[From To the River Charles.]

RIVER! that in silence windest

Through the meadows, bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!

Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long;
Thou hast been a generous giver ;
I can give thee but a song.

Oft in sadness and in illness

I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,

I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

I

[From The Bridge.]

STOOD on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,

And the moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church tower.

I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay,

And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

The sea-weed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O, how often,

In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, O, how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odour of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.

LONGFELLOW.

[From The Mad River, in the White Mountains.]

Traveller.

HY dost thou wildly rush and roar,

WHY

Mad River, O Mad River?

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 River.

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 hills
These logs to the impatient mills
Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labours ;

Daily I water with these arms

The cattle of a hundred farms,

And have the birds for neighbours.

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.