Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13)

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,

  And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,

  With the people they met at some wayside well. 20

  “Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar,

  “Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;

  For we in the East have seen his star,

  And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,

  To find and worship the King of the Jews.” 25

  And the people answered, “You ask in vain;

  We know of no king but Herod the Great!”

  They thought the Wise Men were men insane,

  As they spurred their horses across the plain,

  Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait. 30

  And when they came to Jerusalem,

  Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,

  Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;

  And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem,

  And bring me tidings of this new king.” 35

  So they rode away; and the star stood still,

  The only one in the gray of morn;

  Yes, it stopped, — it stood still of its own free will,

  Right over Bethlehem on the hill,

  The city of David, where Christ was born. 40

  And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,

  Through the silent street, till their horses turned

  And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;

  But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,

  And only a light in the stable burned. 45

  And cradled there in the scented hay,

  In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,

  The little child in the manger lay,

  The child, that would be king one day

  Of a kingdom not human but divine. 50

  His mother Mary of Nazareth

  Sat watching beside his place of rest,

  Watching the even flow of his breath,

  For the joy of life and the terror of death

  Were mingled together in her breast. 55

  They laid their offerings at his feet:

  The gold was their tribute to a King,

  The frankincense, with its odor sweet,

  Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,

  The myrrh for the body’s burying. 60

  And the mother wondered and bowed her head,

  And sat as still as a statue of stone;

  Her heart was troubled yet comforted,

  Remembering what the Angel had said

  Of an endless reign and of David’s throne. 65

  Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,

  With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;

  But they went not back to Herod the Great,

  For they knew his malice and feared his hate,

  And returned to their homes by another way. 70

  Song: “Stay, stay at home my heart, and rest”

  STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest;

  Home-keeping hearts are happiest,

  For those that wander they know not where

  Are full of trouble and full of care;

  To stay at home is best. 5

  Weary and homesick and distressed,

  They wander east, they wander west,

  And are baffled and beaten and blown about

  By the winds of the wilderness of doubt;

  To stay at home is best. 10

  Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;

  The bird is safest in its nest;

  O’er all that flutter their wings and fly

  A hawk is hovering in the sky;

  To stay at home is best. 15

  The White Czar

  The White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka, Father dear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of giving to the Czar in their popular songs. H. W. L.

  DOST thou see on the rampart’s height

  That wreath of mist, in the light

  Of the midnight moon? Oh, hist!

  It is not a wreath of mist;

  It is the Czar, the White Czar, 5

  Batyushka! Gosudar!

  He has heard, among the dead,

  The artillery roll o’erhead;

  The drums and the tramp of feet

  Of his soldiery in the street; 10

  He is awake! the White Czar,

  Batyushka! Gosudar!

  He has heard in the grave the cries

  Of his people: “Awake! arise!”

  He has rent the gold brocade 15

  Whereof his shroud was made;

  He is risen! the White Czar,

  Batyushka! Gosudar!

  From the Volga and the Don

  He has led his armies on, 20

  Over river and morass,

  Over desert and mountain pass;

  The Czar, the Orthodox Czar,

  Batyushka! Gosudar!

  He looks from the mountain-chain 25

  Toward the seas, that cleave in twain

  The continents; his hand

  Points southward o’er the land

  Of Roumili! O Czar,

  Batyushka! Gosudar! 30

  And the words break from his lips:

  “I am the builder of ships,

  And my ships shall sail these seas

  To the Pillars of Hercules!

  I say it; the White Czar, 35

  Batyushka! Gosudar!

  “The Bosphorus shall be free;

  It shall make room for me;

  And the gates of its water-streets

  Be unbarred before my fleets. 40

  I say it; the White Czar,

  Batyushka! Gosudar!

  “And the Christian shall no more

  Be crushed, as heretofore,

  Beneath thine iron rule, 45

  O Sultan of Istamboul!

  I swear it! I the Czar,

  Batyushka! Gosudar!”

  Delia

  SWEET as the tender fragrance that survives,

  When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,

  Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,

  But never will be sung to us again,

  Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest 5

  Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling; it is best.

  A Book of Sonnets: Part II.

  Nature

  AS a fond mother, when the day is o’er,

  Leads by the hand her little child to bed,

  Half willing, half reluctant to be led,

  And leave his broken playthings on the floor,

  Still gazing at them through the open door, 5

  Nor wholly reassured and comforted

  By promises of others in their stead,

  Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;

  So Nature deals with us, and takes away

  Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 10

  Leads us to rest so gently, that we go

  Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,

  Being too full of sleep to understand

  How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

  In the Churchyard at Tarrytown

  HERE lies the gentle humorist, who died

  In the bright Indian Summer of his fame!

  A simple stone, with but a date and name,

  Marks his secluded resting-place beside

  The river that he loved and glorified. 5

  Here in the autumn of his days he came,

  But the dry leaves of life were all aflame

  With tints that brightened and were multiplied.

  How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death!

  Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, 10

  Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;

  Dying, to leave a memory like the breath

  Of summers full of sunshine and of showers,

  A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.

  Eliot’s Oak

 
THOU ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud

  With sounds of unintelligible speech,

  Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach,

  Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd;

  With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, 5

  Thou speakest a different dialect to each;

  To me a language that no man can teach,

  Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud.

  For underneath thy shade, in days remote,

  Seated like Abraham at eventide 10

  Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown

  Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote

  His Bible in a language that hath died

  And is forgotten, save by thee alone.

