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.

DECORATION 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!

Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!
The thoughts of men shall be
As sentinels to keep

Your rest from danger free.

LOSS AND GAIN

Your silent tents of green

We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours.

A FRAGMENT.

AWAKE! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
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.

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LOSS AND GAIN.

WHEN 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.

THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS.

The last poem written by Mr. Longfellow. The last verse 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 Blas
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 Blas 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

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 mould 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! 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.

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"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 Blas, in vain

Ye call back the Past again!

The Past is deaf to your prayer;

Out of the shadows of night
The world rolls into light;

It is daybreak everywhere.