Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Read online

And sinking silently,

  All silently, the little moon

  Drops down behind the sky.

  There is no light in earth or heaven 5

  But the cold light of stars;

  And the first watch of night is given

  To the red planet Mars.

  Is it the tender star of love?

  The star of love and dreams? 10

  Oh no! from that blue tent above

  A hero’s armor gleams.

  And earnest thoughts within me rise,

  When I behold afar,

  Suspended in the evening skies, 15

  The shield of that red star.

  O star of strength! I see thee stand

  And smile upon my pain;

  Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand,

  And I am strong again. 20

  Within my breast there is no light

  But the cold light of stars;

  I give the first watch of the night

  To the red planet Mars.

  The star of the unconquered will, 25

  He rises in my breast,

  Serene, and resolute, and still,

  And calm, and self-possessed.

  And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art,

  That readest this brief psalm, 30

  As one by one thy hopes depart,

  Be resolute and calm.

  Oh, fear not in a world like this,

  And thou shalt know erelong,

  Know how sublime a thing it is 35

  To suffer and be strong.

  Footsteps of Angels

  The poem in its first form bore the title Evening Shadows. The reference in the fourth stanza is to the poet’s friend and brother-in-law George W. Pierce, of whom he said long after: “I have never ceased to feel that in his death something was taken from my own life which could never be restored.” News of his friend’s death reached Mr. Longfellow in Heidelberg on Christmas eve, 1835, less than a month after the death of Mrs. Longfellow, who is referred to in the sixth and following stanzas.

  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, 5

  And, like phantoms grim and tall,

  Shadows from the fitful firelight

  Dance upon the parlor wall;

  Then the forms of the departed

  Enter at the open door; 10

  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 roadside fell and perished, 15

  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! 20

  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 25

  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, 30

  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, 35

  Breathing from her lips of air.

  Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,

  All my fears are laid aside,

  If I but remember only

  Such as these have lived and died! 40

  Flowers

  “I wrote this poem on the 3d of October, 1837, to send with a bouquet of autumnal flowers. I still remember the great delight I took in its composition, and the bright sunshine that streamed in at the southern windows as I walked to and fro, pausing ever and anon to note down my thoughts.” H. W. L. It was probably the first poem written by Mr. Longfellow after his establishment at Cambridge.

  SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,

  One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,

  When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

  Stars, that in earth’s firmament do shine.

  Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 5

  As astrologers and seers of eld;

  Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,

  Like the burning stars, which they beheld.

  Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,

  God hath written in those stars above; 10

  But not less in the bright flowerets under us

  Stands the revelation of his love.

  Bright and glorious is that revelation,

  Written all over this great world of ours;

  Making evident our own creation, 15

  In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.

  And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,

  Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part

  Of the self-same, universal being,

  Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 20

  Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,

  Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,

  Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,

  Buds that open only to decay;

  Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 25

  Flaunting gayly in the golden light;

  Large desires, with most uncertain issues,

  Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

  These in flowers and men are more than seeming,

  Workings are they of the self-same powers, 30

  Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,

  Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

  Everywhere about us are they glowing,

  Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;

  Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing, 35

  Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

  Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing,

  And in Summer’s green-emblazoned field,

  But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing,

  In the centre of his brazen shield; 40

  Not alone in meadows and green alleys,

  On the mountain-top, and by the brink

  Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,

  Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

  Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 45

  Not on graves of bird and beast alone,

  But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,

  On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

  In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

  In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 50

  Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

  Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

  In all places, then, and in all seasons,

  Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,

  Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 55

  How akin they are to human things.

  And with childlike, credulous affection,

  We behold their tender buds expand;

  Emblems of our own great resurrection,

  Emblems of the bright and better land. 60

  The Beleaguered City

  Mr. Samuel Longfellow states that the suggestion of the poem came from a note in one of the volumes of Scott’s Border Minstrelsy: “Similar to this was the Nacht Lager, or midnight camp, which seemed nightly to beleaguer the walls of Prague, but which disappeared upon the recitation of [certain] magical words.” The title of the poem served also as that of a remarkable prose sketch by Mrs. Oliphant.

  I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale,

  Some legend strange and vague
,

  That a midnight host of spectres pale

  Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

  Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream, 5

  With the wan moon overhead,

  There stood, as in an awful dream,

  The army of the dead.

  White as a sea-fog, landward bound,

  The spectral camp was seen, 10

  And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

  The river flowed between.

  No other voice nor sound was there,

  No drum, nor sentry’s pace;

  The mist-like banners clasped the air 15

  As clouds with clouds embrace.

  But when the old cathedral bell

  Proclaimed the morning prayer,

  The white pavilions rose and fell

  On the alarmèd air. 20

  Down the broad valley fast and far

  The troubled army fled;

  Up rose the glorious morning star,

  The ghastly host was dead.

  I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, 25

  That strange and mystic scroll,

  That an army of phantoms vast and wan

  Beleaguer the human soul.

  Encamped beside Life’s rushing stream,

  In Fancy’s misty light, 30

  Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam

  Portentous through the night.

  Upon its midnight battle-ground

  The spectral camp is seen,

  And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 35

  Flows the River of Life between.

  No other voice nor sound is there,

  In the army of the grave;

  No other challenge breaks the air,

  But the rushing of Life’s wave. 40

  And when the solemn and deep church-bell

  Entreats the soul to pray,

  The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

  The shadows sweep away.

  Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 45

  The spectral camp is fled;

  Faith shineth as a morning star,

  Our ghastly fears are dead.

  Midnight Mass for the Dying Year

  Published in the Knickerbocker as The Fifth Psalm the author also calls it in his diary An Autumnal Chant.

