The Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

pen,

Through the mist and darkness sinking, | Which at its topmost speed let fall the
Blown by wind and beaten by shower,
Down I fling the thought I'm thinking,
Down I toss this Alpine flower.

And left the tale half told.

Ah! who shall lift that wand of magie

I HEARD the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
The words repeat

And thought how, as the day had core,

The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song

Across the meadows, by the gray old Of peace on earth, good-will to men !

manse,

The historic river flowed:

I was as one who wanders in a trance, Unconscious of his road.

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime

The faces of familiar friends seemed Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

strange;

Their voices I could hear,

Then from each black, accursed mouth

And yet the words they uttered seemed The cannon thundered in the South,

to change

Their meaning to my ear.

For the one face I looked for was not

there,

The one low voice was mute; Only an unseen presence filled the air, And baffled my pursuit.

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream

Dimly my thought defines;

I only see a dream within a dream
The hill-top hearsed with pines.

I only hear above his place of rest
Their tender undertone,

The infinite longings of a troubled breast,
The voice so like his own.

There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold,

THE WIND OVER THE CHIM

NEY.

SEE, the fire is sinking low,
Dusky red the embers glow,

While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour.

Sings the blackened log a tune
Learned in some forgotten June

From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday.

And the night-wind rising, hark!
How above there in the dark,

In the midnight and the snow,
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,
Like the trumpets of Iskander,

All the noisy chimneys blow! Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to murmur some great name, Seems to say to me, 66 Aspire! But the night-wind answers, "Hollow Are the visions that you follow,

Into darkness sinks your fire !"

Then the flicker of the blaze
Gleams on volumes of old days,

Written by masters of the art,
Loud through whose majestic pages
Rolls the melody of ages,

Throb the harp-strings of the heart.

And again the tongues of flame
Start exulting and exclaim:

"These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations,

They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries: "Despair! Those who walk with feet of air

Leave no long-enduring marks; At God's forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant,

These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought; Books are sepulchres of thought;

The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely Churchyards at some passing tread."

Suddenly the flame sinks down ;
Sink the rumors of renown;

And alone the night-wind drear
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,
"T is the brand of Meleager
Dying on the hearth-stone here!"

And I answer, 66
- Though it be,
Why should that discomfort me?
No endeavor is in vain ;
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing

Is the prize the vanquished gain.”

THE BELLS OF LYNN

HEARD AT NAHANT.

O CURFEW of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn !

requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn !

From the dark belfries of yon cloudcathedral wafted,

Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn !

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight,

O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn !

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland,

Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn !

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn !

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal

Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges,

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,

Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn !

And startled at the sight, like the weird

woman of Endor,

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn !

KILLED AT THE FORD.

HE is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose
pleasant word,

Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along,
Down the dark of the mountain gap,
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,
He was humming the words of some old

song:

"Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of his sword."

Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;

Something I heard in the darkness fall,
And for a moment my blood grew chill';'T 18 late at night, and in the realm of

I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead; But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the rain

Carried him back to the silent camp,
And laid him as if asleep on his bed;
And I saw by the light of the surgeon's
lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,
And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant

North,

Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;
And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,
For one who had passed from cross to
crown,

And the neighbors wondered that she should die.

sleep

My little lambs are folded like the

flocks;

From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks

Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep

Their solitary watch on tower and steep;

Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,

And through the opening door that time unlocks

Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.

To-morrow the mysterious, unknown guest,

Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide,