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diff --git a/37980.txt b/37980.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5674ca8 --- /dev/null +++ b/37980.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1314 @@ +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: ASCII + +*** 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 + + + + + + + + + + DAYS WITH + THE GREAT + .POETS. + + LONGFELLOW + + +[Illustration: _Painting by A. E. Jackson._ THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.] + + Between the dark and the daylight, + When the night is beginning to lower, + Comes a pause in the day's occupations, + That is known as the Children's Hour. + + * * * * * + + They climb up into my turret, + O'er the arms and back of my chair; + If I try to escape they surround me, + They seem to be everywhere. + + + + + A DAY WITH + LONGFELLOW + + [Illustration: portrait of Longfellow] + + HODDER & STOUGHTON + LTD., PUBLISHERS LONDON + + +_Uniform with this Volume_ + +_DAYS WITH THE POETS_ + + BROWNING + BURNS + KEATS + LONGFELLOW + SHAKESPEARE + TENNYSON + +_DAYS WITH THE COMPOSERS_ + + BEETHOVEN + CHOPIN + GOUNOD + MENDELSSOHN + TSCHAIKOVSKY + WAGNER + +_Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited, +by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot._ + + + + +A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW + + + + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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: + + O Gift of God! O perfect day: + Whereon shall no man work, but play; + Whereon it is enough for me, + Not to be doing, but to be! + + Through every fibre of my brain, + Through every nerve, through every vein, + I feel the electric thrill, the touch + Of life, that seems almost too much. + + I hear the wind among the trees + Playing celestial symphonies; + I see the branches downward bent, + Like keys of some great instrument. + + And over me unrolls on high + The splendid scenery of the sky, + Where through a sapphire sea the sun + Sails like a golden galleon, + + Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, + Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, + Whose steep sierra far uplifts + Its craggy summits white with drifts. + + Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms + The snowflakes of the cherry-blooms! + Blow, winds! and bend within my reach + The fiery blossoms of the peach! + + O Life and Love! O happy throng + Of thoughts, whose only speech is song! + O heart of man! canst thou not be + Blithe as the air is, and as free? + _A Day of Sunshine._ + +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. + +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 _The Ladder of Saint Augustine_, + + + Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, + That of our vices we can frame + A ladder, if we will but tread + Beneath our feet each deed of shame! + + All common things, each day's events, + That with the hour begin and end, + Our pleasures and our discontents, + Are rounds by which we may ascend. + + * * * * * + + The longing for ignoble things; + The strife for triumph more than truth; + The hardening of the heart, that brings + Irreverence for the dreams of youth; + + All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, + That have their root in thoughts of ill; + Whatever hinders or impedes + The action of the nobler will;-- + + All these must first be trampled down + Beneath our feet, if we would gain + In the bright fields of fair renown + The right of eminent domain. + + We have not wings, we cannot soar; + But we have feet to scale and climb + By slow degrees, by more and more, + The cloudy summits of our time. + + The mighty pyramids of stone + That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, + When nearer seen and better known, + Are but gigantic flights of stairs. + + The distant mountains that uprear + Their solid bastions to the skies, + Are crossed by pathways, that appear + As we to higher levels rise. + + The heights by great men reached and kept + Were not attained by sudden flight, + But they, while their companions slept, + Were toiling upward in the night. + + Standing on what too long we bore + With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, + We may discern--unseen before-- + A path to higher destinies. + + Nor deem the irrevocable Past + As wholly wasted, wholly vain, + If rising on its wrecks, at last + To something nobler we attain. + + +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 _mal a propos_, 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. + + + Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes + In whose orbs a shadow lies, + Like the dusk in evening skies! + + Thou whose locks outshine the sun, + Golden tresses, wreathed in one, + As the braided streamlets run! + + Standing, with reluctant feet, + Where the brook and river meet, + Womanhood and childhood fleet! + + Seest thou shadows sailing by, + As the dove, with startled eye, + Sees the falcon's shadow fly? + + Hearest thou voices on the shore, + That our ears perceive no more, + Deafened by the cataract's roar? + + O, thou child of many prayers! + Life hath quicksands,--Life hath snares! + Care and age come unawares! + + Like the swell of some sweet tune, + Morning rises into noon, + May glides onward into June. + + Childhood is the bough, where slumbered + Birds and blossoms many-numbered;-- + Age, that bough with snows encumbered. + + Gather, then, each flower that grows, + When the young heart overflows, + To embalm that tent of snows. + + Bear a lily in thy hand; + Gates of brass cannot withstand + One touch of that magic wand. + + Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, + In thy heart the dew of youth, + On thy lips the seal of truth. + + O, that dew, like balm shall steal + Into wounds that cannot heal, + Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; + + And that smile, like sunshine, dart + Into many a sunless heart, + For a smile of God thou art. + + _Maidenhood._ + + +[Illustration: _Painting by W. H. Margetson._ MAIDENHOOD.] + + Maiden with the meek, brown eyes + In whose orbs a shadow lies, + Like the dusk in evening skies! + + Thou whose locks outshine the sun, + Golden tresses, wreathed in one, + As the braided streamlets run! + + +The early instalment of letters attended to, the Poet could devote +himself to his own affairs. He believed in _working_ 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 _The Builders_, +allowed for no scamped work. + + + All are architects of Fate, + Working in these walls of Time: + Some with massive deeds and great, + Some with ornaments of rhyme. + + Nothing useless is, or low; + Each thing in its place is best; + And what seems but idle show + Strengthens and supports the rest. + + For the structure that we raise, + Time is with materials filled; + Our to-days and yesterdays + Are the blocks with which we build. + + Truly shape and fashion these; + Leave no yawning gaps between; + Think not, because no man sees, + Such things will remain unseen. + + In