  The Descent of the Muses

  Mr. Longfellow was one day visiting Wellesley College, and was asked to write one of his poems. He begged for a few moments’ delay, wrote this sonnet from memory, — it had not been printed, — and read it to the ladies.

  NINE sisters, beautiful in form and face,

  Came from their convent on the shining heights

  Of Pierus, the mountain of delights,

  To dwell among the people at its base.

  Then seemed the world to change. All time and space, 5

  Splendor of cloudless days and starry nights,

  And men and manners, and all sounds and sights,

  Had a new meaning, a diviner grace.

  Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud

  To teach in schools of little country towns 10

  Science and song, and all the arts that please;

  So that while housewives span, and farmers ploughed,

  Their comely daughters, clad in homespun gowns,

  Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides.

  Venice

  WHITE swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest

  So wonderfully built among the reeds

  Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds,

  As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest!

  White water-lily, cradled and caressed 5

  By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds

  Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds,

  Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest!

  White phantom city, whose untrodden streets

  Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting 10

  Shadows of palaces and strips of sky;

  I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets

  Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting

  In air their unsubstantial masonry.

  The Poets

  O YE dead Poets, who are living still

  Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,

  And ye, O living Poets, who are dead

  Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,

  Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, 5

  With drops of anguish falling fast and red

  From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head,

  Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil?

  Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song

  Have something in them so divinely sweet, 10

  It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;

  Not in the clamor of the crowded street,

  Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,

  But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

  Parker Cleaveland

  Written on Revisiting Brunswick in the Summer of 1875

  AMONG the many lives that I have known,

  None I remember more serene and sweet,

  More rounded in itself and more complete,

  Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone.

  These pines, that murmur in low monotone, 5

  These walks frequented by scholastic feet,

  Were all his world; but in this calm retreat

  For him the Teacher’s chair became a throne.

  With fond affection memory loves to dwell

  On the old days, when his example made 10

  A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen;

  And now, amid the groves he loved so well

  That naught could lure him from their grateful shade,

  He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen!

  The Harvest Moon

  IT is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes

  And roofs of villages, on woodland crests

  And their aerial neighborhoods of nests

  Deserted, on the curtained window-panes

  Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes 5

  And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!

  Gone are the birds that were our summer guests;

  With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!

  All things are symbols: the external shows

  Of Nature have their image in the mind, 10

  As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;

  The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,

  Only the empty nests are left behind,

  And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

  To the River Rhone

  THOU Royal River, born of sun and shower

  In chambers purple with the Alpine glow,

  Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow

  And rocked by tempests! — at the appointed hour

  Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a tower, 5

  With clang and clink of harness dost thou go

  To meet thy vassal torrents, that below

  Rush to receive thee and obey thy power.

  And now thou movest in triumphal march,

  A king among the rivers! On thy way 10

  A hundred towns await and welcome thee;

  Bridges uplift for thee the stately arch,

  Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay,

  And fleets attend thy progress to the sea!

  The Three Silences of Molinos

  To John Greenleaf Whittier

  Written to be read at the dinner given by the publishers of The Atlantic Monthly to Mr. Whittier in honor of his seventieth birthday, December 18, 1877.

  THREE Silences there are: the first of speech,

  The second of desire, the third of thought;

  This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught

  With dreams and visions, was the first to teach.

  These Silences, commingling each with each, 5

  Made up the perfect Silence that he sought

  And prayed for, and wherein at times he caught

  Mysterious sounds from realms beyond our reach.

  O thou, whose daily life anticipates

  The life to come, and in whose thought and word 10

  The spiritual world preponderates,

  Hermit of Amesbury! thou too hast heard

  Voices and melodies from beyond the gates,

  And speakest only when thy soul is stirred!

  The Two Rivers

  I

  SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round;

  So slowly that no human eye hath power

  To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower

  The painted ship above it, homeward bound,

  Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground; 5

  Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower

  The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour,

  A mellow, measured, melancholy sound.

  Midnight! the outpost of advancing day!

  The frontier town and citadel of night! 10

  The watershed of Time, from which the streams

  Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way,

  One to the land of promise and of light,

  One to the land of darkness and of dreams!

  II

  O River of Yesterday, with current swift 15

  Through chasms descending, and soon lost to sight,

  I do not care to follow in their flight

  The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift!

  O River of To-morrow, I
uplift

  Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night 20

  Wanes into morning, and the dawning light

  Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift!

  I follow, follow, where thy waters run

  Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields,

  Fragrant with flowers and musical with song; 25

  Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun,

  And confident, that what the future yields

  Will be the right, unless myself be wrong.

  III

  Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday,

  Through chasms of darkness to the deep descending, 30

  I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending

  Thy voice with other voices far away.

  I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay,

  But turbulent, and with thyself contending,

  And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending, 35

  Thou wouldst not listen to a poet’s lay.

  Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings,

  Regrets and recollections of things past,

  With hints and prophecies of things to be,

  And inspirations, which, could they be things, 40

  And stay with us, and we could hold them fast,

  Were our good angels, — these I owe to thee.

  IV

  And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing

  Between thy narrow adamantine walls,

  But beautiful, and white with waterfalls, 45

  And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing;

  I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing,

  I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls,

  And see, as Ossian saw in Morven’s halls,

  Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going! 50

  It is the mystery of the unknown

  That fascinates us; we are children still,

  Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling