[The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]@TWC D-Link book
The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

PART THIRD
17/24

Ha questi affranto Due volte i miei maggior.

Me solo intanto Neppure muove, ed io non l' abbandono.
Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati I Medici; pur quando Ghibellino E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento.
Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati; E quando penso ch' Agnolo il divino Su me posava, insuperbir mi sento.
NATURE As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN Here lies the gentle humorist, who died In the bright Indian Summer of his fame! A simple stone, with but a date and name, Marks his secluded resting-place beside The river that he loved and glorified.
Here in the autumn of his days he came, But the dry leaves of life were all aflame With tints that brightened and were multiplied.
How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death! Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer; Dying, to leave a memory like the breath Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.
ELIOT'S OAK Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud With sounds of unintelligible speech, Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach, Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd; With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, Thou speakest a different dialect to each; To me a language that no man can teach, Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud.
For underneath thy shade, in days remote, Seated like Abraham at eventide Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote His Bible in a language that hath died And is forgotten, save by thee alone.
THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face, Came from their convent on the shining heights Of Pierus, the mountain of delights, To dwell among the people at its base.
Then seemed the world to change.

All time and space, Splendor of cloudless days and starry nights, And men and manners, and all sounds and sights, Had a new meaning, a diviner grace.
Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud To teach in schools of little country towns Science and song, and all the arts that please; So that while housewives span, and farmers ploughed, Their comely daughters, clad in homespun gowns, Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides.
VENICE White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest So wonderfully built among the reeds Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds, As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest! White water-lily, cradled and caressed By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds, Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest! White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of palaces and strips of sky; I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting In air their unsubstantial masonry.
THE POETS O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song Have something in them so divinely sweet, It can assuage the bitterness of wrong; Not in the clamor of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.
PARKER CLEAVELAND WRITTEN ON REVISITING BRUNSWICK IN THE SUMMER OF 1875 Among the many lives that I have known, None I remember more serene and sweet, More rounded in itself and more complete, Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone.
These pines, that murmur in low monotone, These walks frequented by scholastic feet, Were all his world; but in this calm retreat For him the Teacher's chair became a throne.
With fond affection memory loves to dwell On the old days, when his example made A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen; And now, amid the groves he loved so well That naught could lure him from their grateful shade, He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen! THE HARVEST MOON It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes And roofs of villages, on woodland crests And their aerial neighborhoods of nests Deserted, on the curtained window-panes Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests! Gone are the birds that were our summer guests, With the last sheaves return the laboring wains! All things are symbols: the external shows Of Nature have their image in the mind, As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves; The song-birds leave us at the summer's close, Only the empty nests are left behind, And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.
TO THE RIVER RHONE Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower In chambers purple with the Alpine glow, Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow And rocked by tempests!--at the appointed hour Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a tower, With clang and clink of harness dost thou go To meet thy vassal torrents, that below Rush to receive thee and obey thy power.
And now thou movest in triumphal march, A king among the rivers! On thy way A hundred towns await and welcome thee; Bridges uplift for thee the stately arch, Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay, And fleets attend thy progress to the sea! THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Three Silences there are: the first of speech, The second of desire, the third of thought; This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught With dreams and visions, was the first to teach.
These Silences, commingling each with each, Made up the perfect Silence, that he sought And prayed for, and wherein at times he caught Mysterious sounds from realms beyond our reach.
O thou, whose daily life anticipates The life to come, and in whose thought and word The spiritual world preponderates.
Hermit of Amesbury! thou too hast heard Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, And speakest only when thy soul is stirred! THE TWO RIVERS I Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round; So slowly that no human eye hath power To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower The painted ship above it, homeward bound, Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground; Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour, A mellow, measured, melancholy sound.
Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night! The watershed of Time, from which the streams Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, One to the land of promise and of light, One to the land of darkness and of dreams! II O River of Yesterday, with current swift Through chasms descending, and soon lost to sight, I do not care to follow in their flight The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift! O River of To-morrow, I uplift Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night Wanes into morning, and the dawning light Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift! I follow, follow, where thy waters run Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, Fragrant with flowers and musical with song; Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun, And confident, that what the future yields Will be the right, unless myself be wrong.
III Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday, Through chasms of darkness to the deep descending, I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending Thy voice with other voices far away.
I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay, But turbulent, and with thyself contending, And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending, Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay.
Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings, Regrets and recollections of things past, With hints and prophecies of things to be, And inspirations, which, could they be things, And stay with us, and we could hold them fast, Were our good angels,--these I owe to thee.
IV And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing Between thy narrow adamantine walls, But beautiful, and white with waterfalls, And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing; I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing, I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls, And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's halls, Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going! It is the mystery of the unknown That fascinates us; we are children still, Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling To the familiar things we call our own, And with the other, resolute of will, Grope in the dark for what the day will bring.
BOSTON St.Bototlph's Town! Hither across the plains And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere, There came a Saxon monk, and founded here A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes, So that thereof no vestige now remains; Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear, And echoed in another hemisphere, Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes.
St.Botolph's Town! Far over leagues of land And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower, And far around the chiming bells are heard; So may that sacred name forever stand A landmark, and a symbol of the power, That lies concentred in a single word.
ST.

JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE I stand beneath the tree, whose branches shade Thy western window, Chapel of St.John! And hear its leaves repeat their benison On him, whose hand if thy stones memorial laid; Then I remember one of whom was said In the world's darkest hour, "Behold thy son!" And see him living still, and wandering on And waiting for the advent long delayed.
Not only tongues of the apostles teach Lessons of love and light, but these expanding And sheltering boughs with all their leaves implore, And say in language clear as human speech, "The peace of God, that passeth understanding, Be and abide with you forevermore!" MOODS Oh that a Song would sing itself to me Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art, Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea, With just enough of bitterness to be A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start The life-blood in my veins, and so impart Healing and help in this dull lethargy! Alas! not always doth the breath of song Breathe on us.

It is like the wind that bloweth At its own will, not ours, nor tarries long; We hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth From whence it comes, so sudden and swift and strong, Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth.
WOODSTOCK PARK Here in a little rustic hermitage Alfred the Saxon King, Alfred the Great, Postponed the cares of king-craft to translate The Consolations of the Roman sage.
Here Geoffrey Chaucer in his ripe old age Wrote the unrivalled Tales, which soon or late The venturous hand that strives to imitate Vanquished must fall on the unfinished page.
Two kings were they, who ruled by right divine, And both supreme; one in the realm of Truth, One in the realm of Fiction and of Song.
What prince hereditary of their line, Uprising in the strength and flush of youth, Their glory shall inherit and prolong?
THE FOUR PRINCESSES AT WILNA A PHOTOGRAPH Sweet faces, that from pictured casements lean As from a castle window, looking down On some gay pageant passing through a town, Yourselves the fairest figures in the scene; With what a gentle grace, with what serene Unconsciousness ye wear the triple crown Of youth and beauty and the fair renown Of a great name, that ne'er hath tarnished been! From your soft eyes, so innocent and sweet, Four spirits, sweet and innocent as they, Gaze on the world below, the sky above; Hark! there is some one singing in the street; "Faith, Hope, and Love! these three," he seems to say; "These three; and greatest of the three is Love." HOLIDAYS The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart, When the full river of feeling overflows;-- The happy days unclouded to their close; The sudden joys that out of darkness start As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart Like swallows singing down each wind that blows! White as the gleam of a receding sail, White as a cloud that floats and fades in air, White as the whitest lily on a stream, These tender memories are;--a Fairy Tale Of some enchanted land we know not where, But lovely as a landscape in a dream.
WAPENTAKE TO ALFRED TENNYSON Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine; Not as a knight, who on the listed field Of tourney touched his adversary's shield In token of defiance, but in sign Of homage to the mastery, which is thine, In English song; nor will I keep concealed, And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed, My admiration for thy verse divine.
Not of the howling dervishes of song, Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart! Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong, To thee our love and our allegiance, For thy allegiance to the poet's art.
THE BROKEN OAR Once upon Iceland's solitary strand A poet wandered with his book and pen, Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen, Wherewith to close the volume in his hand.
The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand, The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken, And from the parting cloud-rack now and then Flashed the red sunset over sea and land.
Then by the billows at his feet was tossed A broken oar; and carved thereon he read, "Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee"; And like a man, who findeth what was lost, He wrote the words, then lifted up his head, And flung his useless pen into the sea.
THE CROSS OF SNOW In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face--the face of one long dead-- Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
************** BIRDS OF PASSAGE FLIGHT THE FOURTH CHARLES SUMNER Garlands upon his grave, And flowers upon his hearse, And to the tender heart and brave The tribute of this verse.
His was the troubled life, The conflict and the pain, The grief, the bitterness of strife, The honor without stain.
Like Winkelried, he took Into his manly breast The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke A path for the oppressed.
Then from the fatal field Upon a nation's heart Borne like a warrior on his shield!-- So should the brave depart.
Death takes us by surprise, And stays our hurrying feet; The great design unfinished lies, Our lives are incomplete.
But in the dark unknown Perfect their circles seem, Even as a bridge's arch of stone Is rounded in the stream.
Alike are life and death, When life in death survives, And the uninterrupted breath Inspires a thousand lives.
Were a star quenched on high, For ages would its light, Still travelling downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight.
So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men.
TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE The ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, Immovable for three days past, Points to the misty main, It drives me in upon myself And to the fireside gleams, To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, And still more pleasant dreams, I read whatever bards have sung Of lands beyond the sea, And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me.
In fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent's roar, The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, The sea at Elsinore.
I see the convent's gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pine, And towers of old cathedrals tall, And castles by the Rhine.
I journey on by park and spire, Beneath centennial trees, Through fields with poppies all on fire, And gleams of distant seas.
I fear no more the dust and heat, No more I feel fatigue, While journeying with another's feet O'er many a lengthening league.
Let others traverse sea and land, And toil through various climes, I turn the world round with my hand Reading these poets' rhymes.
From them I learn whatever lies Beneath each changing zone, And see, when looking with their eyes, Better than with mine own.
CADENABBIA LAKE OF COMO No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day, As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away.
I pace the leafy colonnade Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade Impervious to the sun and rain.
At times a sudden rush of air Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, And gleams of sunshine toss and flare Like torches down the path I tread.
By Somariva's garden gate I make the marble stairs my seat, And hear the water, as I wait, Lapping the steps beneath my feet.
The undulation sinks and swells Along the stony parapets, And far away the floating bells Tinkle upon the fisher's nets.
Silent and slow, by tower and town The freighted barges come and go, Their pendent shadows gliding down By town and tower submerged below.
The hills sweep upward from the shore, With villas scattered one by one Upon their wooded spurs, and lower Bellaggio blazing in the sun.
And dimly seen, a tangled mass Of walls and woods, of light and shade, Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass Varenna with its white cascade.
I ask myself, Is this a dream?
Will it all vanish into air?
Is there a land of such supreme And perfect beauty anywhere?
Sweet vision! Do not fade away; Linger until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day, And all the beauty of the lake.
Linger until upon my brain Is stamped an image of the scene, Then fade into the air again, And be as if thou hadst not been.
MONTE CASSINO TERRA DI LAVORO Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads Unheard the Garigliano glides along;-- The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, The river taciturn of classic song.
The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest, Where mediaeval towns are white on all The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall.
There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface Was dragged with contumely from his throne; Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own?
There is Ceprano, where a renegade Was each Apulian, as great Dante saith, When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayed Spurred on to Benevento and to death.
There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night.
Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played, And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeats In ponderous folios for scholastics made.
And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud That pauses on a mountain summit high, Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud And venerable walls against the sky.
Well I remember how on foot I climbed The stony pathway leading to its gate; Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed, Below, the darkening town grew desolate.
Well I remember the low arch and dark, The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide, From which, far down, the valley like a park Veiled in the evening mists, was dim descried.
The day was dying, and with feeble hands Caressed the mountain-tops; the vales between Darkened; the river in the meadowlands Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen.
The silence of the place was like a sleep, So full of rest it seemed; each passing tread Was a reverberation from the deep Recesses of the ages that are dead.
For, more than thirteen centuries ago, Benedict fleeing from the gates of Rome, A youth disgusted with its vice and woe, Sought in these mountain solitudes a home.
He founded here his Convent and his Rule Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer; The pen became a clarion, and his school Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air.
What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way, Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores The illuminated manuscripts, that lay Torn and neglected on the dusty floors?
Boccaccio was a novelist, a child Of fancy and of fiction at the best! This the urbane librarian said, and smiled Incredulous, as at some idle jest.
Upon such themes as these, with one young friar I sat conversing late into the night, Till in its cavernous chimney the woodfire Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite.
And then translated, in my convent cell, Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay, And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, Started from sleep; already it was day.
From the high window I beheld the scene On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed,-- The mountains and the valley in the sheen Of the bright sun,--and stood as one amazed.
Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing; The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns; Far off the mellow bells began to ring For matins in the half-awakened towns.
The conflict of the Present and the Past, The ideal and the actual in our life, As on a field of battle held me fast, Where this world and the next world were at strife.
For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, I saw the iron horses of the steam Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, And woke, as one awaketh from a dream.
AMALFI Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet, Where, amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas.
In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge.
'T is a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet.
Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear; Sunburnt daughters of the soil, Stately figures tall and straight, What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil?
Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands.
On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands, Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof; Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain, And as indolent as he.
Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west?
Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast?
Where the pomp of camp and court?
Where the pilgrims with their prayers?
Where the merchants with their wares, And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port Chased by corsair Algerines?
Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, Are those splendors of the past, And the commerce and the crowd! Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, Swallowed by the engulfing waves; Silent streets and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls; Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies: Even cities have their graves! This is an enchanted land! Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sand: Further still and furthermost On the dim discovered coast Paestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom.
On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these, From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut-trees; Nothing else he heeds or hears.
All the landscape seems to swoon In the happy afternoon; Slowly o'er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, Into caverns cool and deep! Walled about with drifts of snow, Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, Seeing all the landscape white, And the river cased in ice, Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea.
THE SERMON OF ST.


<<Back  Index  Next>>

D-Link book Top

TWC mobile books