He was as
trustworthy at nineteen as if years of experience had molded his
character and settled his principles of conduct.
trustworthy at nineteen as if years of experience had molded his
character and settled his principles of conduct.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v16 - Lev to Mai
When he was awak-
ing, Laidlaw said to me, "Sir Walter has had a little repose. "
"No, Willie," said he,-"no repose for Sir Walter but in the
grave. " The tears again rushed from his eyes. "Friends," said
he, "don't let me expose myself-get me to bed- that's the only
place. "
With this scene ended our glimpse of daylight. Sir Walter
never, I think, left his room afterwards, and hardly his bed,
except for an hour or two in the middle of the day; and after
## p. 9135 (#139) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9135
another week he was unable even for this. During a few days
he was in a state of painful irritation; and I saw realized all that
he had himself prefigured in his description of the meeting be-
tween Crystal Croftangry and his paralytic friend. Dr. Ross
came out from Edinburgh, bringing with him his wife, one of the
dearest nieces of the Clerk's Table. Sir Walter with some diffi-
culty recognized the Doctor, but on hearing Mrs. Ross's voice,
exclaimed at once, "Isn't that Kate Hume? " These kind friends
remained for two or three days with us. Clarkson's lancet was
pronounced necessary; and the relief it afforded was, I am happy
to say, very effectual.
After this he declined daily; but still there was great strength
to be wasted, and the process was long. He seemed however to
suffer no bodily pain; and his mind, though hopelessly obscured,
appeared, when there was any symptom of consciousness, to be
dwelling with rare exceptions on serious and solemn things; the
accent of the voice grave, sometimes awful, but never querulous,
and very seldom indicative of any angry or resentful thoughts.
Now and then he imagined himself to be administering justice as
sheriff; and once or twice he seemed to be ordering Tom Purdie
about trees. A few times also, I am sorry to say, we could
perceive that his fancy was at Jedburgh; and "Burk Sir Walter »
escaped him in a melancholy tone. But commonly whatever we
could follow him in was a fragment of the Bible (especially the
Prophecies of Isaiah, and the Book of Job), or some petition in
the Litany, or a verse of some psalm (in the old Scotch metrical
version) or of some of the magnificent hymns of the Roman
ritual,—in which he had always delighted, but which probably
hung on his memory now in connection with the church services
he had attended while in Italy. We very often heard distinctly
the cadence of the 'Dies Iræ': and I think the very last stanza
that we could make out was the first of a still greater favorite:
"Stabat Mater dolorosa,
Juxta crucem lachrymosa,
Dum pendebat Filius. "
All this time he continued to recognize his daughters, Laid-
law, and myself, whenever we spoke to him; and received every
attention with a most touching thankfulness. Mr. Clarkson too
was always saluted with the old courtesy, though the cloud
## p. 9136 (#140) ###########################################
9136
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
opened but a moment for him to do so. Most truly might it be
said that the gentleman survived the genius.
After two or three weeks had passed in this way, I was
obliged to leave Sir Walter for a single day, and go into Edin-
burgh to transact business, on his account, with Mr. Henry
Cockburn (now Lord Cockburn), then Solicitor-General for Scot-
land. . .
Perceiving, towards the close of August, that the end was
near, and thinking it very likely that Abbotsford might soon un-
dergo many changes, and myself at all events never see it again,
I felt a desire to have some image preserved of the interior
apartments as occupied by their founder; and invited from Edin-
burgh for that purpose Sir Walter's dear friend, William Allan,—
whose presence, I well knew, would even under the circum-
stances of that time be nowise troublesome to any of the family,
but the contrary in all respects. Mr. Allan willingly complied,
and executed a series of beautiful drawings, which may probably
be engraved hereafter. He also shared our watchings, and wit-
nessed all but the last moments. Sir Walter's cousins, the ladies
of Ashestiel, came down frequently for a day or two at a time;
and did whatever sisterly affection could prompt, both for the
sufferer and his daughters. Miss Barbara Scott (daughter of his
uncle Thomas), and Mrs. Scott of Harden did the like.
As I was dressing on the morning of Monday the 17th of
September, Nicolson came into my room, and told me that his
master had awoke in a state of composure and consciousness, and
wished to see me immediately. I found him entirely himself,
though in the last extreme of feebleness. His eye was clear and
calm, every trace of the wild fire of delirium extinguished.
"Lockhart," he said, "I may have but a minute to speak to you.
My dear, be a good man-be virtuous-be religious-be a good
man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come
to lie here. " He paused, and I said, "Shall I send for Sophia
and Anne? " "No," said he, "don't disturb them. Poor souls!
I know they were up all night-God bless you all. " With this
he sunk into a very tranquil sleep, and indeed he scarcely after-
wards gave any sign of consciousness, except for an instant on
the arrival of his sons. They, on learning that the scene was
about to close, obtained anew leave of absence from their posts,
and both reached Abbotsford on the 19th. About half-past one
P. M. on the 21st of September Sir Walter breathed his last, in
―
## p. 9137 (#141) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9137
the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day: so warm
that every window was wide open; and so perfectly still that the
sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple
of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt
around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes.
ZARA'S EARRINGS
From the Spanish Ballads'
Y EARRINGS! my earrings! they've dropt into the well,
And what to Muça I shall say, I cannot, cannot tell. ".
'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez's
daughter. -
«The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water.
To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell;
And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.
"M
"My earrings! my earrings! they were pearls in silver set,
That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget;
That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale,
But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those earrings pale:
When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the
well
Oh, what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.
"My earrings! my earrings! he'll say they should have been,
Not of pearl and silver, but of gold and glittering sheen;
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere;
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well:
Thus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.
"He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way;
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say;
He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed,
From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl
unloosed;
He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well,
My pearls fell in-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.
"He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same;
He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame,
But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token.
XVI-572
## p. 9138 (#142) ###########################################
9138
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
My earrings! my earrings! oh, luckless, luckless well!
For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell.
"I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe -
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve;
That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,
His earrings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well. "
THE WANDERING KNIGHT'S SONG
From the Spanish Ballads'
Y ORNAMENTS are arms,
My pastime is in war;
My bed is cold upon the wold,
My lamp yon star.
M*
My journeyings are long,
My slumbers short and broken;
From hill to hill I wander still,
Kissing thy token.
I ride from land to land,
I sail from sea to sea;
Some day more kind I fate may find,
Some night kiss thee.
Pane
T25
Sing
was
Tots
"
•
## p. 9139 (#143) ###########################################
9139
THOMAS LODGE
(1558(? )-1625)
OME of the most exquisite strains in English poetry were
sounded by the minor Elizabethan lyrists. Their song has
a quality that keeps it in the world's remembrance; in
its cadences is an unpremeditated music both rare and beautiful.
Thomas Lodge is one of these singers: a man of varied literary and
other activity, a few of whose lyrics are among the loveliest in that
Golden Age of English poetry.
