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diff --git a/9080-0.txt b/9080-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..30f9e8b --- /dev/null +++ b/9080-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2589 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. Longfellow + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: The Children's Own Longfellow + +Author: Henry W. Longfellow + +Release Date: September 3, 2003 [EBook #9080] +[Most recently updated: April 11, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW *** + + + + +Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Children’s Own Longfellow + +Illustrated + + +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 +He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat +Against the stinging blast + + The Village Blacksmith +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 +The sun shone on her golden hair, +And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair + + The Castle-Builder +A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, +And towers that touch imaginary skies + + Paul Revere’s Ride +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!” + + + + +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. + + + + + +The Wreck of the Hesperus + +[Illustration: 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 Sailòr, + 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! + + + + +The Village Blacksmith + +[Illustration: 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. + + + + +Evangeline + +[Illustration: 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-Pré. + +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-Pré +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-Pré, +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-Pré +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 Séjour, 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. +René 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 Létiche, 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-Pré; +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 Abraha’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar! + + +IV + +Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré. +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-Pré!” +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-Pré. +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. + + + + +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. + +[Illustration: Hiawatha’s Fishing] + + + + +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. + + + + +The Building of the Ship + +[Illustration: 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 bridegroo’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! + + + + +The Castle-Builder + +[Illustration: 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. + + + + +Paul Revere’s Ride + +[Illustration: 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. + + + + +The Building of the Long Serpent + +[Illustration: 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. 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