EXCELSIOR. His brow was sad; his eye beneath The accents of that unknown tongue, In happy homes he saw the light "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! This was the peasant's last Good-night, 49 library of Harvard University. Mr. Longfellow in a letter to a friend intimates his intention in the poem in these words : "This was no more than to display, in a series of pictures, the life of a man of genius, resisting all temptations, laying aside all fears, heedless of all warnings, and pressing right on to accomplish his purpose. His motto is Excelsior higher.' At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air, A traveller, by the faithful hound, There in the twilight cold and gray, THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree With large and sinewy hands; 1 The monastery of St. Bernard high up in the Alps occupies a dangerous pass, and many travellers have found shelter there. It gave rise to the breed of St. Bernard dogs, famous for their intelligence and the aid they have given in rescuing travellers from the blinding snow. 2 The suggestion of the poem came from the smithy which the poet passed daily, and which stood beneath a horse-chestnut tree not far from his house in Cambridge. The tree, against the protests of Mr. Longfellow and others, was removed in 1876, on the ground that it imperilled drivers of heavy loads who passed under it. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. And the muscles of his brawny arms His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch1 the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. 51 After this poem had been printed for some time, Mr. Longfellow was disposed to change this word to "watch," but the original form had grown so familiar that he decided to leave it. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, - sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Our fortunes must be wrought; FROM MY ARM-CHAIR. TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE WHO PRESENTED TO ME, ON MY SEVENTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1879, THIS CHAIR MADE FROM THE WOOD OF THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH'S CHESTNUT-TREE. Am I a king, that I should call my own This splendid ebon throne? Or by what reason, or what right divine, Only, perhaps, by right divine of song It may to me belong; FROM MY ARM-CHAIR. Only because the spreading chestnut-tree Well I remember it in all its prime, When in the summer-time The affluent foliage of its branches made 53 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, Have by my hearthstone found a home at last, The Danish king could not in all his pride But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme 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, |