The year of Lodge's birth is not accurately known. His father
was Sir Thomas Lodge, Lord Mayor of London; and the son was
born about 1558, either in London or at the family's country seat in
Essex. Thomas was educated at the Merchant Taylors' School, and
went up to Oxford about 1573; entering Trinity College as a servitor,
and taking a B. A. presumably in 1577. Then he tried law study at
Lincoln's Inn, and gave it up for literature. Lodge wrote promising
verse at Oxford, and on returning to London mingled in a society
that included well-known men of letters like Greene, Daniel, Drayton,
Lyly, and Watson. Lodge's selection of literature cost him dear, for
his family disinherited him. As a result he was apparently in con-
siderable financial difficulty at different times during his career. He
made several sea voyages, visiting the Canaries and South America:
no doubt this experience furnished him with literary material. He
tried the military profession too; traveled a good deal on the Conti-
nent; turned Romanist in middle life; and after writing verse until
1596, forsook the Muses for medicine, and got an M. D. at Oxford in
1602. He had a successful practice among fellow religionists, and did
not cease entirely from the cultivation of letters; for several books
of scholarly translation were published during the years he was ad-
dressed as Dr. Lodge. Indeed, he continued to publish up to 1620.
His death fell in 1625 at London.
Lodge's first literary work of any consequence was an answer to
an attack upon the drama by Gosson. Dramatic work seems always
to have tempted Lodge, and he essayed play-writing several times;
the drama written in conjunction with Greene, 'A Looking-Glass for
London and England' (1594) winning vogue. But this was not his
true field. His genuine literary triumphs were gained in the prose
romance and in poetry. The finest production in the former kind is
## p. 9140 (#144) ###########################################
9140
THOMAS LODGE
'Rosalynde, Euphues Golden Legacie' (1590), a slow-moving, richly
decorated fantasy of much beauty; it is ornate and affected, in the
Euphuistic manner made fashionable by Lyly, but is full of languid
grace and charm, and contains moreover some of the author's most
pleasing lyrics. Its atmosphere is the gentle chivalry of Sir Philip
Sidney. Shakespeare drew his 'As You Like It' directly from this
dainty prose pastoral; and one who reads the latter with the lovely
comedy in mind will see that even in diction, Shakespeare owes not
a little to Lodge. Later, Lodge plainly imitated Lyly in 'Euphues
Shadow, The Battaile of the Sences' (1592). Lodge's chief volume of
verse was 'Phyllis' (1593); which contained some forty sonnets and
short pieces, together with a longer narrative poem. The same year
a collection appeared called The Phoenix Nest,' which included a
number of Lodge's lyrics not in Phyllis. In 1595 was published
'A Fig for Momus,' made up of eclogues, satires, and miscellaneous
pieces. Various contemporary collections of poetry, such as 'Eng-
land's Parnassus' and 'England's Helicon,' reprinted his best poems;
a proof that Lodge's work did not fall still-born in his own day.
Yet he was only moderately esteemed by his contemporaries. Al-
though he was, in an age of almost universal borrowing and imita-
tion, one who owed much to the classical writers and to French and
Italian models and to his fellow Englishmen, yet in his poetry both
music and manner are all his own, and very true and sweet. He
improved what he borrowed. He had a touch at once individual and
lovely. The bulk of his literary work is of small account. A few
little songs and madrigals-mere sugared trifles-outweigh every-
thing else, and are his permanent legacy to after times.
BEAUTY
IKE to the clear in highest sphere,
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame color is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines.
L
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face;
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus's smiling looks doth grace.
## p. 9141 (#145) ###########################################
THOMAS LODGE
9141
Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh;
Within which bounds she balm incloses,
Apt to entice a deity.
Her neck like to a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes.
With Orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body everywhere is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view.
Nature herself her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,
And at her eyes his brand doth light.
ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL
OVE in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;
L
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, Wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee,
The livelong night;
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, Wanton, still ye.
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
## p. 9142 (#146) ###########################################
9142
THOMAS LODGE
And bind you when you long to play,
For your offense;
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;
I'll count your power not worth a pin:
Alas! what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee:
O Cupid! so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee.
TUR
LOVE
URN I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;
If so I gaze upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found;
Search I the shade to fly my pain,
Love meets me in the shade again;
Want I to walk in secret grove,
E'en there I meet with sacred Love;
If so I bathe me in the spring,
E'en on the brink I hear him sing;
If so I meditate alone,
He will be partner of my moan;
If so I mourn, he weeps with me;
And where I am, there will he be!
## p. 9142 (#147) ###########################################
## p. 9142 (#148) ###########################################
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
## p. 9142 (#149) ###########################################
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## p. 9142 (#150) ###########################################
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## p. 9143 (#151) ###########################################
9143
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
(1807-1882)
BY CHARLES FREDERICK JOHNSON
HE poet Longfellow was born February 27th, 1807, in the town
of Portland, Maine; and died at Cambridge, Massachusetts,
in 1882. He came of the best New England ancestry, tra-
cing his descent in one line back to John Alden and Priscilla Mullins
of the original Plymouth Colony, whose marriage he celebrates in the
'Courtship of Miles Standish. ' He graduated from Bowdoin in 1825,
in the same class with Nathaniel Hawthorne. Even in his boyhood
he evinced the refinement, the trustworthy, equable judgment, and
the love for the quietly beautiful in literature, which were his most
strongly marked characteristics through life. Such elements are sure
to develop, and it was safe to send the young Longfellow at nine-
teen for a three-years' stay in Europe. His nature had no affinity
for evil in any form; partly from the lack of emotional intensity, and
partly from natural sympathy with all that was beautiful and of good
report. He acquired during his tour of Europe a knowledge of the
French, German, Italian, and Spanish languages, and a general lit-
erary acquaintance with the best writers in them. He had shown in
college some aptitude for versification and for languages, and went
abroad to fit himself for the position of professor of modern lan-
guages in Bowdoin. His industrious devotion to true culture through-
out life is evidence of an overmastering bent. In 1829 he returned
to America and took the professorship of modern languages at Bow-
doin. In 1831 he married Mary Potter.
In 1835 he published 'Outre Mer,' a sketchy account of his years
abroad, in a form evidently suggested by Irving's 'Sketch Book,'
though by no means rivaling Irving's quaint and charming humor.
From 1831 he contributed a number of articles on literary subjects to
the North American Review; and in 1833 he published his first poet-
ical work, Coplas' (couplets or verses) 'de Manrique,'- translations
of Spanish verse. His gradually increasing reputation as a writer
and enthusiastic instructor led to his appointment in 1835 as pro-
fessor of modern languages at Harvard, then as now on the lookout
for young scholars likely to add to the reputation of the University.
Before entering upon his new duties he went abroad to perfect his
――
## p. 9144 (#152) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9144
knowledge of the Teutonic languages. He was accompanied by his
young wife, who died at Rotterdam in 1835. In 1836 he settled at
Cambridge, living in the well-known Craigie House, which had been
occupied by Washington when the headquarters of the army were
near Boston. In 1843 he made his third voyage to Europe; and in
the same year he married Frances Appleton, and the Craigie House
thenceforward to be one of the literary landmarks of America-
became his home. His environment was an ideal one; and though
he was somewhat burdened with the drudgery of his professorship,
he added almost yearly to his reputation as a poet.
