THERE is a love that cannot die! —
And some their doom have met
Heart-broken — and gone as stars go by,
That rise, and burn, and set.
Their days were in Spring’s fallen leaf — 5
Tender — and young — and bright — and brief.
There is a love that cannot die! —
Aye — it survives the grave;
When life goes out with many a sigh,
And earth takes what it gave, 10
Its light is on the home of those
That heed not when the cold wind blows.
With us there are sad records left
Of life’s declining day:
How true hearts here were broken and cleft, 15
And how they passed away.
And yon dark rock that swells above
Its blue lake — has a tale of love.
‘T is of an Indian maid, whose fate
Was saddened by the burst 20
Of passion, that made desolate
The heart it filled at first.
Her lover was false-hearted, — yet
Her love she never could forget.
It was a summer-day, and bright 25
The sun was going down:
The wave lay blushing in rich light
Beneath the dark rock’s frown,
And under the green maple’s shade
Her lover’s bridal feast was made. 30
She stood upon the rocky steep,
Grief had her heart unstrung,
And far across the lake’s blue sweep
Was heard the dirge she sung.
It ceased — and in the deep cold wave 35
The Indian Girl has made her grave.
Dirge over a Nameless Grave
BY yon still river, where the wave
Is winding slow at evening’s close,
The beech, upon a nameless grave.
its sadly-moving shadow throws.
O’er the fair woods the sun looks down 5
Upon the many-twinkling leaves,
And twilight’s mellow shades are brown,
Where darkly the green turf upheaves.
The river glides in silence there,
And hardly waves the sapling tree: 10
Sweet flowers are springing, and the air
Is full of balm — but where is she!
They bade her wed a son of pride,
And leave the hope she cherished long:
She loved but one-and would not hide 15
A love which knew a wrong.
And months went sadly on-and years:
And she was wasting day by day:
At length she died — and many tears
Were shed, that she should pass away. 20
Then came a gray old man, and knelt
With bitter weeping by her tomb:
And others mourned for him, who felt
That he had sealed a daughter’s doom.
The funeral train has long past on, 25
And time wiped dry the father’s tear!
Farewell — lost maiden! — there is one
That mourns thee yet — and he is here.
A Song of Savoy
As the dim twilight shrouds
The mountain’s purple crest,
And Summer’s white and folded clouds
Are glowing in the west,
Loud shouts come up the rocky dell, 5
And voices hail the evening-bell.
Faint is the goatherd’s song,
And sighing comes the breeze;
The silent river sweeps along
Amid its bending trees — 10
And the full moon shines faintly there,
And music fills the evening air.
Beneath the waving firs
The tinkling cymbals sound;
And as the wind the foliage stirs, 15
I see the dancers bound
Where the green branches, arched above,
Bend over this fair scene of love.
And he is there, that sought
My young heart long ago! 20
But he has left me — though I thought
He ne’er could leave me so.
Ah! lover’s vows — how frail are they!
And his — were made but yesterday.
Why comes he not? I call 25
In tears upon him yet;
‘T were better ne’er to love at all,
Than love, and then forget!
Why comes he not? Alas! I should
Reclaim him still, if weeping could. 30
But see — he leaves the glade,
And beckons me away:
He comes to seek his mountain maid!
I cannot chide his stay.
Glad sounds along the valley swell, 35
And voices hail the evening-bell.
The Indian Hunter
WHEN the summer harvest was gathered in,
And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin,
And the ploughshare was in its furrow left,
Where the stubble land had been lately cleft,
An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, 5
Looked down where the valley lay stretched below.
He was a stranger there, and all that day
Had been out on the hills, a perilous way,
But the foot of the deer was far and fleet,
And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter’s feet. 10
And bitter feelings passed o’er him then,
As he stood by the populous haunts of men.
The winds of autumn came over the woods
As the sun stole out from their solitudes;
The moss was white on the maple’s trunk, 15
And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk.
And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red
Were the tree’s withered leaves round it shed.
The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn
And the sickle cut down the yellow corn — 20
The mower sung loud by the meadow-side,
Where the mists of evening were spreading wide,
And the voice of the herdsmen came up the lea,
And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.
