The Poetical Works of Longfellow

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.

ON Sunny slope and beechen swell,
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And, where the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down
The glory, that the wood receives,
At sunset, in its brazen leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,
Around a far uplifted cone,

In the warm blush of evening shone;
An image of the silver lakes,
By which the Indian's soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, grey forest; and a band

Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sang, that by his native bowers
He stood in the last moon of flowers,
And thirty snows had not yet shed
Their glory on the warrior's head;
But, as the summer fruit decays,
So died he in those naked days.

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Covered the warrior, and within
Its heavy folds the weapons, made
For the hard toils of war were laid;
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds,
And the broad belt of shells and beads,

Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain;
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,
Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread,
He came; and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd.

They buried the dark chief-they freed
Beside the grave his battle steed;
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart! One piercing neigh
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain,
The rider grasps his steed again.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild-flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of Morning comes
O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,-
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating

Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,

As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues

That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her eye

The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,

And on her lip the rich, red rose.

Her hair

Is like the summer tresses of the trees,

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,

It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy

To have it round us,-and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

Voices of the Night.

Πότνια πότνια νύξη

ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνων βροτῶν, Ερεβόθεν ἔθι· μόλε μόλε κατάπτερος ̓Αγαμεμνόνιον ἐπὶ δόμον

ὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, ὑπό τε συμφορᾶς διοιχόμεθ, οιχόμεθα.

PRELUDE.

PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,
Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

Alternate come and go;

Or, where the denser grove receives
No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves
The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,
With one continuous sound;-

A slumberous sound,-a sound
brings

that

The feelings of a dream,As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions, came to me, As lapped in thought I used to lie, And gaze into the summer sky, Where the sailing clouds went by, Like ships upon the sea;

EURIPIDES.

Dreams that the soul of youth engage

Ere fancy has been quelled; Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age,

And chronicles of eld.

And, loving still these quaint old themes,
Even in the city's throng

I feel the freshness of the streams,
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,
Water the green land of dreams,
The holy land of song.

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings
The Spring, clothed like a bride,
When nestling buds unfold their wings,
And bishop's-caps have golden rings,
Musing upon many things,

I sought the woodlands wide.

The green trees whispered low and mild;
It was a sound of joy!
They were my playmates when a child,
And rocked me in their arms so wild!
Still they looked at me and smiled,
As if I were a boy;

Tuto the blithe and breathing air,
Into the solemn wood,
Solemn and silent everywhere!
Nature with folded hands seemed there,
Kneeling at her evening prayer!

Like one in prayer I stood.

Before me rose an avenue

Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue,

In long and sloping lines.

And, falling on my weary brain

Like a fast-falling shower,
The dreams of youth came back again,
Low lispings of the summer rain,
Dropping on the ripened grain,
As once upon the flower.

Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay!
Ye were so sweet and wild!
And distant voices seemed to say,
"It cannot be ! They pass away!
Other themes demand thy lay;

Thou art no more a child!

"The land of Song within thee lies,

Watered by living springs;
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes

Are gates unto that Paradise,
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,
Its clouds are angels' wings.

"Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,
Not mountains capped with snow,
Nor forests sounding like the sea,
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,
Where the woodlands bend to see
The bending heavens below.
"There is a forest where the din

Of iron branches sounds!
A mighty river roars between,
And whosoever looks therein,
Sees the heavens all black with sin,-
Sees not its depths nor bounds.
"Athwart the swinging branches cast,
Soft rays of sunshine pour;

Then comes the fearful wintry blast;
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast;
Pallid lips say, It is past!

We can return no more!'

"Look, then, into thine heart, and write !

Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright,

Be these henceforth thy theme."

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος.

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night

Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light

From the celestial walls.

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm, majestic presence of the Night,

As of the one I love.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose;

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,

From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before: Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,

And they complain no more.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe

delight,

The manifold, soft chimes,

this prayer; Descend with broad-winged flight,

That fill the haunted chambers of the The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the

Night,

Like some old poet's rhymes.

most fair,

The best beloved Night!

-A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,

"Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they

seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.

FOOTSTEPS

WHEN the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,

To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light

Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,

Spake with us on earth no more!

OF ANGELS.

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine,

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

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The Poetical Works of Longfellow: Including Recent Poems. With Explanatory ...