He published Voices of the Night' in 1839; 'Ballads and Other
Poems, 1841; Poems on Slavery,' 1842; The Spanish Student,'
1843 Belfry of Bruges,' 1846; Evangeline,' 1847; 'Seaside and
Fireside,' 1850; The Golden Legend,' 1851; and the prose works
'Hyperion' (1839) and Kavanagh' (1849), which last add very little
if anything to his reputation. Finally, in 1854 he felt justified in
resigning his position, that his literary activity might be uninter-
rupted. He was succeeded by Lowell, and it is doubtful if a like
fitness of succession could be discovered in academic annals. He
remained the first literary figure in America till his death in 1882,
and his European reputation was but little inferior to that which he
enjoyed in his own country. He received the degree of LL. D. from
Harvard in 1859 and in 1868 from Cambridge, England, and the
D. C. L. from Oxford in the same year.
The peaceful and prosperous tenor of his life was disturbed by
one terrible misfortune. His wife met her death in 1861 from the
accidental burning of her dress. Otherwise his career was of almost
idyllic tranquillity. He had the happy capacity of being cheered by
appreciative praise and unaffected by adverse criticism. He attracted
numerous friends, among them Felton, Sumner, Agassiz, Lowell,
Hawthorne. His nature was so well balanced that he is his own
best biographer; and appears to better advantage in his letters and
diary, published by his brother, than in any of the lives that have
appeared.
>
If we judge from his diary, Longfellow was never subject to over-
mastering impulses, but always acted with foresight,—not from selfish
calculation, but from a sane and temperate judgment.
He was as
trustworthy at nineteen as if years of experience had molded his
character and settled his principles of conduct. In fact, he negatives
the theory of original sin,-the flower of Puritanism disproves the
cherished Puritan dogma. This quality of radical goodness of heart
is reflected in his verse. The ardor of soul, the deep dejection
and despair, the rebellion, of the revolutionary natures are entirely
unknown to him. He is the poet of the well-disposed, the virtuous
## p. 9145 (#153) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9145
and intelligent New-Englander; in whose land there is found only a
mild and colorless beauty untormented by cyclones or active volca-
noes, and nature is not altogether favorable, nor entirely hostile, to
humanity. To Hawthorne, New England was full of a quaint mys-
tery; in Longfellow's world there was no hell, and hardly room for a
picturesque old-fashioned Devil. This is not so much due to super-
ficial observation as to the fact that he simply avoided or ignored the
places where "Satan shows his cloven foot and hides his titled
name. " Even in Longfellow's antislavery poems there is no hint of
consuming indignation. His mark is charm and grace rather than
power. In his own words, he is not one of -
"the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time. »
He does not appeal to the great elemental passions, but rather to
the pathetic sense of the transitoriness of familiar and every-day
scenes, to the conviction that the calm joys of home are after all the
surest foretaste of happiness allowed to man, and that the perform-
ance of duty is as noble in the humble sphere as in the elevated
one: in a word, to a range of feelings that are based on reality,
though they exist in the more superficial part of our natures. There-
fore, Longfellow, though a man of general culture, does not write
for the literary public. His relation is to the great body of readers,
though his personal intimacies seem to have been almost exclusively
with literary or academic people. Sympathy with the broadly human
is one of the marks of the true poet. To put simple things into
graceful and intelligible poetic form requires genius; for thousands
try to do it every day, and fail for lack of the special gift. Long-
fellow succeeded; and those who say that his themes and method
are alike commonplace forget that the touch which illuminates the
commonplace is the most delicate in art.
In consequence of this characteristic of simplicity and graceful
melody, many of Longfellow's lyrics have become general favorites.
'Resignation,' 'The Skeleton in Armor,' 'My Lost Youth,' 'The Old
Clock on the Stairs,' 'The Arrow and the Song,' the 'Psalm of
Life,' 'Excelsior,' 'The Wreck of the Hesperus,' 'The Arsenal at
Springfield, The Jewish Cemetery at Newport,' and many others,
have a secure lodgment in the popular memory. They are known
to more people than are familiar with an equal number of the lyr-
ics of Wordsworth. Longfellow's clientèle is larger than that of any
other modern poet except Burns. 'The Building of the Ship'-long
enough to be called an ode—has had as much effect in developing
a sense of nationality as anything ever written: not excepting the
## p. 9146 (#154) ###########################################
9146
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Declaration of Independence or Webster's reply to Hayne. It has
been recited so many times that it has become a national document.
In form it is a frank imitation of Schiller's 'Song of the Bell,' and
in tone it possesses the dithyrambic quality of the true ode. If we
possessed a national song, of the reach and stirring power of Long-
fellow's ode, we might be less patient with the clumsy disguises in
which selfishness masquerades as Americanism. It is one of the
highest functions of art to crystallize national sentiment by putting
into striking and intelligible form what we all feel, and criticism of
poems which do this is entirely out of place-except by a foreigner;
and then it is impertinent.
Longfellow's longer poems may be conveniently divided into two
classes, according to subject-matter. One would include his poems
on mediæval themes or based on mediæval models, as 'Christus,' in
dramatic form, in three parts, - 'The Divine Tragedy,' 'The Golden
Legend,' and 'The New England Tragedies,' - presenting three
phases of the development of the Christian religion; Tales of a
Wayside Inn, The Spanish Student,' and 'Judas Maccabæus,' also
dramatic in form, and his translation of Dante. The other division
would contain Evangeline,' 'The Song of Hiawatha,' and 'The
Courtship of Miles Standish. ' To the writer it seems that his literary
reputation rests most securely on these last, his popular reputation
on these and the lyrics already mentioned. He casts the same gently
romantic light over the Middle Ages that he does over everything he
presents in poetical form; and Mr. Ruskin says that in the 'Golden
Legend' he has "entered more closely into the character of the monk
for good and evil than ever yet theological writer or historian, though
they have given their lives' labor to the analysis. " Longfellow's
studies were largely mediæval; old cities and their quaint archi-
tecture and legends were to him of special interest, but he never
"entered into the evil" of any state of society. It was not germane
to him, and he lacked the insight into the horrors and abominations
of the past which Mr. Ruskin's words would imply.
In passing, we may remark that Longfellow was by nature more
akin to the spirit of Greek culture than to the spirit of the Christian
centuries: he was healthily objective. But his studies were in the
period in which the great conflict between the natural man and the
conviction of sin filled society with grotesque contrasts. He uses lit-
tle of the old classical imagery and the beautiful Greek mythology.
Had he been professor of Greek instead of modern languages, his
genius might have found a type of artistic feeling and expression
more in accordance with its nature. For the dramatic form he lacks
two requisites: he cannot throw himself into a character so as to
reproduce in himself and express the dominant note of that character,
## p. 9147 (#155) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9147
especially if it is an evil one. He cannot group the actions of a
set of people into a unity. Consequently his dramas are the work
of a conscientious student with a gift for graceful expression; the
scholar in tragedy, not the born dramatist. The 'Tales of a Wayside
Inn,' too, charmingly graceful in expression,- especially in the verses.
which link the poems together, - seem to fail in the qualities given
by the born story-teller. But some of the tales, notably the 'Bell of
Atri' and the 'Birds of Killingworth,' are in Longfellow's best man-
The echoes from Chaucer's verse have never been reflected
more perfectly, though they have struck on hundreds of poetic souls.
ner.
His translation of Dante may be regarded as simply the work of
a competent and cultured scholar. He aims to reproduce the terse-
ness of the original rather than its form. Perhaps this is all that a
sustained translation of a great poem can do; for poetic worth lies.
in the relation between the group of words and the idea, and even
individual poetic words—much more, groups of them-have no for-
eign equivalents. But Longfellow's version is one of the few great
translations of literature.
His American poems, 'Evangeline' and the Song of Hiawatha,'
vindicate his claim to the name of poet in the sense of a creator of
original and characteristic works of art. Of both these the themes
are American, and of such nature as to be well adapted to Longfel-
low's temperament. The story of Evangeline—the Acadian girl sepa-
rated from her lover in the deportation of her people, and wandering
in the search all her life till she finally found him an old man dying
in a hospital in Philadelphia- had been suggested to Hawthorne as
the material for a story. He showed his sense of his own powers
and limitations in rejecting it; for it contains no elements of the
psychologically sombre or tragic,-it is simply pathetic. To Long-
fellow it appealed at once for that very reason. It is on the every-
day plane of emotion; everybody can understand it. Granting the
extreme simplicity of the action, Longfellow has handled the inci-
dents with great skill. The metre he adopted sets the story in a
more idyllic medium than blank verse could have done, and gives it
a higher artistic worth than Tennyson's 'Enoch Arden. ' Goethe's
'Hermann and Dorothea' had shown him that the modern hexameter
was well adapted to the modern pastoral; and Longfellow's skill in
phrasing prevents the terminal cadence from becoming too monoto-
nous. The poem embodies three contrasts which are so admirably
handled that they reinforce each other: first, the contrast between
the simplicity and peace of the rural community and the rigor and
confusion of the embarkation; second, the contrast between the north-
ern landscape of Nova Scotia and the southern landscape of Louisi-
ana; third, the contrast which pervades the whole poem, between the
## p. 9148 (#156) ###########################################
9148
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
youthful lovers at the betrothal and the old man and woman at the
death-bed. There is no modern poem which, with the entire absence
of sentimentality or of any emotion foreign to the situation, presents
a more perfect poetic unity. There is no more beautiful passage in
poetry than the scene of the arrival of the girl and priest at the
house of Gabriel's father, only to find that the son has just departed.
The description of the mocking-bird's song-perfect to those who
have heard the bird in its southern home seems the prelude to a
rapturous meeting of the lovers. Yet in it are heard-
"Single notes in sorrowful, low lamentation,»
that seem to hint, as all beautiful things do, that happiness is un-
attainable.
In 'Hiawatha,' Longfellow undertook the extremely difficult task
of recreating the sub-conscious life of a savage people as embodied
in their myths. There are in us only a few deeply buried moods
of feeling, inherited from our remote ancestors, that respond to the
primitive interpretation of nature. "The world is too much with us. "
Our senses are too dull to "hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. "
But Longfellow went much further back into the primitive nature-
worship, and recalled for us the cultus of infantile, half-articulate man.
No one but a poet, and no poet but Longfellow, could have written
the Song of Hiawatha. ' The simplicity of the metre and the fre-
quent repetitions are features entirely consistent with the conception.
And furthermore the conception, though ideal, is consistent with the
character of the Indian as we know it. The poem is no dream, nor
phantasmagoria, nor thing of shreds and patches; it is a poetic unity.
Of course this results partly from the fact that it is built up from
real legends, but more from the fact that the legends are put in form
by a real artist.
-
-
The use of the trochaic four-accent line has been severely criticized.
It is true that this line is not natural to English. It forces the sun-
dering of syllables that the language has joined together: the mono-
syllabic noun and the article, the sign of the infinitive and the
monosyllabic verb for instance, which are in ordinary pronunciation
agglutinated into natural iambi. Such lines as-
"Make a bed for | me to | lie in;
I, the friend of | Man, Mon | damin,
Come to warn you | and in | struct you».
in their scansion do violence to the natural union of syllables. Still
it is possible to read verse with only the slightest sub-consciousness
of the metre, and to emphasize the rhythm. But it must be remem-
bered in the first place that a strange primitive metre was absolutely
## p. 9149 (#157) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9149
necessary. The strength and solid English qualities of the unrhymed
pentameter would be out of place in this barbaric chant. Secondly,
the Song of Hiawatha' must be read with little reference to the
metric scheme. It will then be found that the metric scheme is over-
laid with a beautiful rhythmic scheme of clause and sentence, break-
ing up the monotony of the trochees. Longfellow's sweet and simple
phrase-music is woven into many novel combinations which are his
own, which no one can exactly copy. But the real beauty of this
poem does not lie in its form; it lies in the fact that it is an inter-
pretation of an unfamiliar type of life, and as such possesses an ideal
beauty and truth.
The group of American writers of the first half of the nineteenth
century, the best-known members of which are Longfellow, Emerson,
Holmes, Lowell, and Hawthorne, will always be regarded as having
laid the foundations of American literature. Each of these men pos-
sessed a distinct artistic individuality; but they form one of the most
interesting groups in history. The elements which give them simi-
larity and unite them in our general conception are their common
consciousness of the worth and reality of the moral quality in life,
and their belief in the beauty of righteousness. Theirs was a temper
of mind equally removed from the disordered pessimism which sees
in the moral order only a mechanical balance of the forces of selfish-
ness, from a shallow sentimental optimism, and from a servile rever-
ence for organized dogma. Serenity, kindliness, and earnestness are
the notes of sanity. Undoubtedly an artistic temperament is some-
times dominated by moods far different from these; and undoubtedly
too the artist whose life vision is clouded by doubt or by denial of
ethical truth, has a strange and unwholesome attraction. Such a one
appeals at least to our sympathy for mental distress. We rejoice
that the foundations of our literature were laid by artists of the nor-
mal and healthy type, and believe that a civilization which produced
a poet like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow must hold in its heart
some of the love of beauty and order and righteousness which was
the underlying principle of his verse.
Chaves & Johnsna
## p. 9150 (#158) ###########################################
9150
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
[All the following selections from Longfellow's Poems are reprinted by per-
mission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers, Boston, Massachusetts. ]
HYMN TO THE NIGHT
I
HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold soft chimes
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
THE BELEAGUERED CITY
I
HAVE read in some old, marvelous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
## p. 9151 (#159) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9151
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of th dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen;
And with a sorrowful, deep sound
The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,-
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmèd air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,—
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read in the marvelous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And with a sorrowful, deep sound
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep church bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
## p. 9152 (#160) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9152
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
"S"
PEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me ? »
Then from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse!
For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the gerfalcon;
And with my skates fast bound
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
## p. 9153 (#161) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9153
XVI-573
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the meadow.
"But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair's crew,
O'er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.
«< Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest's shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.
"Bright in her father's hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall;
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory:
## p. 9154 (#162) ###########################################
9154
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
To hear my story.
"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.
"She was a prince's child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew's flight,
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?
"Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,-
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen! -
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armèd hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.
―――
"Then launched they to the blast;
Bent like a reed each mast:
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.
"And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
Death! was the helmsman's hail,
Death without quarter!
Midships with iron keel.
Struck we her ribs of steel;
## p. 9155 (#163) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9155
Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water!
"As with his wings aslant
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane
Bore I the maiden.
"Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o'er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady's bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which to this very hour
Stands looking seaward.
"There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden's tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother:
Death closed her mild blue eyes;
Under that tower she lies;
Ne'er shall the sun arise
On such another!
"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,-
Oh, death was grateful!
"Thus seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal! »
Thus the tale ended.
## p. 9156 (#164) ###########################################
9156
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
MAIDENHOOD
M
AIDEN! with the meek brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies!
Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!
Standing with reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!
Gazing with a timid glance
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse!
Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem
As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract's roar?
O thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands,-life hath snares;
Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered;
Age, that bough with snows incumbered.
Gather then each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.
## p. 9157 (#165) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Bear a lily in thy hand:
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.
Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart;
For a smile of God thou art.
SERENADE
From The Spanish Student>
TARS of the summer night!
Far in yon azure deeps,
Hide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps!
ST
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Moon of the summer night!
Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Wind of the summer night!
ing, Laidlaw said to me, "Sir Walter has had a little repose. "
"No, Willie," said he,-"no repose for Sir Walter but in the
grave. " The tears again rushed from his eyes. "Friends," said
he, "don't let me expose myself-get me to bed- that's the only
place. "
With this scene ended our glimpse of daylight. Sir Walter
never, I think, left his room afterwards, and hardly his bed,
except for an hour or two in the middle of the day; and after
## p. 9135 (#139) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9135
another week he was unable even for this. During a few days
he was in a state of painful irritation; and I saw realized all that
he had himself prefigured in his description of the meeting be-
tween Crystal Croftangry and his paralytic friend. Dr. Ross
came out from Edinburgh, bringing with him his wife, one of the
dearest nieces of the Clerk's Table. Sir Walter with some diffi-
culty recognized the Doctor, but on hearing Mrs. Ross's voice,
exclaimed at once, "Isn't that Kate Hume? " These kind friends
remained for two or three days with us. Clarkson's lancet was
pronounced necessary; and the relief it afforded was, I am happy
to say, very effectual.
After this he declined daily; but still there was great strength
to be wasted, and the process was long. He seemed however to
suffer no bodily pain; and his mind, though hopelessly obscured,
appeared, when there was any symptom of consciousness, to be
dwelling with rare exceptions on serious and solemn things; the
accent of the voice grave, sometimes awful, but never querulous,
and very seldom indicative of any angry or resentful thoughts.
Now and then he imagined himself to be administering justice as
sheriff; and once or twice he seemed to be ordering Tom Purdie
about trees. A few times also, I am sorry to say, we could
perceive that his fancy was at Jedburgh; and "Burk Sir Walter »
escaped him in a melancholy tone. But commonly whatever we
could follow him in was a fragment of the Bible (especially the
Prophecies of Isaiah, and the Book of Job), or some petition in
the Litany, or a verse of some psalm (in the old Scotch metrical
version) or of some of the magnificent hymns of the Roman
ritual,—in which he had always delighted, but which probably
hung on his memory now in connection with the church services
he had attended while in Italy. We very often heard distinctly
the cadence of the 'Dies Iræ': and I think the very last stanza
that we could make out was the first of a still greater favorite:
"Stabat Mater dolorosa,
Juxta crucem lachrymosa,
Dum pendebat Filius. "
All this time he continued to recognize his daughters, Laid-
law, and myself, whenever we spoke to him; and received every
attention with a most touching thankfulness. Mr. Clarkson too
was always saluted with the old courtesy, though the cloud
## p. 9136 (#140) ###########################################
9136
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
opened but a moment for him to do so. Most truly might it be
said that the gentleman survived the genius.
After two or three weeks had passed in this way, I was
obliged to leave Sir Walter for a single day, and go into Edin-
burgh to transact business, on his account, with Mr. Henry
Cockburn (now Lord Cockburn), then Solicitor-General for Scot-
land. . .
Perceiving, towards the close of August, that the end was
near, and thinking it very likely that Abbotsford might soon un-
dergo many changes, and myself at all events never see it again,
I felt a desire to have some image preserved of the interior
apartments as occupied by their founder; and invited from Edin-
burgh for that purpose Sir Walter's dear friend, William Allan,—
whose presence, I well knew, would even under the circum-
stances of that time be nowise troublesome to any of the family,
but the contrary in all respects. Mr. Allan willingly complied,
and executed a series of beautiful drawings, which may probably
be engraved hereafter. He also shared our watchings, and wit-
nessed all but the last moments. Sir Walter's cousins, the ladies
of Ashestiel, came down frequently for a day or two at a time;
and did whatever sisterly affection could prompt, both for the
sufferer and his daughters. Miss Barbara Scott (daughter of his
uncle Thomas), and Mrs. Scott of Harden did the like.
As I was dressing on the morning of Monday the 17th of
September, Nicolson came into my room, and told me that his
master had awoke in a state of composure and consciousness, and
wished to see me immediately. I found him entirely himself,
though in the last extreme of feebleness. His eye was clear and
calm, every trace of the wild fire of delirium extinguished.
"Lockhart," he said, "I may have but a minute to speak to you.
My dear, be a good man-be virtuous-be religious-be a good
man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come
to lie here. " He paused, and I said, "Shall I send for Sophia
and Anne? " "No," said he, "don't disturb them. Poor souls!
I know they were up all night-God bless you all. " With this
he sunk into a very tranquil sleep, and indeed he scarcely after-
wards gave any sign of consciousness, except for an instant on
the arrival of his sons. They, on learning that the scene was
about to close, obtained anew leave of absence from their posts,
and both reached Abbotsford on the 19th. About half-past one
P. M. on the 21st of September Sir Walter breathed his last, in
―
## p. 9137 (#141) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9137
the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day: so warm
that every window was wide open; and so perfectly still that the
sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple
of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt
around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes.
ZARA'S EARRINGS
From the Spanish Ballads'
Y EARRINGS! my earrings! they've dropt into the well,
And what to Muça I shall say, I cannot, cannot tell. ".
'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez's
daughter. -
«The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water.
To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell;
And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.
"M
"My earrings! my earrings! they were pearls in silver set,
That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget;
That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale,
But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those earrings pale:
When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the
well
Oh, what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.
"My earrings! my earrings! he'll say they should have been,
Not of pearl and silver, but of gold and glittering sheen;
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere;
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well:
Thus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.
"He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way;
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say;
He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed,
From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl
unloosed;
He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well,
My pearls fell in-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.
"He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same;
He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame,
But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token.
XVI-572
## p. 9138 (#142) ###########################################
9138
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
My earrings! my earrings! oh, luckless, luckless well!
For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell.
"I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe -
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve;
That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,
His earrings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well. "
THE WANDERING KNIGHT'S SONG
From the Spanish Ballads'
Y ORNAMENTS are arms,
My pastime is in war;
My bed is cold upon the wold,
My lamp yon star.
M*
My journeyings are long,
My slumbers short and broken;
From hill to hill I wander still,
Kissing thy token.
I ride from land to land,
I sail from sea to sea;
Some day more kind I fate may find,
Some night kiss thee.
Pane
T25
Sing
was
Tots
"
•
## p. 9139 (#143) ###########################################
9139
THOMAS LODGE
(1558(? )-1625)
OME of the most exquisite strains in English poetry were
sounded by the minor Elizabethan lyrists. Their song has
a quality that keeps it in the world's remembrance; in
its cadences is an unpremeditated music both rare and beautiful.
Thomas Lodge is one of these singers: a man of varied literary and
other activity, a few of whose lyrics are among the loveliest in that
Golden Age of English poetry.
The year of Lodge's birth is not accurately known. His father
was Sir Thomas Lodge, Lord Mayor of London; and the son was
born about 1558, either in London or at the family's country seat in
Essex. Thomas was educated at the Merchant Taylors' School, and
went up to Oxford about 1573; entering Trinity College as a servitor,
and taking a B. A. presumably in 1577. Then he tried law study at
Lincoln's Inn, and gave it up for literature. Lodge wrote promising
verse at Oxford, and on returning to London mingled in a society
that included well-known men of letters like Greene, Daniel, Drayton,
Lyly, and Watson. Lodge's selection of literature cost him dear, for
his family disinherited him. As a result he was apparently in con-
siderable financial difficulty at different times during his career. He
made several sea voyages, visiting the Canaries and South America:
no doubt this experience furnished him with literary material. He
tried the military profession too; traveled a good deal on the Conti-
nent; turned Romanist in middle life; and after writing verse until
1596, forsook the Muses for medicine, and got an M. D. at Oxford in
1602. He had a successful practice among fellow religionists, and did
not cease entirely from the cultivation of letters; for several books
of scholarly translation were published during the years he was ad-
dressed as Dr. Lodge. Indeed, he continued to publish up to 1620.