the elder days of Art, + Builders wrought with greatest care + Each minute and unseen part; + For the Gods see everywhere. + + Let us do our work as well, + Both the unseen and the seen; + Make the house, where Gods may dwell, + Beautiful, entire, and clean. + + Else our lives are incomplete, + Standing in these walls of Time, + Broken stairways, where the feet + Stumble as they seek to climb. + + Build to-day, then, strong and sure, + With a firm and ample base; + And ascending and secure + Shall to-morrow find its place. + + Thus alone can we attain + To those turrets, where the eye + Sees the world as one vast plain, + And one boundless reach of sky. + + _The Builders._ + + +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. + + + Under a spreading chestnut tree + The village smithy stands; + The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands; + And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + + His hair is crisp, and black, and long, + His face is like the tan; + His brow is wet with honest sweat, + He earns whate'er he can, + And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + + Week in, week out, from morn till night, + You can hear his bellows blow; + You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, + Like a sexton ringing the village bell, + When the evening sun is low. + + And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door: + They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, + And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing floor. + + He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys; + He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter's voice, + Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + + It sounds to him like her mother's voice, + Singing in Paradise! + He needs must think of her once more, + How in the grave she lies; + And with his hard, rough hand he wipes + A tear out of his eyes. + + Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; + Each morning sees some task begin, + Each evening sees it close; + Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night's repose. + + Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, + For the lesson thou hast taught! + Thus at the flaming forge of life + Our fortune must be wrought; + Thus on its sounding anvil shaped + Each burning deed and thought! + + _The Village Blacksmith._ + + +[Illustration: _Painting by Dudley Tennant._ THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.] + + And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door: + They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, + And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing floor. + + +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." + +It was with absolute sincerity that he had exclaimed: + + + Come to me, O ye children! + For I hear you at your play, + And the questions that perplexed me + Have vanished quite away. + + Ye open the eastern windows, + That look towards the sun, + Where thoughts are singing swallows, + And the brooks of morning run. + + In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, + In your thoughts the brooklet's flow; + But in mine is the wind of Autumn, + And the first fall of the snow. + + Ah! what would the world be to us, + If the children were no more? + We should dread the desert behind us + Worse than the dark before. + + What the leaves are to the forest, + With light and air for food, + Ere their sweet and tender juices + Have been hardened into wood,-- + + That to the world are children; + Through them it feels the glow + Of a brighter and sunnier climate + Than reaches the trunks below + + Come to me, O ye children! + And whisper in my ear + What the birds and the winds are singing + In your sunny atmosphere. + + For what are all our contrivings, + And the wisdom of our books, + When compared with your caresses, + And the gladness of your looks? + + Ye are better than all the ballads + That ever were sung or said; + For ye are living poems, + And all the rest are dead. + + _Children._ + +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 _viva-voce_. Most +amazing folks swooped suddenly down upon him, ruthless and unabashed. + +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." + +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 _you_!" Another +strange gentleman accosted him with great fervour, "Mr. Longfellow, I +have long desired the honour of knowing you. I am one of _the few men_ +who have read your _Evangeline_!" + +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. + +Longfellow regarded life from the standpoint of eternity, and thus +was one who, in the words of a 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." + + + On the shore stood Hiawatha, + Turned and waved his hand at parting; + On the clear and luminous water + Launched his birch canoe for sailing, + From the pebbles of the margin + Shoved it forth into the water; + Whispered to it "Westward! westward!" + And with speed it darted forward. + + And the evening sun descending + Set the clouds on fire with redness, + Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, + Left upon the level water + One long track and trail of splendour, + Down whose stream, as down a river, + Westward, westward Hiawatha + Sailed into the fiery sunset, + Sailed into the purple vapours, + Sailed into the dusk of evening. + + And the people from the margin + Watched him floating, rising, sinking, + Till the birch canoe seemed lifted + High into that sea of splendour, + Till it sank into the vapours + Like the new moon slowly, slowly + Sinking in the purple distance. + + And they said "Farewell for ever!" + Said "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" + And the forests, dark and lonely, + Moved through all their depths of darkness, + Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" + And the waves upon the margin + Rising, rippling on the pebbles, + Sobbed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" + And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + From her haunts among the fenlands, + Screamed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" + + Thus departed Hiawatha, + Hiawatha the Beloved, + In the glory of the sunset, + In the purple mists of evening, + To the regions of the home-wind, + Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin, + To the Islands of the Blessed, + To the kingdom of Ponemah, + To the land of the Hereafter! + + _Hiawatha._ + + +[Illustration: _Painting by J. Finnemore._ HIAWATHA.] + + And the evening sun descending.... + Left upon the level water + One long track and trail of splendour, + Down whose stream as down a river, + Westward, westward Hiawatha + Sailed into the fiery sunset, + Sailed into the purple vapours, + Sailed into the dusk of evening. + + +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. + +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 _calm_ +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 + + + The night is come, but not too soon; + And sinking silently, + All silently, the little moon + Drops down behind the sky. + + There is no light in earth or heaven, + 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? + O no! from that blue tent above, + A hero's armour gleams. + + And earnest thoughts within me rise, + When I behold afar, + Suspended in the evening skies, + The shield of that red star. + + O star of strength! I see thee stand + And smile upon my pain; + Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, + And I am strong again. + + 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, + 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, + As one by one thy hopes depart, + Be resolute and calm. + + O fear not in a world like this, + And thou shalt know ere long, + Know how sublime a thing it is + To suffer and be strong. + + _The Light of Stars._ + + +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. + +Later on, to those with whom he felt specially _en rapport_, 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, _Evangeline_ 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 _Evangeline_ first appeared, the +ideal maiden of this "idyll of the heart" has lost no fraction of her +loveliness. + + + Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. + Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the + wayside, + Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her + tresses! + Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. + When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide + Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden. + Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret + Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop + Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, + Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her + missal, + Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, + Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom, + Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. + But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty-- + Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, + Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. + When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. + + _Evangeline._ + + +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. + + +[Illustration: _Painting by H. M. Brock._ EVANGELINE.] + + But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty-- + Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, + Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. + When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. + + +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 + + + The night is calm and cloudless, + And still as still can be, + And the stars come forth to listen + To the music of the sea. + They gather, and gather, and gather, + Until they crowd the sky, + And listen in breathless silence, + To the solemn litany. + It begins in rocky caverns, + As a voice that chants alone + To the pedals of the organ + In monotonous undertone; + And anon from shelving beaches + And shallow sands beyond, + In snow-white robes uprising + The ghostly choirs respond. + And sadly and unceasing + The mournful voice sings on, + And the snow-white choirs still answer + Christe eleison! + + _The Golden Legend._ + + +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. + +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. + + + Between the dark and the daylight, + When the night is beginning to lower, + Comes a pause in the day's occupations, + That is known as the Children's Hour. + + I hear in the chamber above me + The patter of little feet, + The sound of a door that is opened, + And voices soft and sweet. + + From my study I see in the lamplight, + Descending the broad hall-stair, + Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, + And Edith with golden hair. + + A whisper, and then a silence: + Yet I know by their merry eyes + They are plotting and planning together + To take me by surprise. + + A sudden rush from the stairway, + A sudden raid from the hall! + By three doors left unguarded + They enter my castle wall! + + They climb up into my turret, + O'er the arms and back of my chair; + If I try to escape they surround me; + They seem to be everywhere. + + They almost devour me with kisses, + Their arms about me entwine, + Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen + In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! + + Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, + Because you have scaled the wall, + Such an old moustache as I am + Is not a match for you all! + + I have you fast in my fortress, + And will not let you depart, + But put you down in the dungeon + In the round-tower of my heart. + + And there I will keep you for ever, + Yes, for ever and a day, + Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, + And moulder in dust away! + + _The Children's Hour._ + + +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." + +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. + + + When the hours of Day are numbered, + And the voices of the Night + Wake the better soul, that slumbered, + To a holy, calm delight; + + Ere the evening lamps are lighted, + And, like phantoms grim and tall, + Shadows from the fitful firelight + Dance upon the parlour wall; + + Then the forms of the departed + Enter at the open door; + The beloved, the true-hearted, + Come to visit me once more; + + He, the young and strong, who cherished + Noble longings for the strife, + By the roadside fell and perished, + Weary with the march of life! + + They the holy ones and weakly, + Who the cross of suffering bore, + Folded their pale hands so meekly, + Spake with us on earth no more! + + And with them the Being Beauteous, + Who unto my youth was given, + More than all things else to love me, + And is now a saint in heaven. + + With a slow and noiseless footstep + Comes that messenger divine, + Takes the vacant chair beside me, + Lays her gentle hand in mine. + + And she sits and gazes at me + With those deep and tender eyes, + Like the stars, so still and saint-like, + Looking downward from the skies. + + Uttered not, yet comprehended, + Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, + Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, + Breathing from her lips of air. + + O, though oft depressed and lonely, + All my fears are laid aside, + If I but remember only + Such as these have lived and died! + + _Footsteps of Angels._ + +"_Empty_ 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. + + + As torrents in summer, + Half dried in their channels, + Suddenly rise, though the + Sky is still cloudless, + For rain has been falling + Far off at their fountains; + + So hearts that are fainting + Grow full to o'erflowing, + And they that behold it + Marvel, and know not + That God at their fountains + Far off has been raining. + + _Tales of a Wayside Inn._ + + + + + +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.txt or 37980.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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