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diff --git a/37980-h/37980-h.htm b/37980-h/37980-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4f5986b --- /dev/null +++ b/37980-h/37980-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1682 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Day with Longfellow by Anonymous.</title> +<style type="text/css"> + body {background:#fdfdfd; + color:black; + font-size: large; + margin-top:100px; + margin-left:15%; + margin-right:15%; + text-align:justify; } + h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6 {text-align: center; } + hr.narrow { width: 40%; + text-align: center; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; } + hr.minimal { width: 25%; + text-align: center; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; } + hr.tiny { width: 10%; + text-align: center; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; } + hr { width: 100%; } + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 3px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + table {font-size: large; } + table.sm {font-size: small; } + p {text-indent: 3%; } + p.noindent { text-indent: 0%; } + .caption { font-size: small; + font-weight: bold; } + .center { text-align: center; } + img { border: 0; } + .ind1 { margin-left: 1em; } + .ind2 { margin-left: 2em; } + .small { font-size: 70%; } + .bb { font-weight: bold; font-size: 120%} + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red; + text-decoration: underline; } + pre {font-size: 70%; } +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Day With Longfellow, by +Anonymous and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Day With Longfellow + +Author: Anonymous + Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + +Release Date: November 11, 2011 [EBook #37980] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW *** + + + + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Susan Theresa Morin and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration"> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <a href="images/illus008.jpg"> + <img src="images/illus008.jpg" height="300" + alt="BOOK COVER" /></a> + </td> + </tr> + </table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<p class="noindent"><span class="widebb">DAYS WITH<br /> +THE GREAT<br /> +.POETS.<br /> +<br /> +LONGFELLOW</span> +</p> +</div> +<p> </p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration"> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <a href="images/illus001.jpg"> + <img src="images/illus001.jpg" height="450" + alt="THE CHILDREN'S HOUR" /></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus001.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br /> + <i>Painting by A. E. Jackson.</i><br /> + <br />THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.</span> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="center" valign="top"></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center" valign="bottom"></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Between the dark and the daylight,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind2"> </span>When the night is beginning to lower,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Comes a pause in the day's occupations,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind2"> </span>That is known as the Children's Hour.</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center" valign="middle">* * * * *</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">They climb up into my turret,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind2"> </span>O'er the arms and back of my chair;</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">If I try to escape they surround me,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind2"> </span>They seem to be everywhere.</td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="narrow" /> +<p> </p> +<h1>A · DAY · WITH<br /> +<br /> +LONGFELLOW</h1> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<p class="noindent"><span class="bb">HODDER & STOUGHTON</span><br /> +<b><span class="wide">LTD., PUBLISHERS LONDON</span></b> +</p> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="narrow" /> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration"> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <a href="images/illus002.jpg"> + <img src="images/illus002.jpg" height="400" + alt="TITLE PAGE" /></a> + </td> + </tr> + </table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="tiny" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class="center"> +<p class="noindent"><i>Uniform with this Volume</i></p> + +<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left"><i>DAYS WITH THE POETS</i></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">BROWNING<br /> +BURNS<br /> +KEATS<br /> +LONGFELLOW<br /> +SHAKESPEARE<br /> +TENNYSON</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><i>DAYS WITH THE COMPOSERS</i></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">BEETHOVEN<br /> +CHOPIN<br /> +GOUNOD<br /> +MENDELSSOHN<br /> +TSCHAIKOVSKY<br /> +WAGNER</td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="tiny" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class="center"> + <p class="noindent"> + <span class="small"><i>Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited,<br /> +by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot.</i> + </span> + </p> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="minimal" /> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration"> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <a href="images/illus003.jpg"> + <img src="images/illus003.jpg" height="100" + alt="DECORATION" /></a> + </td> + </tr> + </table> +</div> +<h2><span class="wide">A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW</span></h2> + +<p>The expression of serious and tender +thoughtfulness, which always characterized +the quiet face of Henry Wadsworth +Longfellow, had deepened during his later years, +into something akin to melancholy. The tragic +loss of his beloved wife,—burned to death while +she was sealing up in paper little locks of her +children's hair,—had left its permanent and +irrevocable mark upon his life. Still, he did not +seclude himself with his sorrow: the professor +of Modern Languages at Harvard could hardly do +that. He remained the selfsame kindly, gentle, +industrious man, welcoming with ready courtesy +the innumerable visitors to the Craigie House.