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+Project Gutenberg's The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. 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: The Children's Own Longfellow
+
+Author: Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Posting Date: March 16, 2014 [EBook #9080]
+Release Date: October, 2005
+First Posted: September 3, 2003
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW
+
+Illustrated
+
+1908
+
+
+
+
+Publishers' Note
+
+    Longfellow has been fitly called the children's poet. Many of his
+    poems have from their very first appearance been favorites with
+    youthful readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet
+    best beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers
+    that this volume, containing eight of the most popular of these
+    poems, illustrated in color by some of the best known American
+    artists of the present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands
+    of young folks and their parents.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Part the First
+
+  THE SONG OF HIAWATHA:
+    Hiawatha's Sailing
+    Hiawatha's Fishing
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+    And children coming home from school
+      Look in at the open door
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music
+
+  HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+    And he dropped his line of cedar
+      Through the clear, transparent water
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+    The sun shone on her golden hair,
+      And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+    A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+      And towers that touch imaginary skies
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+    "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+      For a hundred year!"
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast ]
+
+
+
+THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+
+  It was the schooner Hesperus,
+    That sailed the wintry sea;
+  And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
+    To bear him company.
+
+  Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
+    Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
+  And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
+    That ope in the month of May.
+
+  The skipper he stood beside the helm,
+    His pipe was in his mouth,
+  And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
+    The smoke now West, now South.
+
+  Then up and spake an old Sailor,
+    Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
+  "I pray thee, put into yonder port,
+    For I fear a hurricane.
+
+  "Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
+    And to-night no moon we see!"
+  The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
+    And a scornful laugh laughed he.
+
+  Colder and louder blew the wind,
+    A gale from the Northeast,
+  The snow fell hissing in the brine,
+    And the billows frothed like yeast.
+
+  Down came the storm, and smote amain
+    The vessel in its strength;
+  She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
+    Then leaped her cable's length.
+
+  "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
+    And do not tremble so;
+  For I can weather the roughest gale
+    That ever wind did blow."
+
+  He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+    Against the stinging blast;
+  He cut a rope from a broken spar,
+    And bound her to the mast.
+
+  "O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
+    Oh say, what may it be?"
+  "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--
+    And he steered for the open sea.
+
+  "O father! I hear the sound of guns,
+    Oh say, what may it be?"
+  "Some ship in distress, that cannot live
+    In such an angry sea!"
+
+  "O father! I see a gleaming light,
+    Oh say, what may it be?"
+  But the father answered never a word,
+    A frozen corpse was he.
+
+  Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
+    With his face turned to the skies,
+  The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
+    On his fixed and glassy eyes.
+
+  Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
+    That saved she might be;
+  And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
+    On the Lake of Galilee.
+
+  And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
+    Through the whistling sleet and snow,
+  Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
+    Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
+
+  And ever the fitful gusts between
+    A sound came from the land;
+  It was the sound of the trampling surf
+    On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
+
+  The breakers were right beneath her bows,
+    She drifted a dreary wreck,
+  And a whooping billow swept the crew
+    Like icicles from her deck.
+
+  She struck where the white and fleecy waves
+    Looked soft as carded wool,
+  But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
+    Like the horns of an angry bull.
+
+  Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
+    With the masts went by the board;
+  Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
+    Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
+
+  At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
+    A fisherman stood aghast,
+  To see the form of a maiden fair,
+    Lashed close to a drifting mast.
+
+  The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
+    The salt tears in her eyes;
+  And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
+    On the billows fall and rise.
+
+  Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
+    In the midnight and the snow!
+  Christ save us all from a death like this,
+    On the reef of Norman's Woe!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+      And children coming home from school
+        Look in at the open door ]
+
+
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+
+  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 fortunes must be wrought;
+  Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+    Each burning deed and thought.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music ]
+
+
+
+  EVANGELINE
+
+
+  This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
+  Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
+  Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
+  Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
+  Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
+  Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
+
+  This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
+  Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the
+      huntsman?
+  Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
+  Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
+  Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
+  Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
+  Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
+  Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
+  Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.
+
+  Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
+  Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
+  List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest;
+  List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
+
+
+  PART THE FIRST
+
+  I
+
+  In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
+  Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
+  Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
+  Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
+  Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
+  Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
+  Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
+  West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
+  Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
+  Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
+  Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
+  Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.
+  There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
+  Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
+  Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
+  Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
+  Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
+  There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
+  Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
+  Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
+  Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
+  Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
+  Mingled their sounds with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the
+      maidens.
+  Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
+  Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
+  Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
+  Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
+  Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank
+  Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry
+  Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
+  Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
+  Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
+  Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--
+  Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from
+  Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
+  Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
+  But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
+  There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
+
+  Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
+  Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,
+  Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
+  Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
+  Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
+  Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;
+  White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the
+      oak-leaves.
+  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 noontide
+  Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
+  Fair 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 heirloom,
+  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.
+
+  Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
+  Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
+  Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
+  Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath
+  Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
+  Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,
+  Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,
+  Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
+  Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown
+  Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
+  Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the
+      farm-yard.
+  There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the
+      harrows;
+  There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,
+  Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame
+  Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.
+  Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one
+  Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,
+  Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.
+  There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
+  Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes
+  Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
+
+  Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre
+  Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.
+  Many a youth, as he knelt in church and opened his missal,
+  Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;
+  Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!
+  Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,
+  And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,
+  Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;
+  Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,
+  Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered
+  Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.
+  But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;
+  Gabriel Lajeunesse. the son of Basil the blacksmith,
+  Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;
+  For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,
+  Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.
+  Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood
+  Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,
+  Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters
+  Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.
+  But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,
+  Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
+  There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him
+  Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,
+  Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel
+  Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.
+  Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness
+  Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,
+  Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,
+  And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,
+  Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.
+  Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,
+  Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.
+  Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,
+  Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow
+  Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;
+  Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!
+  Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.
+  He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,
+  Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.
+  She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.
+  "Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine
+  Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;
+  She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,
+  Filling it with love and the ruddy faces of children.
+
+  II
+
+  Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
+  And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
+  Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,
+  Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.
+  Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
+  Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
+  All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
+  Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
+  Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted
+  Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
+  Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,
+  Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
+  Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
+  Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
+  Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
+  Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.
+  Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
+  Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
+  All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
+  Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
+  While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
+  Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest
+  Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.
+
+  Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.
+  Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
+  Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.
+  Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,
+  And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.
+  Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
+  Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,
+  Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
+  Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,
+  Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,
+  Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,
+  Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
+  Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
+  Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
+  When from the forest at night, through the starry silence the wolves
+      howled.
+  Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
+  Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.
+  Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,
+  While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
+  Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,
+  Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
+  Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
+  Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
+  Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.
+  Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,
+  Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;
+  Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
+  Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
+
+  In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer
+  Sat in his elbow-chair and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths
+  Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,
+  Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,
+  Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.
+  Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair
+  Laughed in the flickering light; and the pewter plates on the dresser
+  Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.
+  Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
+  Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him
+  Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.
+  Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,
+  Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.
+  Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,
+  While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,
+  Followed the old man's song and united the fragments together.
+  As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,
+  Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,
+  So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.
+
+  Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,
+  Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.
+  Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,
+  And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
+  "Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the
+      threshold,
+  "Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle
+  Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
+  Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;
+  Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling
+  Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams
+  Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."
+  Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,
+  Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--
+  "Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
+  Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with
+  Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
+  Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."
+  Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,
+  And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--
+  "Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors
+  Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.
+  What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded
+  On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate
+  Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time
+  Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."
+  Then made answer the farmer: "Perhaps some friendlier purpose
+  Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England
+  By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,
+  And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."
+  "Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,
+  Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--
+  "Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal,
+  Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,
+  Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of tomorrow.
+  Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;
+  Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."
+  Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--
+  "Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,
+  Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,
+  Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.
+  Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow
+  Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.
+  Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village
+  Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about
+      them,
+  Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.
+  Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.
+  Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"
+  As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,
+  Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,
+  And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.
+
+  III
+
+  Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
+  Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;
+  Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung
+  Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows
+  Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.
+  Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred
+  Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.
+  Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,
+  Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.
+  Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,
+  Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
+  He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;
+  For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,
+  And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,
+  And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
+  Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;
+  And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,
+  And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,
+  And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,
+  With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
+  Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,
+  Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,
+  "Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,
+  And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."
+  Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,--
+  "Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
+  And what their errand may be I know not better than others.
+  Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention
+  Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"
+  "God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;
+  "Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?
+  Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"
+  But without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,--
+  "Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice
+  Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
+  When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."
+  This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it
+  When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.
+  "Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
+  Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
+  Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,
+  And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
+  Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.
+  Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,
+  Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.
+  But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;
+  Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty
+  Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace
+  That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion
+  Fell on an orphan girl who lived as a maid in the household.
+  She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,
+  Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
+  As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,
+  Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder
+  Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand
+  Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,
+  And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,
+  Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."
+  Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith
+  Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;
+  All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors
+  Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.
+
+  Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
+  Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
+  Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre;
+  While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
+  Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
+  Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.
+  Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
+  And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
+  Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
+  Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;
+  And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,
+  Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
+  Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
+  While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
+  Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.
+  Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men
+  Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre,
+  Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.
+  Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
+  Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
+  Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mists of the meadows.
+  Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
+  Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
+
+  Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry
+  Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
+  Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.
+  Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step
+  Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.
+  Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,
+  And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.
+  Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.
+  Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
+  Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.
+  Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.
+  Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press
+  Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded
+  Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.
+  This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,
+  Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.
+  Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight
+  Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of
+      the maiden
+  Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.
+  Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
+  Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!
+  Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,
+  Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.
+  Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness
+  Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
+  Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.
+  And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass
+  Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
+  As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!
+
+  IV
+
+  Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre.
+  Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,
+  Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.
+  Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor
+  Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.
+  Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,
+  Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
+  Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk
+  Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,
+  Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,
+  Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.
+  Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.
+  Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors
+  Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.
+  Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
+  For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,
+  All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.
+  Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:
+  For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;
+  Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness
+  Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.
+
+  Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,
+  Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.
+  There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;
+  There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
+  Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,
+  Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of
+      waistcoats.
+  Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white
+  Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler
+  Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.
+  Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,
+  _Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres_, and _Le Carillon de Dunquerque_,
+  And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.
+  Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances
+  Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
+  Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.
+  Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!
+  Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!
+
+  So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous
+  Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
+  Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,
+  Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones
+  Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.
+  Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them
+  Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor
+  Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,--
+  Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
+  Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.
+  Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,
+  Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.
+  "You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.
+  Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,
+  Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper
+  Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.
+  Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;
+  Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds
+  Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province
+  Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there
+  Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!
+  Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"
+  As, when the air is serene in sultry solstice of summer,
+  Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones
+  Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,
+  Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,
+  Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;
+  So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.
+  Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose
+  Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,
+  And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.
+  Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations
+  Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others
+  Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,
+  As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.
+  Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,--
+  "Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!
+  Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"
+  More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier
+  Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.
+
+  In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,
+  Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
+  Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
+  Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence
+  All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;
+  Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful
+  Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.
+  "What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?
+  Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,
+  Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
+  Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?
+  Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?
+  This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it
+  Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?
+  Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!
+  See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!
+  Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'
+  Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,
+  Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'"
+  Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people
+  Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,
+  While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
+
+  Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar.
+  Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,
+  Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria
+  Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion
+      translated,
+  Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.
+
+  Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides
+  Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.
+  Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand
+  Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,
+  Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each
+  Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.
+  Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;
+  There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;
+  There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the
+      dairy,
+  And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.
+  Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset
+  Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.
+  Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
+  And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--
+  Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!
+  Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,
+  Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women,
+  As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,
+  Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.
+  Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors
+  Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
+  Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.
+
+  Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.
+  All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows
+  Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,
+  "Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer
+  Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.
+  Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.
+  Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted,
+  Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.
+  Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.
+  In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall
+  Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.
+  Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder
+  Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!
+  Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;
+  Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.
+
+  V
+
+  Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
+  Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
+  Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
+  Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
+  Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,
+  Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
+  Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
+  Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
+  While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
+
+  Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach
+  Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
+  All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;
+  All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.
+  Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
+  Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.
+  Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors
+  Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
+  Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
+  Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,
+  Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
+  So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
+  Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
+  Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,
+  Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--
+  "Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!
+  Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"
+  Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside
+  Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
+  Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
+
+  Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
+  Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--
+  Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,
+  And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
+  Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
+  Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,--
+  "Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another
+  Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"
+  Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father
+  Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!
+  Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his
+      footstep
+  Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.
+  But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,
+  Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.
+  Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.
+
+  There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
+  Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
+  Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their
+      children
+  Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
+  So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
+  While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
+  Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
+  Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean
+  Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
+  Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.
+  Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
+  Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
+  All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,
+  Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
+  Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
+  Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
+  Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
+  Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
+  Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
+  Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--
+  Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.
+  Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
+  Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
+
+  But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,
+  Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.
+  Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
+  Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.
+  Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,
+  Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,
+  Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.
+  Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,
+  And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,
+  Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,
+  E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.
+  Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,
+  Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,
+  But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.
+  "_Benedicite_!" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.
+  More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents
+  Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,
+  Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.
+  Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
+  Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them
+  Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.
+  Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.
+
+  Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
+  Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
+  Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,
+  Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.
+  Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
+  Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
+  Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
+  Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a
+      martyr.
+  Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,
+  Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops
+  Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
+
+  These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
+  Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
+  "We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre!"
+  Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,
+  Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle
+  Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
+  Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
+  Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,
+  When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,
+  Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
+  Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
+  Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.
+
+  Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden
+  Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
+  And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
+  Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore
+  Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
+  Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
+  Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.
+  Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.
+  Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;
+  And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.
+  Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,
+  Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.
+  Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,
+  Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,
+  And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.
+  Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,--
+  "Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season
+  Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,
+  Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."
+  Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,
+  Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,
+  But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre.
+  And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,
+  Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,
+  Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
+  'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
+  With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.
+  Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
+  And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
+  Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+      And he dropped his line of cedar
+        Through the clear, transparent water ]
+
+
+
+  THE SONG OF HIAWATHA
+
+
+  HIAWATHA'S SAILING
+
+  "Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
+  Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
+  Growing by the rushing river,
+  Tall and stately in the valley!
+  I a light canoe will build me,
+  Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
+  That shall float upon the river,
+  Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+  Like a yellow water-lily!
+
+  "Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
+  Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
+  For the Summer-time is coming,
+  And the sun is warm in heaven,
+  And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
+
+  Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
+  In the solitary forest,
+  By the rushing Taquamenaw,
+  When the birds were singing gayly,
+  In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
+  And the sun, from sleep awaking,
+  Started up and said, "Behold me!
+  Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"
+
+  And the tree with all its branches
+  Rustled in the breeze of morning,
+  Saying, with a sigh of patience,
+  "Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  With his knife the tree he girdled;
+  Just beneath its lowest branches,
+  Just above the roots, he cut it,
+  Till the sap came oozing outward;
+  Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
+  Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
+  With a wooden wedge he raised it,
+  Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
+
+  "Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
+  Of your strong and pliant branches,
+  My canoe to make more steady,
+  Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
+
+  Through the summit of the Cedar
+  Went a sound, a cry of horror,
+  Went a murmur of resistance;
+  But it whispered, bending downward,
+  "Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
+  Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
+  Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
+  Like two bended bows together.
+
+  "Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
+  Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
+  My canoe to bind together,
+  So to bind the ends together
+  That the water may not enter,
+  That the river may not wet me!"
+
+  And the Larch, with all its fibres,
+  Shivered in the air of morning,
+  Touched his forehead with its tassels,
+  Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
+  "Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  From the earth he tore the fibres,
+  Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
+  Closely sewed the bark together,
+  Bound it closely to the frame-work.
+
+  "Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
+  Of your balsam and your resin,
+  So to close the seams together
+  That the water may not enter,
+  That the river may not wet me!"
+
+  And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
+  Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
+  Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
+  Answered wailing, answered weeping,
+  "Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  And he took the tears of balsam,
+  Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
+  Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
+  Made each crevice safe from water.
+
+  "Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
+  All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
+  I will make a necklace of them,
+  Make a girdle for my beauty,
+  And two stars to deck her bosom!"
+
+  From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
+  With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
+  Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
+  Saying with a drowsy murmur,
+  Through the tangle of his whiskers,
+  "Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  From the ground the quills he gathered,
+  All the little shining arrows,
+  Stained them red and blue and yellow,
+  With the juice of roots and berries;
+  Into his canoe he wrought them,
+  Round its waist a shining girdle,
+  Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
+  On its breast two stars resplendent.
+
+  Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
+  In the valley, by the river,
+  In the bosom of the forest;
+  And the forest's life was in it,
+  All its mystery and its magic,
+  All the lightness of the birch-tree,
+  All the toughness of the cedar,
+  All the larch's supple sinews;
+  And it floated on the river
+  Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+  Like a yellow water-lily.
+
+  Paddles none had Hiawatha,
+  Paddles none he had or needed,
+  For his thoughts as paddles served him,
+  And his wishes served to guide him;
+  Swift or slow at will he glided,
+  Veered to right or left at pleasure.
+
+  Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
+  To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+  Saying, "Help me clear this river
+  Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."
+
+  Straight into the river Kwasind
+  Plunged as if he were an otter,
+  Dived as if he were a beaver,
+  Stood up to his waist in water,
+  To his arm-pits in the river,
+  Swam and shouted in the river,
+  Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
+  With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
+  With his feet the ooze and tangle.
+
+  And thus sailed my Hiawatha
+  Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
+  Sailed through all its bends and windings,
+  Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
+  While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+  Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
+
+  Up and down the river went they,
+  In and out among its islands,
+  Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
+  Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
+  Made its passage safe and certain,
+  Made a pathway for the people,
+  From its springs among the mountains,
+  To the waters of Pauwating,
+  To the bay of Taquamenau.
+
+
+  HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+
+  Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,
+  On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
+  With his fishing-line of cedar,
+  Of the twisted bark of cedar,
+  Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
+  Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
+  In his birch canoe exulting
+  All alone went Hiawatha.
+
+  Through the clear, transparent water
+  He could see the fishes swimming
+  Far down in the depths below him;
+  See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
+  Like a sunbeam in the water,
+  See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
+  Like a spider on the bottom,
+  On the white and sandy bottom.
+
+  At the stern sat Hiawatha,
+  With his fishing-line of cedar;
+  In his plumes the breeze of morning
+  Played as in the hemlock branches;
+  On the bows, with tail erected,
+  Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
+  In his fur the breeze of morning
+  Played as in the prairie grasses.
+
+  On the white sand of the bottom
+  Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
+  Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
+  Through his gills he breathed the water,
+  With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
+  With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
+
+  There he lay in all his armor;
+  On each side a shield to guard him,
+  Plates of bone upon his forehead,
+  Down his sides and back and shoulders
+  Plates of bone with spines projecting!
+  Painted was he with his war-paints,
+  Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.
+  Spots of brown and spots of sable;
+  And he lay there on the bottom,
+  Fanning with his fins of purple,
+  As above him Hiawatha
+  In his birch canoe came sailing,
+  With his fishing-line of cedar.
+
+  "Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,
+  Down into the depths beneath him,
+  "Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!
+  Come up from below the water,
+  Let us see which is the stronger!"
+  And he dropped his line of cedar
+  Through the clear, transparent water,
+  Waited vainly for an answer,
+  Long sat waiting for an answer,
+  And repeating loud and louder,
+  "Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"
+
+  Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Fanning slowly in the water,
+  Looking up at Hiawatha,
+  Listening to his call and clamor,
+  His unnecessary tumult,
+  Till he wearied of the shouting;
+  And he said to the Kenozha,
+  To the pike, the Maskenozha,
+  "Take the bait of this rude fellow,
+  Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+  In his fingers Hiawatha
+  Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;
+  As he drew it in, it tugged so
+  That the birch canoe stood endwise,
+  Like a birch log in the water,
+  With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+  Perched and frisking on the summit.
+
+  Full of scorn was Hiawatha
+  When he saw the fish rise upward,
+  Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
+  Coming nearer, nearer to him,
+  And he shouted through the water,
+  "Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+  You are but the pike, Kenozha,
+  You are not the fish I wanted,
+  You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+  Reeling downward to the bottom
+  Sank the pike in great confusion,
+  And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  To the bream, with scales of crimson,
+  "Take the bait of this great boaster,
+  Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+  Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
+  Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  Seized the line of Hiawatha,
+  Swung with all his weight upon it,
+  Made a whirlpool in the water,
+  Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
+  Round and round in gurgling eddies,
+  Till the circles in the water
+  Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
+  Till the water-flags and rushes
+  Nodded on the distant margins.
+
+  But when Hiawatha saw him
+  Slowly rising through the water,
+  Lifting up his disk refulgent,
+  Loud he shouted in derision,
+  "Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+  You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  You are not the fish I wanted,
+  You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+  Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
+  Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
+  Heard his challenge of defiance,
+  The unnecessary tumult,
+  Ringing far across the water.
+
+  From the white sand of the bottom
+  Up he rose with angry gesture,
+  Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
+  Clashing all his plates of armor,
+  Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
+  In his wrath he darted upward,
+  Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
+  Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
+  Both canoe and Hiawatha.
+
+  Down into that darksome cavern
+  Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
+  As a log on some black river
+  Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
+  Found himself in utter darkness,
+  Groped about in helpless wonder,
+  Till he felt a great heart beating,
+  Throbbing in that utter darkness.
+
+  And he smote it in his anger,
+  With his fist, the heart of Nahma.
+  Felt the mighty King of Fishes
+  Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
+  Heard the water gurgle round him
+  As he leaped and staggered through it,
+  Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
+
+  Crosswise then did Hiawatha
+  Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
+  Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
+  In the turmoil and confusion,
+  Forth he might be hurled and perish.
+  And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+  Frisked and chattered very gayly,
+  Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
+  Till the labor was completed.
+
+  Then said Hiawatha to him,
+  "O my little friend, the squirrel,
+  Bravely have you toiled to help me;
+  Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
+  And the name which now he gives you;
+  For hereafter and forever
+  Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
+  Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"
+
+  And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Gasped and quivered in the water,
+  Then was still, and drifted landward
+  Till he grated on the pebbles,
+  Till the listening Hiawatha
+  Heard him grate upon the margin,
+  Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
+  Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
+  Lay there dead upon the margin.
+
+  Then he heard a clang and flapping,
+  As of many wings assembling,
+  Heard a screaming and confusion,
+  As of birds of prey contending,
+  Saw a gleam of light above him,
+  Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
+  Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
+  Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
+  Gazing at him through the opening,
+  Heard them saying to each other,
+  "'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"
+
+  And he shouted from below them,
+  Cried exulting from the caverns:
+  "O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
+  I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
+  Make the rifts a little larger,
+  With your claws the openings widen,
+  Set me free from this dark prison,
+  And henceforward and forever
+  Men shall speak of your achievements,
+  Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
+  Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"
+
+  And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
+  Toiled with beak and claws together,
+  Made the rifts and openings wider
+  In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
+  And from peril and from prison,
+  From the body of the sturgeon,
+  From the peril of the water,
+  They released my Hiawatha.
+
+  He was standing near his wigwam,
+  On the margin of the water,
+  And he called to old Nokomis,
+  Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
+  Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
+  With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
+
+  "I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
+  Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;
+  "Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
+  Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
+  Drive them not away, Nokomis,
+  They have saved me from great peril
+  In the body of the sturgeon,
+  Wait until their meal is ended,
+  Till their craws are full with feasting,
+  Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
+  To their nests among the marshes;
+  Then bring all your pots and kettles,
+  And make oil for us in Winter."
+
+  And she waited till the sun set,
+  Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
+  Rose above the tranquil water,
+  Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
+  From their banquet rose with clamor,
+  And across the fiery sunset
+  Winged their way to far-off islands,
+  To their nests among the rushes.
+
+  To his sleep went Hiawatha,
+  And Nokomis to her labor,
+  Toiling patient in the moonlight,
+  Till the sun and moon changed places,
+  Till the sky was red with sunrise,
+  And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
+  Came back from the reedy islands,
+  Clamorous for their morning banquet.
+
+  Three whole days and nights alternate
+  Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls
+  Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
+  Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
+  Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
+  And upon the sands lay nothing
+  But the skeleton of Nahma.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+      The sun shone on her golden hair,
+        And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair ]
+
+
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+
+  "Build me straight, O worthy Master!
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+  That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+  The merchant's word
+  Delighted the Master heard;
+  For his heart was in his work, and the heart
+  Giveth grace unto every Art.
+  A quiet smile played round his lips,
+  As the eddies and dimples of the tide
+  Play round the bows of ships,
+  That steadily at anchor ride.
+  And with a voice that was full of glee,
+  He answered, "Erelong we will launch
+  A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,
+  As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
+  And first with nicest skill and art,
+  Perfect and finished in every part,
+  A little model the Master wrought,
+  Which should be to the larger plan
+  What the child is to the man,
+  Its counterpart in miniature;
+  That with a hand more swift and sure
+  The greater labor might be brought
+  To answer to his inward thought.
+  And as he labored, his mind ran o'er
+  The various ships that were built of yore,
+  And above them all, and strangest of all
+  Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
+  Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
+  With bows and stern raised high in air,
+  And balconies hanging here and there,
+  And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
+  And eight round towers, like those that frown
+  From some old castle, looking down
+  Upon the drawbridge and the moat.
+  And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,
+  Shall be of another form than this!"
+  It was of another form, indeed;
+  Built for freight, and yet for speed,
+  A beautiful and gallant craft;
+  Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
+  Pressing down upon sail and mast,
+  Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
+  Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
+  With graceful curve and slow degrees,
+  That she might be docile to the helm,
+  And that the currents of parted seas,
+  Closing behind, with mighty force,
+  Might aid and not impede her course.
+
+  In the ship-yard stood the Master,
+  With the model of the vessel,
+  That should laugh at all disaster,
+  And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
+
+  Covering many a rood of ground,
+  Lay the timber piled around;
+  Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
+  And scattered here and there, with these,
+  The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
+  Brought from regions far away,
+  From Pascagoula's sunny bay,
+  And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
+  Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
+  To note how many wheels of toil
+  One thought, one word, can set in motion!
+  There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
+  But every climate, every soil,
+  Must bring its tribute, great or small,
+  And help to build the wooden wall!
+
+  The sun was rising o'er the sea,
+  And long the level shadows lay,
+  As if they, too, the beams would be
+  Of some great, airy argosy,
+  Framed and launched in a single day.
+  That silent architect, the sun,
+  Had hewn and laid them every one,
+  Ere the work of man was yet begun.
+  Beside the Master, when he spoke,
+  A youth, against an anchor leaning,
+  Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
+  Only the long waves, as they broke
+  In ripples on the pebbly beach,
+  Interrupted the old man's speech.
+
+  Beautiful they were, in sooth,
+  The old man and the fiery youth!
+  The old man, in whose busy brain
+  Many a ship that sailed the main
+  Was modelled o'er and o'er again;--
+  The fiery youth, who was to be
+  The heir of his dexterity,
+  The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,
+  When he had built and launched from land
+  What the elder head had planned.
+
+  "Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!
+  Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
+  And follow well this plan of mine.
+  Choose the timbers with greatest care;
+  Of all that is unsound beware;
+  For only what is sound and strong
+  To this vessel shall belong.
+  Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
+  Here together shall combine.
+  A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
+  And the UNION be her name!
+  For the day that gives her to the sea
+  Shall give my daughter unto thee!"
+
+  The Master's word
+  Enraptured the young man heard;
+  And as he turned his face aside,
+  With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
+  Standing before
+  Her father's door,
+  He saw the form of his promised bride.
+  The sun shone on her golden hair,
+  And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
+  With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
+  Like a beauteous barge was she,
+  Still at rest on the sandy beach,
+  Just beyond the billow's reach;
+  But he
+  Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
+
+  Ah, how skilful grows the hand
+  That obeyeth Love's command!
+  It is the heart, and not the brain,
+  That to the highest doth attain,
+  And he who followeth Love's behest
+  Far excelleth all the rest!
+  Thus with the rising of the sun
+  Was the noble task begun,
+  And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds
+  Were heard the intermingled sounds
+  Of axes and of mallets, plied
+  With vigorous arms on every side;
+  Plied so deftly and so well,
+  That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
+  The keel of oak for a noble ship,
+  Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
+  Was lying ready, and stretched along
+  The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
+  Happy, thrice happy, every one
+  Who sees his labor well begun,
+  And not perplexed and multiplied,
+  By idly waiting for time and tide!
+
+  And when the hot, long day was o'er,
+  The young man at the Master's door
+  Sat with the maiden calm and still,
+  And within the porch, a little more
+  Removed beyond the evening chill,
+  The father sat, and told them tales
+  Of wrecks in the great September gales,
+  Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,
+  And ships that never came back again,
+  The chance and change of a sailor's life,
+  Want and plenty, rest and strife,
+  His roving fancy, like the wind,
+  That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
+  And the magic charm of foreign lands,
+  With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
+  Where the tumbling surf,
+  O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
+  Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
+  As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
+  And the trembling maiden held her breath
+  At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
+  With all its terror and mystery,
+  The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,
+  That divides and yet unites mankind!
+  And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
+  From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
+  The silent group in the twilight gloom,
+  And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
+  And for a moment one might mark
+  What had been hidden by the dark,
+  That the head of the maiden lay at rest,
+  Tenderly, on the young man's breast!
+
+  Day by day the vessel grew,
+  With timbers fashioned strong and true,
+  Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,
+  Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
+  A skeleton ship rose up to view!
+  And around the bows and along the side
+  The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
+  Till after many a week, at length,
+  Wonderful for form and strength,
+  Sublime in its enormous bulk,
+  Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
+  And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
+  Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething
+  Caldron, that glowed,
+  And overflowed
+  With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
+  And amid the clamors
+  Of clattering hammers,
+  He who listened heard now and then
+  The song of the Master and his men:--
+
+  "Build me straight, O worthy Master,
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+  That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+  With oaken brace and copper band,
+  Lay the rudder on the sand,
+  That, like a thought, should have control
+  Over the movement of the whole;
+  And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
+  Would reach down and grapple with the land,
+  And immovable and fast
+  Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
+  And at the bows an image stood,
+  By a cunning artist carved in wood,
+  With robes of white, that far behind
+  Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
+  It was not shaped in a classic mould,
+  Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
+  Or Naiad rising from the water,
+  But modelled from the Master's daughter!
+  On many a dreary and misty night,
+  'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
+  Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
+  Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
+  The pilot of some phantom bark,
+  Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
+  By a path none other knows aright!
+
+  Behold, at last,
+  Each tall and tapering mast
+  Is swung into its place;
+  Shrouds and stays
+  Holding it firm and fast!
+
+  Long ago,
+  In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
+  When upon mountain and plain
+  Lay the snow,
+  They fell,--those lordly pines!
+  Those grand, majestic pines!
+  'Mid shouts and cheers
+  The jaded steers,
+  Panting beneath the goad,
+  Dragged down the weary, winding road
+  Those captive kings so straight and tall,
+  To be shorn of their streaming hair,
+  And naked and bare,
+  To feel the stress and the strain
+  Of the wind and the reeling main,
+  Whose roar
+  Would remind them forevermore
+  Of their native forests they should not see again.
+
+  And everywhere
+  The slender, graceful spars
+  Poise aloft in the air,
+  And at the mast-head,
+  White, blue, and red,
+  A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.
+  Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
+  In foreign harbors shall behold
+  That flag unrolled,
+  'T will be as a friendly hand
+  Stretched out from his native land,
+  Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!
+
+  All is finished! and at length
+  Has come the bridal day
+  Of beauty and of strength.
+  To-day the vessel shall be launched!
+  With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
+  And o'er the bay,
+  Slowly, in all its splendors dight,
+  The great sun rises to behold the sight.
+
+  The ocean old,
+  Centuries old,
+  Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
+  Paces restless to and fro,
+  Up and down the sands of gold.
+  His beating heart is not at rest;
+  And far and wide,
+  With ceaseless flow,
+  His beard of snow
+  Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
+  He waits impatient for his bride.
+  There she stands,
+  With her foot upon the sands,
+  Decked with flags and streamers gay,
+  In honor of her marriage day,
+  Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
+  Round her like a veil descending,
+  Ready to be
+  The bride of the gray old sea.
+
+  On the deck another bride
+  Is standing by her lover's side.
+  Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
+  Like the shadows cast by clouds,
+  Broken by many a sudden fleck,
+  Fall around them on the deck.
+
+  The prayer is said,
+  The service read,
+  The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
+  And in tears the good old Master
+  Shakes the brown hand of his son,
+  Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek
+  In silence, for he cannot speak,
+  And ever faster
+  Down his own the tears begin to run.
+  The worthy pastor--
+  The shepherd of that wandering flock,
+  That has the ocean for its wold,
+  That has the vessel for its fold,
+  Leaping ever from rock to rock
+  Spake, with accents mild and clear,
+  Words of warning, words of cheer,
+  But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.
+  He knew the chart
+  Of the sailor's heart,
+  All its pleasures and its griefs,
+  All its shallows and rocky reefs,
+  All those secret currents, that flow
+  With such resistless undertow,
+  And lift and drift, with terrible force,
+  The will from its moorings and its course.
+  Therefore he spake, and thus said he:--
+  "Like unto ships far off at sea,
+  Outward or homeward bound, are we.
+  Before, behind, and all around,
+  Floats and swings the horizon's bound,
+  Seems at its distant rim to rise
+  And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
+  And then again to turn and sink,
+  As if we could slide from its outer brink.
+  Ah! it is not the sea,
+  It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
+  But ourselves
+  That rock and rise
+  With endless and uneasy motion,
+  Now touching the very skies,
+  Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
+  Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
+  Like the compass in its brazen ring,
+  Ever level and ever true
+  To the toil and the task we have to do,
+  We shall sail securely, and safely reach
+  The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
+  The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
+  Will be those of joy and not of fear!"
+
+  Then the Master,
+  With a gesture of command,
+  Waved his hand;
+  And at the word,
+  Loud and sudden there was heard,
+  All around them and below,
+  The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
+  Knocking away the shores and spurs.
+  And see! she stirs!
+  She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
+  The thrill of life along her keel,
+  And, spurning with her foot the ground,
+  With one exulting, joyous bound,
+  She leaps into the ocean's arms!
+
+  And lo! from the assembled crowd
+  There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
+  That to the ocean seemed to say,
+  "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
+  Take her to thy protecting arms,
+  With all her youth and all her charms!"
+
+  How beautiful she is! How fair
+  She lies within those arms, that press
+  Her form with many a soft caress
+  Of tenderness and watchful care!
+  Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
+  Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
+  The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
+  Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
+
+  Sail forth into the sea of life,
+  O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
+  And safe from all adversity
+  Upon the bosom of that sea
+  Thy comings and thy goings be!
+  For gentleness and love and trust
+  Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
+  And in the wreck of noble lives
+  Something immortal still survives!
+
+  Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
+  Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
+  Humanity with all its fears,
+  With all the hopes of future years,
+  Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
+  We know what Master laid thy keel,
+  What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
+  Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
+  What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
+  In what a forge and what a heat
+  Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
+  Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
+  'T is of the wave and not the rock;
+  'T is but the flapping of the sail,
+  And not a rent made by the gale!
+  In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
+  In spite of false lights on the shore,
+  Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
+  Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
+  Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
+  Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
+  Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+      A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+        And towers that touch imaginary skies ]
+
+
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+
+  A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
+    A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
+  A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+    And towers that touch imaginary skies.
+
+  A fearless rider on his father's knee,
+    An eager listener unto stories told
+  At the Round Table of the nursery,
+    Of heroes and adventures manifold.
+
+  There will be other towers for thee to build;
+    There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
+  There will be other legends, and all filled
+    With greater marvels and more glorified.
+
+  Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
+    Rising and reaching upward to the skies;
+  Listening to voices in the upper air,
+    Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+      A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door ]
+
+
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+
+  Listen, my children, and you shall hear
+  Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
+  On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
+  Hardly a man is now alive
+  Who remembers that famous day and year.
+
+  He said to his friend, "If the British march
+  By land or sea from the town to-night,
+  Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
+  Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
+  One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
+  And I on the opposite shore will be,
+  Ready to ride and spread the alarm
+  Through every Middlesex village and farm,
+  For the country folk to be up and to arm."
+
+  Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
+  Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
+  Just as the moon rose over the bay,
+  Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
+  The Somerset, British man-of-war;
+  A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
+  Across the moon like a prison bar,
+  And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
+  By its own reflection in the tide.
+
+  Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
+  Wanders and watches with eager ears,
+  Till in the silence around him he hears
+  The muster of men at the barrack door,
+  The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
+  And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
+  Marching down to their boats on the shore.
+
+  Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
+  By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
+  To the belfry-chamber overhead,
+  And startled the pigeons from their perch
+  On the sombre rafters, that round him made
+  Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
+  By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
+  To the highest window in the wall,
+  Where he paused to listen and look down
+  A moment on the roofs of the town,
+  And the moonlight flowing over all.
