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diff --git a/9080.txt~ b/9080.txt~ new file mode 100644 index 0000000..56fd2f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/9080.txt~ @@ -0,0 +1,2588 @@ +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. 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