</p> + +<p>This is a large old-fashioned house in +Cambridge, Massachusetts—a place of grassy +terraces, long verandahs, lilac bushes, and shady +trees—a perfect dwelling for a man of cultured +tastes, as the interior also testifies.</p> + +<p>From the Poet's study, a spacious, sunny +room upon the ground floor, he could look across +the meadows behind the house to the distant +silver windings of the River Charles. It was a +most orderly room. Every book and paper lay +where he could put his hand on it in a moment. +Book-cases full of valuable volumes—precious first +editions—busts and portraits,—were to be seen on +every side. A certain austere simplicity was +noticeable all over Longfellow's house. "His +private rooms," it has been said, "were like those +of a German professor." But the attractiveness +and delightfulness of Craigie House arose not from +any intrinsic opulence of its contents, but from the +personality of the man who lived there. "By his +mere presence he rendered the sunshine brighter, +and the place more radiant of kindness and peace."</p> + +<p>The Poet began his day, so long as age and +health permitted, by a brisk morning walk. He +would be out and about by six, observing and +enjoying the beauty of earth and air, and subsequently +recording his exquisite impressions:</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">O Gift of God! O perfect day:<br /> +Whereon shall no man work, but play;<br /> +Whereon it is enough for me,<br /> +Not to be doing, but to be!</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Through every fibre of my brain,<br /> +Through every nerve, through every vein,<br /> +I feel the electric thrill, the touch<br /> +Of life, that seems almost too much.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">I hear the wind among the trees<br /> +Playing celestial symphonies;<br /> +I see the branches downward bent,<br /> +Like keys of some great instrument.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">And over me unrolls on high<br /> +The splendid scenery of the sky,<br /> +Where through a sapphire sea the sun<br /> +Sails like a golden galleon,</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,<br /> +Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,<br /> +Whose steep sierra far uplifts<br /> +Its craggy summits white with drifts.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms<br /> +The snowflakes of the cherry-blooms!<br /> +Blow, winds! and bend within my reach<br /> +The fiery blossoms of the peach!</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center" valign="middle">*<span class="ind2"> </span>*<span class="ind2"> </span>*<span class="ind2"> </span>*<span class="ind2"> </span>*</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">O Life and Love! O happy throng<br /> +Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!<br /> +O heart of man! canst thou not be<br /> +Blithe as the air is, and as free?<br /> + </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>A Day of Sunshine.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p>The morning's post brought the first consignment +of that enormous number of epistles which +were at once an affliction and an amusement to him. +The Poet was besieged by letters from ambitious +aspirants seeking advice, and from self-styled +failures, desirous of help. To these last he was +peculiarly drawn, for he was distinguished by "a +grace almost peculiar to himself at the time in +which he lived—his tenderness towards the +undeveloped artist, struggling towards individual +expression." In short, his first desire was to help +on people, and bring out the best in them.</p> + +<p>Of apparent failure or success he recked little, +believing, like Stevenson, that the true success is +labour,—that pursuit, and not attainment is the +worthiest object of existence; and his philosophy +is summed up in the well-known words of <i>The +Ladder of Saint Augustine</i>,</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>That of our vices we can frame<br /> +A ladder, if we will but tread<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Beneath our feet each deed of shame!</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">All common things, each day's events,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>That with the hour begin and end,<br /> +Our pleasures and our discontents,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Are rounds by which we may ascend.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center" valign="middle">*<span class="ind2"> </span>*<span class="ind2"> </span>*<span class="ind2"> </span>*<span class="ind2"> </span>*</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The longing for ignoble things;<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>The strife for triumph more than truth;<br /> +The hardening of the heart, that brings<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Irreverence for the dreams of youth;</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>That have their root in thoughts of ill;<br /> +Whatever hinders or impedes<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>The action of the nobler will;—</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">All these must first be trampled down<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Beneath our feet, if we would gain<br /> +In the bright fields of fair renown<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>The right of eminent domain.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">We have not wings, we cannot soar;<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>But we have feet to scale and climb<br /> +By slow degrees, by more and more,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>The cloudy summits of our time.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The mighty pyramids of stone<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,<br /> +When nearer seen and better known,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Are but gigantic flights of stairs.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The distant mountains that uprear<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Their solid bastions to the skies,<br /> +Are crossed by pathways, that appear<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>As we to higher levels rise.