+
+  Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
+  In their night-encampment on the hill,
+  Wrapped in silence so deep and still
+  That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
+  The watchful night-wind, as it went
+  Creeping along from tent to tent,
+  And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
+  A moment only he feels the spell
+  Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
+  Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
+  For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
+  On a shadowy something far away,
+  Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
+  A line of black that bends and floats
+  On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
+
+  Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
+  Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
+  On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
+  Now he patted his horse's side,
+  Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
+  Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
+  And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
+  But mostly he watched with eager search
+  The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
+  As it rose above the graves on the hill,
+  Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
+  And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
+  A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
+  He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
+  But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
+  A second lamp in the belfry burns!
+  A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
+  A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
+  And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
+  Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
+  That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
+  The fate of a nation was riding that night;
+  And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
+  Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
+
+  He has left the village and mounted the steep,
+  And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
+  Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
+  And under the alders that skirt its edge,
+  Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
+  Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
+
+  It was twelve by the village clock,
+  When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
+  He heard the crowing of the cock,
+  And the barking of the farmer's dog,
+  And felt the damp of the river fog,
+  That rises after the sun goes down.
+
+  It was one by the village clock,
+  When he galloped into Lexington.
+  He saw the gilded weathercock
+  Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
+  And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
+  Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
+  As if they already stood aghast
+  At the bloody work they would look upon.
+
+  It was two by the village clock,
+  When he came to the bridge in Concord town
+  He heard the bleating of the flock,
+  And the twitter of birds among the trees,
+  And felt the breath of the morning breeze
+  Blowing over the meadows brown.
+  And one was safe and asleep in his bed
+  Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
+  Who that day would be lying dead,
+  Pierced by a British musket-ball.
+
+  You know the rest. In the books you have read.
+  How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
+  How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
+  From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
+  Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
+  Then crossing the fields to emerge again
+  Under the trees at the turn of the road,
+  And only pausing to fire and load.
+
+  So through the night rode Paul Revere;
+  And so through the night went his cry of alarm
+  To every Middlesex village and farm,--
+  A cry of defiance and not of fear,
+  A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
+  And a word that shall echo forevermore!
+  For, borne on the night-wind of the Past
+  Through all our history, to the last,
+  In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
+  The people will waken and listen to hear
+  The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
+  And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+      "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+        For a hundred year!" ]
+
+
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+  Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,
+    In his ship-yard by the sea,
+  Whistling, said, "It would bewilder
+  Any man but Thorberg Skafting,
+    Any man but me!"
+
+  Near him lay the Dragon stranded,
+    Built of old by Raud the Strong,
+  And King Olaf had commanded
+  He should build another Dragon,
+    Twice as large and long.
+
+  Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,
+    As he sat with half-closed eyes,
+  And his head turned sideways, drafting
+  That new vessel for King Olaf
+    Twice the Dragon's size.
+
+  Round him busily hewed and hammered
+    Mallet huge and heavy axe;
+  Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;
+  Whirred the wheels, that into rigging
+    Spun the shining flax!
+
+  All this tumult heard the master,--
+    It was music to his ear;
+  Fancy whispered all the faster,
+  "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!"
+
+  Workmen sweating at the forges
+    Fashioned iron bolt and bar,
+  Like a warlock's midnight orgies
+  Smoked and bubbled the black caldron
+    With the boiling tar.
+
+  Did the warlocks mingle in it,
+    Thorberg Skafting, any curse?
+  Could you not be gone a minute
+  But some mischief must be doing,
+    Turning bad to worse?
+
+  'T was an ill wind that came wafting
+    From his homestead words of woe;
+  To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,
+  Oft repeating to his workmen,
+    Build ye thus and so.
+
+  After long delays returning
+    Came the master back by night;
+  To his ship-yard longing, yearning,
+  Hurried he, and did not leave it
+    Till the morning's light.
+
+  "Come and see my ship, my darling!"
+    On the morrow said the King;
+  "Finished now from keel to carling;
+  Never yet was seen in Norway
+    Such a wondrous thing!"
+
+  In the ship-yard, idly talking,
+    At the ship the workmen stared:
+  Some one, all their labor balking,
+  Down her sides had cut deep gashes,
+    Not a plank was spared!
+
+  "Death be to the evil-doer!"
+    With an oath King Olaf spoke!
+  "But rewards to his pursuer!"
+  And with wrath his face grew redder
+    Than his scarlet cloak.
+
+  Straight the master-builder, smiling,
+    Answered thus the angry King:
+  "Cease blaspheming and reviling,
+  Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting
+    Who has done this thing!"
+
+  Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,
+    Till the King, delighted, swore,
+  With much lauding and much thanking,
+  "Handsomer is now my Dragon
+    Than she was before!"
+
+  Seventy ells and four extended
+    On the grass the vessel's keel;
+  High above it, gilt and splendid,
+  Rose the figure-head ferocious
+    With its crest of steel.
+
+  Then they launched her from the tressels,
+    In the ship-yard by the sea;
+  She was the grandest of all vessels,
+  Never ship was built in Norway
+    Half so fine as she!
+
+  The Long Serpent was she christened,
+    'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!
+  They who to the Saga listened
+  Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by 
+Henry W. Longfellow
+
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