Then the hunter turned away from that scene, 25
Where the home of his fathers once had been,
And heard by the distant and measured stroke,
That the woodman hewed down the giant oak,
And burning thoughts flashed over his mind
Of the white man’s faith, and love unkind. 30
The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white —
A footstep was heard in the rustling brake,
Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake,
And a mourning voice, and a plunge from shore, — 35
And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.
When years had passed on, by that still lakeside
The fisher looked down through the silver tide,
And there, on the smooth yellow sand displayed,
A skeleton wasted and white was laid, 40
And ‘t was seen, as the waters moved deep and slow,
That the hand was still grasping a hunter’s bow.
Ode written for the Commemoration at Fryeburg, Maine, of Lovewell’s Fight
Air — Bruce’s Address.
I
MANY a day and wasted year
Bright has left its footsteps here,
Since was broke the warrior’s spear,
And our fathers bled.
Still the tall trees, arching, shake 5
Where the fleet deer by the lake,
As he dash’d through birch and brake.
From the hunter fled.
II
In these ancient woods so bright,
That are full of life and light, 10
Many a dark, mysterious rite
The
stern warriors kept.
But their altars are bereft,
Fall’n to earth, and strewn and cleft,
And a holier faith is left 15
Where their fathers slept.
III
From their ancient sepulchres,
Where amid the giant firs,
Moaning loud, the high wind stirs,
Have the red men gone. 20
Tow’rd the setting sun that makes
Bright our western hills and lakes,
Faint and few, the remnant takes
Its sad journey on.
IV
Where the Indian hamlet stood, 25
In the interminable wood,
Battle broke the solitude,
And the war-cry rose;
Sudden came the straggling shot
Where the sun looked on the spot 30
That the trace of war would blot
Ere the day’s faint close.
V
Low the smoke of battle hung;
Heavy down the lake it swung,
Till the death wail loud was sung 35
When the night shades fell;
And the green pine, waving dark,
Held within its shattered bark
Many a lasting scathe and mark,
That a tale could tell. 40
VI
And the story of that day
Shall not pass from earth away,
Nor the blighting of decay
Waste our liberty;
But within the river’s sweep 45
Long in peace our vale shall sleep
And free hearts the record keep
Of this jubilee.
Jeckoyva
The Indian chief, Jeckoyva, as tradition says, perished alone on the mountain which now bears his name. Night overtook him whilst hunting among the cliffs, and he was not heard of till after a long time, when his half-decayed corpse was found at the foot of a high rock, over which he must have fallen. Mount Jeckoyva is near the White Hills. H. W. L.
THEY made the warrior’s grave beside
The dashing of his native tide:
And there was mourning in the glen —
The strong wail of a thousand men —
O’er him thus fallen in his pride, 5
Ere mist of age — or blight or blast
Had o’er his mighty spirit past.
They made the warrior’s grave beneath
The bending of the wild elm’s wreath,
When the dark hunter’s piercing eye 10
Had found that mountain rest on high,
Where, scattered by the sharp wind’s breath,
Beneath the ragged cliff were thrown
The strong belt and the mouldering bone.
Where was the warrior’s foot, when first 15
The red sun on the mountain burst?
Where — when the sultry noon-time came
On the green vales with scorching flame,
And made the woodlands faint with thirst?
‘T was where the wind is keen and loud, 20
And the gray eagle breasts the cloud.
Where was the warrior’s foot when night
Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height?
None heard the loud and sudden crash —
None saw the fallen warrior dash 25
Down the bare rock so high and white!
But he that drooped not in the chase
Made on the hills his burial-place.
They found him there, when the long day
Of cold desertion passed away, 30
And traces on that barren cleft
Of struggling hard with death were left —
Deep marks and footprints in the clay!
And they have laid this feathery helm
By the dark river and green elm. 35
The Sea-Diver
MY way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocking tide;
And many an eye has followed me
Where billows clasp the worn seaside.
My plumage bears the crimson blush, 5
When ocean by the sun is kissed!