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The heights by great men reached and kept<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Were not attained by sudden flight,<br /> +But they, while their companions slept,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Were toiling upward in the night.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Standing on what too long we bore<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,<br /> +We may discern—unseen before—<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>A path to higher destinies.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Nor deem the irrevocable Past<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>As wholly wasted, wholly vain,<br /> +If rising on its wrecks, at last<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>To something nobler we attain.</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p>Constant requests for autographs formed the +bulk of the day's budget, and these also never +went unanswered—even when couched in terms +the most <i>mal à propos</i>, much as those of the man +who said that "he loved poetry in 'most any +style,"—"and would you please copy your 'Break, +break, break' for the writer?" Possibly the worst +offenders, in this matter of autograph-hunting, +were those multitudinous schoolgirls of whom +Longfellow humorously complained that he was +always "kept busy answering." They ignored the +fact of his professional duties, and his own unremitting +work; anything to get a reply in the +handwriting of the celebrity! But he had a special +delight in budding womanhood, and had depicted +it with magical insight and rare delicacy of touch, +in lines which have never been excelled in their +charm and purity.</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes<br /> +In whose orbs a shadow lies,<br /> +Like the dusk in evening skies!</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Thou whose locks outshine the sun,<br /> +Golden tresses, wreathed in one,<br /> +As the braided streamlets run!</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Standing, with reluctant feet,<br /> +Where the brook and river meet,<br /> +Womanhood and childhood fleet!</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Seest thou shadows sailing by,<br /> +As the dove, with startled eye,<br /> +Sees the falcon's shadow fly?</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Hearest thou voices on the shore,<br /> +That our ears perceive no more,<br /> +Deafened by the cataract's roar?</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">O, thou child of many prayers!<br /> +Life hath quicksands,—Life hath snares!<br /> +Care and age come unawares!</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Like the swell of some sweet tune,<br /> +Morning rises into noon,<br /> +May glides onward into June.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Childhood is the bough, where slumbered<br /> +Birds and blossoms many-numbered;—<br /> +Age, that bough with snows encumbered.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Gather, then, each flower that grows,<br /> +When the young heart overflows,<br /> +To embalm that tent of snows.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Bear a lily in thy hand;<br /> +Gates of brass cannot withstand<br /> +One touch of that magic wand.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,<br /> +In thy heart the dew of youth,<br /> +On thy lips the seal of truth.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">O, that dew, like balm shall steal<br /> +Into wounds that cannot heal,<br /> +Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">And that smile, like sunshine, dart<br /> +Into many a sunless heart,<br /> +For a smile of God thou art.<br /> + </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>Maidenhood.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="minimal" /> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration"> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <a href="images/illus004.jpg"> + <img src="images/illus004.jpg" height="450" + alt="MAIDENHOOD" /></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus004.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br /> +<i>Painting by W. H. Margetson.</i><br /><br /> +MAIDENHOOD.</span> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> +<div class="center"> +<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">Maiden with the meek, brown eyes<br /> +In whose orbs a shadow lies,<br /> +Like the dusk in evening skies!<br /> + </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Thou whose locks outshine the sun,<br /> +Golden tresses, wreathed in one,<br /> +As the braided streamlets run!<br /> + </td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="minimal" /> +<p> </p> +<p>The early instalment of letters attended to, +the Poet could devote himself to his own affairs. +He believed in <i>working</i> at poetry, methodically, +systematically: although inspiration might flow +with sudden fervour, it was not to be waited for. +"Regular, proportioned, resolute, incessant industry," +was the secret of his success, and the erasures +and substitutions in his MSS. bear witness to his +care in craftsmanship. The least conspicuous word +must be as perfect as he could make it. Longfellow's +creed, as expounded in <i>The Builders</i>, allowed for +no scamped work.</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">All are architects of Fate,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Working in these walls of Time:<br /> +Some with massive deeds and great,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Some with ornaments of rhyme.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Nothing useless is, or low;<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Each thing in its place is best;<br /> +And what seems but idle show<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Strengthens and supports the rest.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">For the structure that we raise,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Time is with materials filled;<br /> +Our to-days and yesterdays<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Are the blocks with which we build.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Truly shape and fashion these;<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Leave no yawning gaps between;<br /> +Think not, because no man sees,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Such things will remain unseen.