305 all, the poet himself came forward and made this little speech : — " My dear young Friends, — I do not rise to make an ad- dress to you, but to excuse myself from making one. I know the proverb says that he who excuses himself accuses ■ himself, and I am willing on this occasion to accuse myself, for I feel very much as I suppose some of you do when you are suddenly called upon in your class-room, and are obliged to say that you are not prepared. I am glad to see your faces and to hear your voices. I am glad to have this opportunity of thanking you in prose, as I have already done in verse, for the beautiful present you made me some two years ago. Perhaps some of you have forgotten it, but I have not ; and I am afraid — yes, I am afraid — that fifty years hence, when you celebrate the three hundredth anni- versary of this occasion, this day and all that belongs to it will have passed from your memory : for an English phi- losopher has said that the ideas as well as children of our youth often die before us, and our minds represent to us those tombs to which we are approaching, where though the brass and marble remain, yet the inscriptions are effaced by time, and the imagery moulders away."] Page 241. How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! [A writer in the London Academy says : " As a matter of fact, Jugurtha's exclamation when thrust into the cold, dank prison, was ' Heracles, how cold your [plural, inav^ bath is ! ' (See Plutarch, Marius, u. 12.) ' Heracles ' is the ordinary Greek interjection, not an address to a god. The most natural explanation of this odd mistake seems to be the following : Mr. Longfellow substituted the name of one god for another by a slip of the memory. When Apollo thus replaced Heracles, it was natural to make the further supposition that he was directly addressed, and that the ambiguous ' your ' was singular."] Page 275. So the Hexameter, rising and singing, with cadence sonorous Falls ; and in refluent rhythm back the Pentameter flows. [Schiller's lines will be recalled : — In Hexameter eteigt des Springquells fliissige Saiile ; lu Pentameter drauf fallt sie melodisch herab. 306 NOTES In his diary, under date of February 24, 1847, Mr, Long- fellow writes : — " Walking down to Felton's this morning, seduced by the magnetic influence of the air and the approach to classic ground, I composed the following, a pendant to Schiller's, — In Hexameter headlong the cataract plunges, In Pentameter up whirls the eddying mist. In my afternoon's walk I changed it and added three more. In Hexameter plunges the headlong cataract downward, In Pentameter up whirls the eddying mist. In Hexameter roUs sonorous the peal of the organ ; In Pentameter soft rises the chant of the choir. In Hexameter gallops delighted a beggar on horseback ; In Pentameter, whack ! tumbles he off of his steed. In Hexameter sings serenely a Harvard Professor ; In Pentameter him damns censorious Poe."] Page 290. [" San Bias ... has on a bluff beside it the ruins of a once more substantial San Bias. Old bronze bells brought down from it have been mounted in rude frames a few feet high to serve the purpose of the present poor church, which is without a belfry, and this is called in irony, ' The tower of San Bias.' " — Typical Journeys and Country Life in Mexico. By W. H. Bishop, in Harper's Monthly Magazine, March, 1882.]