When fades the evening’s purple flush,
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.
Full many a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep 10
My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe
O’er living myriads in their sleep.
They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem;
Where the pale sea-grape had o’ergrown 15
The glorious dwellings made for them.
At night upon my storm-drench’d wing,
I poised above a helmless bark,
And soon I saw the shattered thing
Had passed away and left no mark. 20
And when the wind and storm were done,
A ship, that had rode out the gale,
Sunk down, without a signal-gun,
And none was left to tell the tale.
I saw the pomp of day depart — 25
The cloud resign its golden crown,
When to the ocean’s beating heart
The sailor’s wasted corse went down.
Peace be to those whose graves are made
Beneath the bright and silver sea! 30
Peace — that their relics there were laid
With no vain pride and pageantry.
Musings
I SAT by my window one night,
And watched how the stars grew high;
And the earth and skies were a splendid sight
To a sober and musing eye.
From heaven the silver moon shone down 5
With gentle and mellow ray,
And beneath the crowded roofs of the town
In broad light and shadow lay.
A glory was on the silent sea,
And mainland and island too, 10
Till a haze came over the lowland lea,
And shrouded that beautiful blue.
Bright in the moon the autumn wood
Its crimson scarf unrolled,
And the trees like a splendid army stood 15
In a panoply of gold!
I saw them waving their banners high,
As their crests to the night wind bowed,
And a distant sound on the air went by,
Like the whispering of a crowd. 20
Then I watched from my window how fast
The lights all around me fled,
As the wearied man to his slumber passed
And the sick one to his bed.
All faded save one, that burned 25
With distant and steady light;
But that, too, went out — and I turned
Where my own lamp within shone bright!
Thus, thought I, our joys must die,
Yes — the brightest from earth we win: 30
Till each turns away, with a sigh,
To the lamp that burns brightly within.
Song
WHERE, from the eye of day,
The dark and silent river
Pursues through tangled woods a way
O’er which the tall trees quiver;
The silver mist, that breaks 5
From out that woodland cover,
Betrays the hidden path it takes,
And hangs the current over!
So oft the thoughts that burst
From hidden springs of feeling, 10
Like silent streams, unseen at first,
From our cold hearts are stealing:
But soon the clouds that veil
The eye of Love, when glowing,
Betray the long unwhispered tale 15
Of thoughts in darkness flowing!
Song of the Birds
WITH what a hollow dirge its voice did fill
The vast and empty hollow of the night! —
It had perched itself upon a tall old tree,
That hung its tuft
ed and thick clustering leaves
Midway across the brook; and sung most sweetly, 5
In all the merry and heart-broken sadness
Of those that love hath crazed. Clearly it ran
Through all the delicate compass of its voice: —
And then again, as from a distant hollow,
I heard its sweet tones like an echo sounding, 10
And coming, like the memory of a friend
From a far distant country — or the silent land
Of the mourned and the dead, to which we all are passing;
It seemed the song of some poor broken heart,
Haunted forever with love’s cruel fancies! — 15
Of one that has loved much yet never known
The luxury of being loved again!
But when the morning broke, and the green woods
Were all alive with birds — with what a clear
And ravishing sweetness sung the plaintive thrush; 20
I love to hear its delicate rich voice,
Chanting through all the gloomy day, when loud
Amid the trees is dropping the big rain,
And gray mists wrap the hills; — for aye the sweeter
Its song is, when the day is sad and dark. And thus, 25
When the bright fountains of a woman’s love
Are gently running over, if a cloud
But darken, with its melancholy shadow,
The bright flowers round our way, her heart
Doth learn new sweetness, and her rich voice falls 30
With more delicious music on our ears.
EARLIER POEMS
An April Day
“These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion: ‘I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb.’” This note was prefixed by Mr. Longfellow to the following group of poems when published in Voices of the Night. “The first five” of the following, Mr. Longfellow says elsewhere in a manuscript note, “were written during my last year in college, in No. 27 Maine Hall, whose windows looked out upon the pine groves to which allusion is made in L’Envoi.” In the appendix may be found a fuller collection of poems of this class.
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 4