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">In the elder days of Art,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Builders wrought with greatest care<br /> +Each minute and unseen part;<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>For the Gods see everywhere.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Let us do our work as well,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Both the unseen and the seen;<br /> +Make the house, where Gods may dwell,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Beautiful, entire, and clean.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Else our lives are incomplete,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Standing in these walls of Time,<br /> +Broken stairways, where the feet<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Stumble as they seek to climb.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Build to-day, then, strong and sure,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>With a firm and ample base;<br /> +And ascending and secure<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Shall to-morrow find its place.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Thus alone can we attain<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>To those turrets, where the eye<br /> +Sees the world as one vast plain,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And one boundless reach of sky.</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>The Builders.</i></td></tr> + +</table> +</div> + +<p>Work, indeed, whether mental or physical, +was his first instinct, and he has preached the +gospel of honest work to the whole English-speaking +world in some of the most familiar lines in the +language.</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">Under a spreading chestnut tree<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>The village smithy stands;<br /> +The smith, a mighty man is he,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>With large and sinewy hands;<br /> +And the muscles of his brawny arms<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Are strong as iron bands.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">His hair is crisp, and black, and long,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>His face is like the tan;<br /> +His brow is wet with honest sweat,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>He earns whate'er he can,<br /> +And looks the whole world in the face,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>For he owes not any man.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Week in, week out, from morn till night,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>You can hear his bellows blow;<br /> +You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>With measured beat and slow,<br /> +Like a sexton ringing the village bell,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>When the evening sun is low.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">And children coming home from school<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Look in at the open door:<br /> +They love to see the flaming forge,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And hear the bellows roar,<br /> +And catch the burning sparks that fly<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Like chaff from a threshing floor.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">He goes on Sunday to the church,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And sits among his boys;<br /> +He hears the parson pray and preach,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>He hears his daughter's voice,<br /> +Singing in the village choir,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And it makes his heart rejoice.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">It sounds to him like her mother's voice,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Singing in Paradise!<br /> +He needs must think of her once more,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>How in the grave she lies;<br /> +And with his hard, rough hand he wipes<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>A tear out of his eyes.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Onward through life he goes;<br /> +Each morning sees some task begin,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Each evening sees it close;<br /> +Something attempted, something done,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Has earned a night's repose.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>For the lesson thou hast taught!<br /> +Thus at the flaming forge of life<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Our fortune must be wrought;<br /> +Thus on its sounding anvil shaped<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Each burning deed and thought!</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>The Village Blacksmith.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="minimal" /> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration"> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <a href="images/illus005.jpg"> + <img src="images/illus005.jpg" height="400" + alt="THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH" /></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus005.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br /> +<i>Painting by Dudley Tennant.</i><br /><br /> +THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. +</span> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> +<div class="center"> +<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">And children coming home from school<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Look in at the open door:<br /> +They love to see the flaming forge,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And hear the bellows roar,<br /> +And catch the burning sparks that fly<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Like chaff from a threshing floor.</td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="minimal" /> +<p> </p> + +<p>Not for long, however, might Longfellow +remain undisturbed in his sunny room. Sometimes +he welcomed the opening door that saw +"a little figure stealing gently in, laying an arm +round his neck as he bent over his work, and +softly whispering some childish secret in his ear." +For this was no obstacle to the current of his +tranquil thoughts. "My little girls are flitting +about my study," he wrote to a friend, "as blithe +as two birds. They are preparing to celebrate +the birthday of one of their dolls…. What a +beautiful world this child's world is! I take infinite +delight in seeing it go on all around me."</p> + +<p>It was with absolute sincerity that he had +exclaimed:</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">Come to me, O ye children!<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>For I hear you at your play,<br /> +And the questions that perplexed me<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Have vanished quite away.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Ye open the eastern windows,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>That look towards the sun,<br /> +Where thoughts are singing swallows,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And the brooks of morning run.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>In your thoughts the brooklet's flow;<br /> +But in mine is the wind of Autumn,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And the first fall of the snow.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Ah! what would the world be to us,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>If the children were no more?<br /> +We should dread the desert behind us<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Worse than the dark before.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">What the leaves are to the forest,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>With light and air for food,<br /> +Ere their sweet and tender juices<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Have been hardened into wood,—</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">That to the world are children;<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Through them it feels the glow<br /> +Of a brighter and sunnier climate<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Than reaches the trunks below</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Come to me, O ye children!<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And whisper in my ear<br /> +What the birds and the winds are singing<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>In your sunny atmosphere.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">For what are all our contrivings,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And the wisdom of our books,<br /> +When compared with your caresses,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And the gladness of your looks?</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Ye are better than all the ballads<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>That ever were sung or said;<br /> +For ye are living poems,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And all the rest are dead.</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>Children.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p>But these were congenial moments. There +were visitors much less desirable. "He was +besieged," as one of his friends declares, "by +every possible form of interruption which the +ingenuity of the human brain could devise." For +his admirers, whose name was legion, were not +satisfied with hero-worship afar off: they must +needs force themselves into his presence, and express +their admiration <i>vivâ-voce</i>. Most amazing folks +swooped suddenly down upon him, ruthless and +unabashed.</p> + +<p>Longfellow, always quick to see the comical +side of a situation, would tell with great delight +strange tales of his unexpected guests. "One +man," he said, "a perfect stranger, came with +an omnibus full of ladies. He introduced himself, +then returning to the omnibus, took out all the +ladies, one, two, three, four, five, with a little girl, +and brought them in. I entertained them to the +best of my ability, and they stayed an hour."</p> + +<p>On another occasion, an English gentleman, +with no letter of introduction, abruptly introduced +himself, thus: "In other countries, you know, we +go to see ruins, and the like—but you have no +ruins in your country, and I thought," growing +embarrassed, "I would call and see <i>you</i>!" Another +strange gentleman accosted him with great fervour, +"Mr. Longfellow, I have long desired the honour +of knowing you. I am one of <i>the few men</i> who +have read your <i>Evangeline</i>!"</p> + +<p>All these worshippers at his shrine were +received by the Poet with his unfailing courtesy +and patience; but he was invariably adroit in +warding off compliments. To applause and flattery +he was impervious—reference to his own works +was distasteful to him. His perfect modesty was +the reflex of his natural reticence.</p> + +<p>Longfellow regarded life from the standpoint +of eternity, and thus was one who, in the words +of à Kempis, "careth little for the praise or +dispraise of men." His gaze was riveted upon +that "Land of the Hereafter," to which he was +always more than ready to set out, and in the +departure of Hiawatha he had imaged his longing +for the "Happiest Land."</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1"> </span>On the shore stood Hiawatha,<br /> +Turned and waved his hand at parting;<br /> +On the clear and luminous water<br /> +Launched his birch canoe for sailing,<br /> +From the pebbles of the margin<br /> +Shoved it forth into the water;<br /> +Whispered to it "Westward! westward!"<br /> +And with speed it darted forward.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1"> </span>And the evening sun descending<br /> +Set the clouds on fire with redness,<br /> +Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,<br /> +Left upon the level water<br /> +One long track and trail of splendour,<br /> +Down whose stream, as down a river,<br /> +Westward, westward Hiawatha<br /> +Sailed into the fiery sunset,<br /> +Sailed into the purple vapours,<br /> +Sailed into the dusk of evening.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1"> </span>And the people from the margin<br /> +Watched him floating, rising, sinking,<br /> +Till the birch canoe seemed lifted<br /> +High into that sea of splendour,<br /> +Till it sank into the vapours<br /> +Like the new moon slowly, slowly<br /> +Sinking in the purple distance.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1"> </span>And they said "Farewell for ever!"<br /> +Said "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"<br /> +And the forests, dark and lonely,<br /> +Moved through all their depths of darkness,<br /> +Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"<br /> +And the waves upon the margin<br /> +Rising, rippling on the pebbles,<br /> +Sobbed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"<br /> +And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,<br /> +From her haunts among the fenlands,<br /> +Screamed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1"> </span>Thus departed Hiawatha,<br /> +Hiawatha the Beloved,<br /> +In the glory of the sunset,<br /> +In the purple mists of evening,<br /> +To the regions of the home-wind,<br /> +Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin,<br /> +To the Islands of the Blessed,<br /> +To the kingdom of Ponemah,<br /> +To the land of the Hereafter!</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>Hiawatha.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="minimal" /> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration"> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <a href="images/illus006.jpg"> + <img src="images/illus006.jpg" height="500" + alt="HIAWATHA" /></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus006.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br /> +<i>Painting by J. Finnemore.</i><br /><br /> +HIAWATHA. +</span> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> +<div class="center"> +<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1"> </span>And the evening sun descending….<br /> +Left upon the level water<br /> +One long track and trail of splendour,<br /> +Down whose stream as down a river,<br /> +Westward, westward Hiawatha<br /> +Sailed into the fiery sunset,<br /> +Sailed into the purple vapours,<br /> +Sailed into the dusk of evening.</td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="minimal" /> +<p> </p> + +<p>Personal friends, of whom the Poet possessed +many, would arrive in time for lunch, and be +welcomed by the master of Craigie House at the +gate in the lilac hedge. He would bring them +into the large, cheerful dining-room, and the children +would sit at a little table on the verandah, while +the host, with his own hands, set the copper kettle +singing, and made tea in the antique silver pot.</p> + +<p>It was a peaceful, happy hour for the guests. +Longfellow, unlike Tennyson, was never much of +a talker: he was a listener and observer, who +dwelt in a speaking silence—in what has been +defined as a heavenly unfathomableness. Ruskin +had written: "You come as such a <i>calm</i> influence +to me … you give me such a feeling of friendship +and repose." And this feeling was enhanced by +the man's natural dignity and grace, the refinement +of his features, the perfect taste of his dress, and +the exquisite simplicity of his manners. Many +have alluded to his soft, musical voice, to his +steady blue-grey eyes, to the "innate charm of +tranquillity," which gave a peculiar spiritual sweetness +to his smile. But the man was even more, +and better than the poet; so much so that a young +enthusiast exclaimed "All the vulgar and pretentious +people in the world ought to be sent to Mr. +Longfellow to show them how to behave!" Nor +was this calm the outcome of natural placidity—it +had been attained through bitter suffering: it +was that gleam of a hero's armour which the "red +planet Mars" unveils to a tear-dimmed sight, +when</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">The night is come, but not too soon;<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And sinking silently,<br /> +All silently, the little moon<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Drops down behind the sky.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">There is no light in earth or heaven,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>But the cold light of stars;<br /> +And the first watch of night is given<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>To the red planet Mars.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Is it the tender star of love?<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>The star of love and dreams?<br /> +O no! from that blue tent above,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>A hero's armour gleams.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">And earnest thoughts within me rise,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>When I behold afar,<br /> +Suspended in the evening skies,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>The shield of that red star.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">O star of strength! I see thee stand<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And smile upon my pain;<br /> +Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And I am strong again.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Within my breast there is no light,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>But the cold light of stars;<br /> +I give the first watch of the night<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>To the red planet Mars.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The star of the unconquered will,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>He rises in my breast,<br /> +Serene, and resolute, and still,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And calm and self-possessed.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>That readest this brief psalm,<br /> +As one by one thy hopes depart,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Be resolute and calm.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">O fear not in a world like this,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And thou shalt know ere long,<br /> +Know how sublime a thing it is<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>To suffer and be strong.</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>The Light of Stars.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p>After lunch, the guests would be taken round +the house, and its various treasures pointed out: +books in every corner, and on every wall pictures +and portraits; antique furniture, interesting +mementoes of every sort. It was a home well +worth seeing: and an old-world air pervaded all, +from the quaint drawing-room, with its old-fashioned, +rose-festooned wall-paper, to the upper +rooms with the Dutch-tiled hearths.