  YES, the Year is growing old,

  And his eye is pale and bleared!

  Death, with frosty hand and cold,

  Plucks the old man by the beard,

  Sorely, sorely! 5

  The leaves are falling, falling,

  Solemnly and slow;

  Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,

  It is a sound of woe,

  A sound of woe! 10

  Through woods and mountain passes

  The winds, like anthems, roll;

  They are chanting solemn masses,

  Singing, “Pray for this poor soul,

  Pray, pray!” 15

  And the hooded clouds, like friars,

  Tell their beads in drops of rain,

  And patter their doleful prayers;

  But their prayers are all in vain,

  All in vain! 20

  There he stands in the foul weather,

  The foolish, fond Old Year,

  Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,

  Like weak, despisèd Lear,

  A king, a king! 25

  Then comes the summer-like day,

  Bids the old man rejoice!

  His joy! his last! Oh, the old man gray

  Loveth that ever-soft voice,

  Gentle and low. 30

  To the crimson woods he saith,

  To the voice gentle and low

  Of the soft air, like a daughter’s breath,

  “Pray do not mock me so!

  Do not laugh at me!” 35

  And now the sweet day is dead;

  Cold in his arms it lies;

  No stain from its breath is spread

  Over the glassy skies,

  No mist or stain! 40

  Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

  And the forests utter a moan,

  Like the voice of one who crieth

  In the wilderness alone,

  “Vex not his ghost!” 45

  Then comes, with an awful roar,

  Gathering and sounding on,

  The storm-wind from Labrador,

  The wind Euroclydon,

  The storm-wind! 50

  Howl! howl! and from the forest

  Sweep the red leaves away!

  Would the sins that thou abhorrest,

  O soul! could thus decay,

  And be swept away! 55

  For there shall come a mightier blast,

  There shall be a darker day;

  And the stars, from heaven down-cast

  Like red leaves be swept away!

  Kyrie, eleyson! 60

  Christe, eleyson!

  JUVENILE AND EARLIER POEMS

  CONTENTS

  JUVENILE POEMS

  The Battle of Lovell’s Pond

  To Ianthe

  Thanksgiving

  Autumnal Nightfall

  Italian Scenery

  The Lunatic Girl

  The Venetian Gondolier

  The Angler’s Song

  Lover’s Rock

  Dirge over a Nameless Grave

  A Song of Savoy

  The Indian Hunter

  Ode written for the Commemoration at Fryeburg, Maine, of Lovewell’s Fight

  Jeckoyva

  The Sea-Diver

  Musings

  Song

  Song of the Birds

  EARLIER POEMS

  An April Day

  Autumn

  Woods in Winter

  Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem

  Sunrise on the Hills

  The Spirit of Poetry

  Burial of the Minnisink

  L’Envoi

  JUVENILE POEMS

  The Battle of Lovell’s Pond

  WHEN Mr. Longfellow made his first collection of poems in Voices of the Night, he included a group of Earlier Poems, but printed only seven out of a number which bore his initials or are directly traceable to him. He chose these, doubtless, not as specimens of his youthful work, but because, of all that he had written ten years or more before, they only appeared to him to have poetic qualities which he could regard with any complacency. It is not likely that any readers will be found to contravene his judgment in the omission of the other verses, but since this edition is intended for the student as well as for the general reader, it has been thought best to print here those poetical exercises which curious investigators have recovered from the obscurity in which Mr. Longfellow was entirely willing to leave them. They are printed in as nearly chronological order as may be.

  These are Mr. Longfellow’s first verses, so far as known, printed in the Portland Gazette, November 17, 1820.

  COLD, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast

  That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,

  As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,

  Sighs a requiem sad o’er the warrior’s bier.

  The war-whoop is still, and the savage’s yell 5

  Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;

  The din of the battle, the tumult, is o’er,

  And the war-clarion’s voice is now heard no more.

  The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,

  Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; 10

  No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,

  Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.

  They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,

  And Victory’s loud trump their death did proclaim;

  They are dead; but they live in each Patriot’s breast, 15

  And their names are engraven on honor’s bright crest.

  HENRY.

  To Ianthe

  WHEN upon the western cloud

  Hang d
ay’s fading roses,

  When the linnet sings aloud

  And the twilight closes, —

  As I mark the moss-grown spring 5

  By the twisted holly,

  Pensive thoughts of thee shall bring

  Love’s own melancholy.

  Lo, the crescent moon on high

  Lights the half-choked fountain; 10

  Wandering winds steal sadly by

  From the hazy mountain.

  Yet that moon shall wax and wane,

  Summer winds pass over, —

  Ne’er the heart shall love again 15

  Of the slighted lover!

  When the russet autumn brings

  Blighting to the forest,

  Twisted close the ivy clings

  To the oak that’s hoarest; 20

  So the love of other days

  Cheers the broken-hearted;

  But if once our love decays

  ‘T is for aye departed.

  When the hoar-frost nips the leaf, 25

  Pale and sear it lingers,

  Wasted in its beauty brief

  By decay’s cold fingers;

  Yet unchanged it ne’er again

  Shall its bloom recover; — 30

  Thus the heart shall aye remain

  Of the slighted lover.

  Love is like the songs we hear

  O’er the moonlit ocean;

  Youth, the spring-time of a year 35

  Passed in Love’s devotion!

  Roses of their bloom bereft

  Breathe a fragrance sweeter;

  Beauty has no fragrance left

  Though its bloom is fleeter. 40

  Then when tranquil evening throws