THE CHALLENGE.

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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 1
Was before Zamora slain,
And his great besieging army
Lay encamped upon the plain.

Don Diego de Ordoñez 2

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.

1 Sanchath.

2 Ordōnyath.

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 fearful cry.

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 DAY IS DONE.

[Written in the fall of 1844 as proem to The Waif, a small volume of poems selected by Mr. Longfellow and published at Christmas of that year.]

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

THE DAY IS DONE.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

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Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK.

[After reading Hans Andersen's Story of my Life, Longfellow notes in his diary: "Autumn always brings back very freshly my autumnal sojourn in Copenhagen, delightfully mingled with bracing air and yellow falling leaves. I have tried to record the impression in the song To an Old Danish Song Book."]

WELCOME, my old friend,
Welcome to a foreign fireside,
While the sullen gales of autumn
Shake the windows.

The ungrateful world

Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee,
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark,
First I met thee.

There are marks of age,

There are thumb-marks on thy margin,

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK.

Made by hands that clasped thee rudely,
At the alehouse.

Soiled and dull thou art;

Yellow are thy time-worn pages,

As the russet, rain-molested
Leaves of autumn.

Thou art stained with wine
Scattered from hilarious goblets,

As the leaves with the libations
Of Olympus.

Yet dost thou recall

Days departed, half-forgotten,

When in dreamy youth I wandered
By the Baltic, -

When I paused to hear

The old ballad of King Christian 1

Shouted from suburban taverns
In the twilight.

Thou recallest bards,

Who, in solitary chambers,

And with hearts by passion wasted,

Wrote thy pages.

Thou recallest homes

Where thy songs of love and friendship

Made the gloomy Northern winter

Bright as summer.

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1 See Longfellow's translation of this national song of Denmark in Paul Revere's Ride and other Poems, Riverside Literature Series, No. 63.