</p> + +<p>Later on, to those with whom he felt specially +<i>en rapport</i>, Longfellow would read aloud some +poems, new or old, his own, or those of other +men. He was not a forcible or a dramatic reader; +the simplicity which he loved "in all things," as +he had said, "but specially in poetry," was evident +also here. Yet perhaps no other man could have +done equal justice to the lingering hexameters of +his most successful poem—for such, by reason of +its novelty, pathos, and beauty, <i>Evangeline</i> must +always be considered. "It has become a purifying +portion," says Rossetti, "of the experiences of the +heart … a long-drawn sweetness and sadness"; +and, though sixty years have elapsed since <i>Evangeline</i> +first appeared, the ideal maiden of this "idyll of +the heart" has lost no fraction of her loveliness.</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left" valign="top">Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.<br /> +Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,<br /> +Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!<br /> +Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.<br /> +When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide<br /> +Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.<br /> +Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret<br /> +Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop<br /> +Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,<br /> +Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,<br /> +Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,<br /> +Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom,<br /> +Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.<br /> +But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—<br /> +Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,<br /> +Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.<br /> +When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.<br /> + </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>Evangeline.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p>In the course of the afternoon, some of the +Poet's guests taking leave, others would accompany +him to a concert, organ recital, or any other +musical function which might be available. +Longfellow was passionately fond of good music, +and lost no opportunity of hearing it. His +own lyrics are singularly susceptible, as all +composers know, of an adequate musical setting.</p> + +<p> </p> +<hr class="minimal" /> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration"> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <a href="images/illus007.jpg"> + <img src="images/illus007.jpg" height="500" + alt="EVANGELINE" /></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus007.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br /> +<i>Painting by H. M. Brock.</i><br /><br /> +EVANGELINE.</span> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> +<div class="center"> +<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left" valign="top">But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—<br /> +Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,<br /> +Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.<br /> +When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.</td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="minimal" /> +<p> </p> +<p>Few short poems in the world have been +so often sung as "Stars of the summer night"—"Good-night, +beloved"—"The rainy day"—and +other well-known verses. A most effective +sense of sound and rhythm, joined with perfect +simplicity of diction, evince the inherent artistry +of a man who was no musician in the technical +sense, but who could express himself in such +lines as</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">The night is calm and cloudless,<br /> +And still as still can be,<br /> +And the stars come forth to listen<br /> +To the music of the sea.<br /> +They gather, and gather, and gather,<br /> +Until they crowd the sky,<br /> +And listen in breathless silence,<br /> +To the solemn litany.<br /> +It begins in rocky caverns,<br /> +As a voice that chants alone<br /> +To the pedals of the organ<br /> +In monotonous undertone;<br /> +And anon from shelving beaches<br /> +And shallow sands beyond,<br /> +In snow-white robes uprising<br /> +The ghostly choirs respond.<br /> +And sadly and unceasing<br /> +The mournful voice sings on,<br /> +And the snow-white choirs still answer<br /> +Christe eleison!<br /> + </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>The Golden Legend.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p>After dinner, to which perhaps an intimate +friend or two remained, the poet would remain +awhile in his study: not actually at work, for his +writing was only done in the morning hours, but +considering and criticising work already accomplished, +and carefully perusing that great +translation of Dante which he considered, rightly +or wrongly, as the most important work of his +life. The twilight would slowly fade into the +dusk of a "blindman's holiday," and then came +the sweetest moment of the day.</p> + +<p>Longfellow's intense affection for all little +ones, his touching kindness to them, his sympathy +with their most trivial joys or troubles, were +focussed and centred in the love he bore to his +own dear, motherless children.</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left" valign="top">Between the dark and the daylight,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>When the night is beginning to lower,<br /> +Comes a pause in the day's occupations,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>That is known as the Children's Hour.<br /><br /> + +I hear in the chamber above me<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>The patter of little feet,<br /> +The sound of a door that is opened,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And voices soft and sweet.<br /><br /> + +From my study I see in the lamplight,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Descending the broad hall-stair,<br /> +Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And Edith with golden hair.<br /><br /> + +A whisper, and then a silence:<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Yet I know by their merry eyes<br /> +They are plotting and planning together<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>To take me by surprise.<br /><br /> + +A sudden rush from the stairway,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>A sudden raid from the hall!<br /> +By three doors left unguarded<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>They enter my castle wall!<br /><br /> + +They climb up into my turret,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>O'er the arms and back of my chair;<br /> +If I try to escape they surround me;<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>They seem to be everywhere.<br /><br /> + +They almost devour me with kisses,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Their arms about me entwine,<br /> +Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!<br /><br /> + +Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Because you have scaled the wall,<br /> +Such an old moustache as I am<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Is not a match for you all!<br /><br /> + +I have you fast in my fortress,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And will not let you depart,<br /> +But put you down in the dungeon<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>In the round-tower of my heart.<br /><br /> + +And there I will keep you for ever,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Yes, for ever and a day,<br /> +Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And moulder in dust away!<br /> + </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>The Children's Hour.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p>A brief period of childish gaiety would +supervene, to which the man of childlike heart +responded readily; and when the little feet had +pattered bedward, and the house was silent from +the merry little voices, the father would sit on +until midnight in his spacious empty room. He +would occupy himself with letters—long, fragrant, +pleasant gossips to his best and most familiar +friends at a distance: till midnight came upon +him unawares. "It is nearly one o'clock—I am +the only person up in the house: my candle is +sinking in its socket."</p> + +<p>And a double loneliness descended upon him +as his weary hand laid down the pen. He remained +inert and brooding; the solitude was almost +tangible. But this solitude was presently peopled +by visions, fraught with ineffable consolation to +a mind never out of touch with "other-worldly" +influences.</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">When the hours of Day are numbered,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And the voices of the Night<br /> +Wake the better soul, that slumbered,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>To a holy, calm delight;<br /><br /> + +Ere the evening lamps are lighted,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And, like phantoms grim and tall,<br /> +Shadows from the fitful firelight<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Dance upon the parlour wall;<br /><br /> + +Then the forms of the departed<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Enter at the open door;<br /> +The beloved, the true-hearted,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Come to visit me once more;<br /><br /> + +He, the young and strong, who cherished<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Noble longings for the strife,<br /> +By the roadside fell and perished,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Weary with the march of life!<br /><br /> + +They the holy ones and weakly,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Who the cross of suffering bore,<br /> +Folded their pale hands so meekly,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Spake with us on earth no more!<br /><br /> + +And with them the Being Beauteous,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Who unto my youth was given,<br /> +More than all things else to love me,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>And is now a saint in heaven.<br /><br /> + +With a slow and noiseless footstep<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Comes that messenger divine,<br /> +Takes the vacant chair beside me,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Lays her gentle hand in mine.<br /><br /> + +And she sits and gazes at me<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>With those deep and tender eyes,<br /> +Like the stars, so still and saint-like,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Looking downward from the skies.<br /><br /> + +Uttered not, yet comprehended,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,<br /> +Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Breathing from her lips of air.<br /><br /> + +O, though oft depressed and lonely,<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>All my fears are laid aside,<br /> +If I but remember only<br /> +<span class="ind1"> </span>Such as these have lived and died!<br /> + </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>Footsteps of Angels.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p>"<i>Empty</i> is a horrid word," the Poet had +written to a friend—but the room is no longer +empty. It has become a habitation for other +visitants than the motley throng of flatterers +impelled by curiosity, who hindered his morning +hours. Unspoken benedictions lie thick upon the +air—the man's griefs are soothed away by the +touch of invisible fingers. Patient, unselfish, +indomitable, he resumes the burden of his +daily life with new hope and courage for the +morrow.</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align="left">As torrents in summer,<br /> +Half dried in their channels,<br /> +Suddenly rise, though the<br /> +Sky is still cloudless,<br /> +For rain has been falling<br /> +Far off at their fountains;<br /><br /> + +So hearts that are fainting<br /> +Grow full to o'erflowing,<br /> +And they that behold it<br /> +Marvel, and know not<br /> +That God at their fountains<span class="ind1"> </span><br /> +Far off has been raining.<br /> + </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"><i>Tales of a Wayside Inn.</i></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Day With Longfellow, by +Anonymous and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW *** + +***** This file should be named 37980-h.htm or 37980-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/9/8/37980/ + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Susan Theresa Morin and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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