His death fell in 1625 at London.
Lodge's first literary work of any consequence was an answer to
an attack upon the drama by Gosson. Dramatic work seems always
to have tempted Lodge, and he essayed play-writing several times;
the drama written in conjunction with Greene, 'A Looking-Glass for
London and England' (1594) winning vogue. But this was not his
true field. His genuine literary triumphs were gained in the prose
romance and in poetry. The finest production in the former kind is
## p. 9140 (#144) ###########################################
9140
THOMAS LODGE
'Rosalynde, Euphues Golden Legacie' (1590), a slow-moving, richly
decorated fantasy of much beauty; it is ornate and affected, in the
Euphuistic manner made fashionable by Lyly, but is full of languid
grace and charm, and contains moreover some of the author's most
pleasing lyrics. Its atmosphere is the gentle chivalry of Sir Philip
Sidney. Shakespeare drew his 'As You Like It' directly from this
dainty prose pastoral; and one who reads the latter with the lovely
comedy in mind will see that even in diction, Shakespeare owes not
a little to Lodge. Later, Lodge plainly imitated Lyly in 'Euphues
Shadow, The Battaile of the Sences' (1592). Lodge's chief volume of
verse was 'Phyllis' (1593); which contained some forty sonnets and
short pieces, together with a longer narrative poem. The same year
a collection appeared called The Phoenix Nest,' which included a
number of Lodge's lyrics not in Phyllis. In 1595 was published
'A Fig for Momus,' made up of eclogues, satires, and miscellaneous
pieces. Various contemporary collections of poetry, such as 'Eng-
land's Parnassus' and 'England's Helicon,' reprinted his best poems;
a proof that Lodge's work did not fall still-born in his own day.
Yet he was only moderately esteemed by his contemporaries. Al-
though he was, in an age of almost universal borrowing and imita-
tion, one who owed much to the classical writers and to French and
Italian models and to his fellow Englishmen, yet in his poetry both
music and manner are all his own, and very true and sweet. He
improved what he borrowed. He had a touch at once individual and
lovely. The bulk of his literary work is of small account. A few
little songs and madrigals-mere sugared trifles-outweigh every-
thing else, and are his permanent legacy to after times.
BEAUTY
IKE to the clear in highest sphere,
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame color is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines.
L
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face;
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus's smiling looks doth grace.
## p. 9141 (#145) ###########################################
THOMAS LODGE
9141
Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh;
Within which bounds she balm incloses,
Apt to entice a deity.
Her neck like to a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes.
With Orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body everywhere is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view.
Nature herself her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,
And at her eyes his brand doth light.
ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL
OVE in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;
L
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, Wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee,
The livelong night;
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, Wanton, still ye.
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
## p. 9142 (#146) ###########################################
9142
THOMAS LODGE
And bind you when you long to play,
For your offense;
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;
I'll count your power not worth a pin:
Alas! what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee:
O Cupid! so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee.
TUR
LOVE
URN I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;
If so I gaze upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found;
Search I the shade to fly my pain,
Love meets me in the shade again;
Want I to walk in secret grove,
E'en there I meet with sacred Love;
If so I bathe me in the spring,
E'en on the brink I hear him sing;
If so I meditate alone,
He will be partner of my moan;
If so I mourn, he weeps with me;
And where I am, there will he be!
## p. 9142 (#147) ###########################################
## p. 9142 (#148) ###########################################
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
## p. 9142 (#149) ###########################################
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## p. 9142 (#150) ###########################################
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## p. 9143 (#151) ###########################################
9143
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
(1807-1882)
BY CHARLES FREDERICK JOHNSON
HE poet Longfellow was born February 27th, 1807, in the town
of Portland, Maine; and died at Cambridge, Massachusetts,
in 1882. He came of the best New England ancestry, tra-
cing his descent in one line back to John Alden and Priscilla Mullins
of the original Plymouth Colony, whose marriage he celebrates in the
'Courtship of Miles Standish. ' He graduated from Bowdoin in 1825,
in the same class with Nathaniel Hawthorne. Even in his boyhood
he evinced the refinement, the trustworthy, equable judgment, and
the love for the quietly beautiful in literature, which were his most
strongly marked characteristics through life. Such elements are sure
to develop, and it was safe to send the young Longfellow at nine-
teen for a three-years' stay in Europe. His nature had no affinity
for evil in any form; partly from the lack of emotional intensity, and
partly from natural sympathy with all that was beautiful and of good
report. He acquired during his tour of Europe a knowledge of the
French, German, Italian, and Spanish languages, and a general lit-
erary acquaintance with the best writers in them. He had shown in
college some aptitude for versification and for languages, and went
abroad to fit himself for the position of professor of modern lan-
guages in Bowdoin. His industrious devotion to true culture through-
out life is evidence of an overmastering bent. In 1829 he returned
to America and took the professorship of modern languages at Bow-
doin. In 1831 he married Mary Potter.
In 1835 he published 'Outre Mer,' a sketchy account of his years
abroad, in a form evidently suggested by Irving's 'Sketch Book,'
though by no means rivaling Irving's quaint and charming humor.
From 1831 he contributed a number of articles on literary subjects to
the North American Review; and in 1833 he published his first poet-
ical work, Coplas' (couplets or verses) 'de Manrique,'- translations
of Spanish verse. His gradually increasing reputation as a writer
and enthusiastic instructor led to his appointment in 1835 as pro-
fessor of modern languages at Harvard, then as now on the lookout
for young scholars likely to add to the reputation of the University.
Before entering upon his new duties he went abroad to perfect his
――
## p. 9144 (#152) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9144
knowledge of the Teutonic languages. He was accompanied by his
young wife, who died at Rotterdam in 1835. In 1836 he settled at
Cambridge, living in the well-known Craigie House, which had been
occupied by Washington when the headquarters of the army were
near Boston. In 1843 he made his third voyage to Europe; and in
the same year he married Frances Appleton, and the Craigie House
thenceforward to be one of the literary landmarks of America-
became his home. His environment was an ideal one; and though
he was somewhat burdened with the drudgery of his professorship,
he added almost yearly to his reputation as a poet.
He published Voices of the Night' in 1839; 'Ballads and Other
Poems, 1841; Poems on Slavery,' 1842; The Spanish Student,'
1843 Belfry of Bruges,' 1846; Evangeline,' 1847; 'Seaside and
Fireside,' 1850; The Golden Legend,' 1851; and the prose works
'Hyperion' (1839) and Kavanagh' (1849), which last add very little
if anything to his reputation. Finally, in 1854 he felt justified in
resigning his position, that his literary activity might be uninter-
rupted. He was succeeded by Lowell, and it is doubtful if a like
fitness of succession could be discovered in academic annals. He
remained the first literary figure in America till his death in 1882,
and his European reputation was but little inferior to that which he
enjoyed in his own country. He received the degree of LL. D. from
Harvard in 1859 and in 1868 from Cambridge, England, and the
D. C. L. from Oxford in the same year.
The peaceful and prosperous tenor of his life was disturbed by
one terrible misfortune. His wife met her death in 1861 from the
accidental burning of her dress. Otherwise his career was of almost
idyllic tranquillity. He had the happy capacity of being cheered by
appreciative praise and unaffected by adverse criticism. He attracted
numerous friends, among them Felton, Sumner, Agassiz, Lowell,
Hawthorne. His nature was so well balanced that he is his own
best biographer; and appears to better advantage in his letters and
diary, published by his brother, than in any of the lives that have
appeared.
>
If we judge from his diary, Longfellow was never subject to over-
mastering impulses, but always acted with foresight,—not from selfish
calculation, but from a sane and temperate judgment.
He was as
trustworthy at nineteen as if years of experience had molded his
character and settled his principles of conduct. In fact, he negatives
the theory of original sin,-the flower of Puritanism disproves the
cherished Puritan dogma. This quality of radical goodness of heart
is reflected in his verse. The ardor of soul, the deep dejection
and despair, the rebellion, of the revolutionary natures are entirely
unknown to him. He is the poet of the well-disposed, the virtuous
## p. 9145 (#153) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9145
and intelligent New-Englander; in whose land there is found only a
mild and colorless beauty untormented by cyclones or active volca-
noes, and nature is not altogether favorable, nor entirely hostile, to
humanity. To Hawthorne, New England was full of a quaint mys-
tery; in Longfellow's world there was no hell, and hardly room for a
picturesque old-fashioned Devil. This is not so much due to super-
ficial observation as to the fact that he simply avoided or ignored the
places where "Satan shows his cloven foot and hides his titled
name. " Even in Longfellow's antislavery poems there is no hint of
consuming indignation. His mark is charm and grace rather than
power. In his own words, he is not one of -
"the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time. »
He does not appeal to the great elemental passions, but rather to
the pathetic sense of the transitoriness of familiar and every-day
scenes, to the conviction that the calm joys of home are after all the
surest foretaste of happiness allowed to man, and that the perform-
ance of duty is as noble in the humble sphere as in the elevated
one: in a word, to a range of feelings that are based on reality,
though they exist in the more superficial part of our natures. There-
fore, Longfellow, though a man of general culture, does not write
for the literary public. His relation is to the great body of readers,
though his personal intimacies seem to have been almost exclusively
with literary or academic people. Sympathy with the broadly human
is one of the marks of the true poet. To put simple things into
graceful and intelligible poetic form requires genius; for thousands
try to do it every day, and fail for lack of the special gift. Long-
fellow succeeded; and those who say that his themes and method
are alike commonplace forget that the touch which illuminates the
commonplace is the most delicate in art.
In consequence of this characteristic of simplicity and graceful
melody, many of Longfellow's lyrics have become general favorites.
'Resignation,' 'The Skeleton in Armor,' 'My Lost Youth,' 'The Old
Clock on the Stairs,' 'The Arrow and the Song,' the 'Psalm of
Life,' 'Excelsior,' 'The Wreck of the Hesperus,' 'The Arsenal at
Springfield, The Jewish Cemetery at Newport,' and many others,
have a secure lodgment in the popular memory. They are known
to more people than are familiar with an equal number of the lyr-
ics of Wordsworth. Longfellow's clientèle is larger than that of any
other modern poet except Burns. 'The Building of the Ship'-long
enough to be called an ode—has had as much effect in developing
a sense of nationality as anything ever written: not excepting the
## p. 9146 (#154) ###########################################
9146
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Declaration of Independence or Webster's reply to Hayne. It has
been recited so many times that it has become a national document.
In form it is a frank imitation of Schiller's 'Song of the Bell,' and
in tone it possesses the dithyrambic quality of the true ode. If we
possessed a national song, of the reach and stirring power of Long-
fellow's ode, we might be less patient with the clumsy disguises in
which selfishness masquerades as Americanism. It is one of the
highest functions of art to crystallize national sentiment by putting
into striking and intelligible form what we all feel, and criticism of
poems which do this is entirely out of place-except by a foreigner;
and then it is impertinent.
Longfellow's longer poems may be conveniently divided into two
classes, according to subject-matter. One would include his poems
on mediæval themes or based on mediæval models, as 'Christus,' in
dramatic form, in three parts, - 'The Divine Tragedy,' 'The Golden
Legend,' and 'The New England Tragedies,' - presenting three
phases of the development of the Christian religion; Tales of a
Wayside Inn, The Spanish Student,' and 'Judas Maccabæus,' also
dramatic in form, and his translation of Dante. The other division
would contain Evangeline,' 'The Song of Hiawatha,' and 'The
Courtship of Miles Standish. ' To the writer it seems that his literary
reputation rests most securely on these last, his popular reputation
on these and the lyrics already mentioned. He casts the same gently
romantic light over the Middle Ages that he does over everything he
presents in poetical form; and Mr. Ruskin says that in the 'Golden
Legend' he has "entered more closely into the character of the monk
for good and evil than ever yet theological writer or historian, though
they have given their lives' labor to the analysis. " Longfellow's
studies were largely mediæval; old cities and their quaint archi-
tecture and legends were to him of special interest, but he never
"entered into the evil" of any state of society. It was not germane
to him, and he lacked the insight into the horrors and abominations
of the past which Mr. Ruskin's words would imply.
In passing, we may remark that Longfellow was by nature more
akin to the spirit of Greek culture than to the spirit of the Christian
centuries: he was healthily objective. But his studies were in the
period in which the great conflict between the natural man and the
conviction of sin filled society with grotesque contrasts. He uses lit-
tle of the old classical imagery and the beautiful Greek mythology.
Had he been professor of Greek instead of modern languages, his
genius might have found a type of artistic feeling and expression
more in accordance with its nature. For the dramatic form he lacks
two requisites: he cannot throw himself into a character so as to
reproduce in himself and express the dominant note of that character,
## p. 9147 (#155) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9147
especially if it is an evil one. He cannot group the actions of a
set of people into a unity. Consequently his dramas are the work
of a conscientious student with a gift for graceful expression; the
scholar in tragedy, not the born dramatist. The 'Tales of a Wayside
Inn,' too, charmingly graceful in expression,- especially in the verses.
which link the poems together, - seem to fail in the qualities given
by the born story-teller. But some of the tales, notably the 'Bell of
Atri' and the 'Birds of Killingworth,' are in Longfellow's best man-
The echoes from Chaucer's verse have never been reflected
more perfectly, though they have struck on hundreds of poetic souls.
ner.
His translation of Dante may be regarded as simply the work of
a competent and cultured scholar. He aims to reproduce the terse-
ness of the original rather than its form. Perhaps this is all that a
sustained translation of a great poem can do; for poetic worth lies.
in the relation between the group of words and the idea, and even
individual poetic words—much more, groups of them-have no for-
eign equivalents. But Longfellow's version is one of the few great
translations of literature.
His American poems, 'Evangeline' and the Song of Hiawatha,'
vindicate his claim to the name of poet in the sense of a creator of
original and characteristic works of art. Of both these the themes
are American, and of such nature as to be well adapted to Longfel-
low's temperament. The story of Evangeline—the Acadian girl sepa-
rated from her lover in the deportation of her people, and wandering
in the search all her life till she finally found him an old man dying
in a hospital in Philadelphia- had been suggested to Hawthorne as
the material for a story. He showed his sense of his own powers
and limitations in rejecting it; for it contains no elements of the
psychologically sombre or tragic,-it is simply pathetic. To Long-
fellow it appealed at once for that very reason. It is on the every-
day plane of emotion; everybody can understand it. Granting the
extreme simplicity of the action, Longfellow has handled the inci-
dents with great skill. The metre he adopted sets the story in a
more idyllic medium than blank verse could have done, and gives it
a higher artistic worth than Tennyson's 'Enoch Arden. ' Goethe's
'Hermann and Dorothea' had shown him that the modern hexameter
was well adapted to the modern pastoral; and Longfellow's skill in
phrasing prevents the terminal cadence from becoming too monoto-
nous. The poem embodies three contrasts which are so admirably
handled that they reinforce each other: first, the contrast between
the simplicity and peace of the rural community and the rigor and
confusion of the embarkation; second, the contrast between the north-
ern landscape of Nova Scotia and the southern landscape of Louisi-
ana; third, the contrast which pervades the whole poem, between the
## p. 9148 (#156) ###########################################
9148
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
youthful lovers at the betrothal and the old man and woman at the
death-bed. There is no modern poem which, with the entire absence
of sentimentality or of any emotion foreign to the situation, presents
a more perfect poetic unity. There is no more beautiful passage in
poetry than the scene of the arrival of the girl and priest at the
house of Gabriel's father, only to find that the son has just departed.
The description of the mocking-bird's song-perfect to those who
have heard the bird in its southern home seems the prelude to a
rapturous meeting of the lovers. Yet in it are heard-
"Single notes in sorrowful, low lamentation,»
that seem to hint, as all beautiful things do, that happiness is un-
attainable.
In 'Hiawatha,' Longfellow undertook the extremely difficult task
of recreating the sub-conscious life of a savage people as embodied
in their myths. There are in us only a few deeply buried moods
of feeling, inherited from our remote ancestors, that respond to the
primitive interpretation of nature. "The world is too much with us. "
Our senses are too dull to "hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. "
But Longfellow went much further back into the primitive nature-
worship, and recalled for us the cultus of infantile, half-articulate man.
No one but a poet, and no poet but Longfellow, could have written
the Song of Hiawatha. ' The simplicity of the metre and the fre-
quent repetitions are features entirely consistent with the conception.
And furthermore the conception, though ideal, is consistent with the
character of the Indian as we know it. The poem is no dream, nor
phantasmagoria, nor thing of shreds and patches; it is a poetic unity.
Of course this results partly from the fact that it is built up from
real legends, but more from the fact that the legends are put in form
by a real artist.
-
-
The use of the trochaic four-accent line has been severely criticized.
It is true that this line is not natural to English. It forces the sun-
dering of syllables that the language has joined together: the mono-
syllabic noun and the article, the sign of the infinitive and the
monosyllabic verb for instance, which are in ordinary pronunciation
agglutinated into natural iambi. Such lines as-
"Make a bed for | me to | lie in;
I, the friend of | Man, Mon | damin,
Come to warn you | and in | struct you».
in their scansion do violence to the natural union of syllables. Still
it is possible to read verse with only the slightest sub-consciousness
of the metre, and to emphasize the rhythm. But it must be remem-
bered in the first place that a strange primitive metre was absolutely
## p. 9149 (#157) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9149
necessary. The strength and solid English qualities of the unrhymed
pentameter would be out of place in this barbaric chant. Secondly,
the Song of Hiawatha' must be read with little reference to the
metric scheme. It will then be found that the metric scheme is over-
laid with a beautiful rhythmic scheme of clause and sentence, break-
ing up the monotony of the trochees. Longfellow's sweet and simple
phrase-music is woven into many novel combinations which are his
own, which no one can exactly copy. But the real beauty of this
poem does not lie in its form; it lies in the fact that it is an inter-
pretation of an unfamiliar type of life, and as such possesses an ideal
beauty and truth.
The group of American writers of the first half of the nineteenth
century, the best-known members of which are Longfellow, Emerson,
Holmes, Lowell, and Hawthorne, will always be regarded as having
laid the foundations of American literature. Each of these men pos-
sessed a distinct artistic individuality; but they form one of the most
interesting groups in history. The elements which give them simi-
larity and unite them in our general conception are their common
consciousness of the worth and reality of the moral quality in life,
and their belief in the beauty of righteousness. Theirs was a temper
of mind equally removed from the disordered pessimism which sees
in the moral order only a mechanical balance of the forces of selfish-
ness, from a shallow sentimental optimism, and from a servile rever-
ence for organized dogma. Serenity, kindliness, and earnestness are
the notes of sanity. Undoubtedly an artistic temperament is some-
times dominated by moods far different from these; and undoubtedly
too the artist whose life vision is clouded by doubt or by denial of
ethical truth, has a strange and unwholesome attraction. Such a one
appeals at least to our sympathy for mental distress. We rejoice
that the foundations of our literature were laid by artists of the nor-
mal and healthy type, and believe that a civilization which produced
a poet like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow must hold in its heart
some of the love of beauty and order and righteousness which was
the underlying principle of his verse.
Chaves & Johnsna
## p. 9150 (#158) ###########################################
9150
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
[All the following selections from Longfellow's Poems are reprinted by per-
mission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers, Boston, Massachusetts. ]
HYMN TO THE NIGHT
I
HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold soft chimes
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
THE BELEAGUERED CITY
I
HAVE read in some old, marvelous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
## p. 9151 (#159) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9151
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of th dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen;
And with a sorrowful, deep sound
The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,-
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmèd air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,—
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read in the marvelous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And with a sorrowful, deep sound
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep church bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
## p. 9152 (#160) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9152
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
"S"
PEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me ? »
Then from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse!
For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the gerfalcon;
And with my skates fast bound
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
## p. 9153 (#161) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9153
XVI-573
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the meadow.
"But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair's crew,
O'er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.
«< Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest's shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.
"Bright in her father's hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall;
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory:
## p. 9154 (#162) ###########################################
9154
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
To hear my story.
"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.
"She was a prince's child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew's flight,
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?
"Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,-
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen! -
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armèd hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.
―――
"Then launched they to the blast;
Bent like a reed each mast:
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.
"And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
Death! was the helmsman's hail,
Death without quarter!
Midships with iron keel.
Struck we her ribs of steel;
## p. 9155 (#163) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9155
Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water!
"As with his wings aslant
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane
Bore I the maiden.
"Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o'er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady's bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which to this very hour
Stands looking seaward.
"There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden's tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother:
Death closed her mild blue eyes;
Under that tower she lies;
Ne'er shall the sun arise
On such another!
"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,-
Oh, death was grateful!
"Thus seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal! »
Thus the tale ended.
## p. 9156 (#164) ###########################################
9156
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
MAIDENHOOD
M
AIDEN! with the meek brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies!
Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!
Standing with reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!
Gazing with a timid glance
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse!
Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem
As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract's roar?
O thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands,-life hath snares;
Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered;
Age, that bough with snows incumbered.
Gather then each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.
## p. 9157 (#165) ###########################################
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Bear a lily in thy hand:
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.
Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart;
For a smile of God thou art.
SERENADE
From The Spanish Student>
TARS of the summer night!
Far in yon azure deeps,
Hide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps!
ST
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Moon of the summer night!
Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Wind of the summer night!
