Poems List

The Burial Of The Poet

The Burial Of The Poet

In the old churchyard of his native town,
And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall,
We laid him in the sleep that comes to all,
And left him to his rest and his renown.
The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped down
White flowers of Paradise to strew his pall;--
The dead around him seemed to wake, and call
His name, as worthy of so white a crown.
And now the moon is shining on the scene,
And the broad sheet of snow is written o'er
With shadows cruciform of leafless trees,
As once the winding-sheet of Saladin
With chapters of the Koran; but, ah! more
Mysterious and triumphant signs are these.
297

The Brook. (From The Spanish)

The Brook. (From The Spanish)

Laugh of the mountain! -- lyre of bird and tree!
Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!
The soul of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although, where'er thy devious current strays,
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze.
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count!
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current!
O sweet simplicity of days gone by!
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!
396

The Boy And The Brook. (Armenian Popular Song, From The Prose Version Of

The Boy And The Brook. (Armenian Popular Song, From The Prose Version Of
Alishan)

Down from yon distant mountain height
The brooklet flows through the village street;
A boy comes forth to wash his hands,
Washing, yes washing, there he stands,
In the water cool and sweet.


Brook, from what mountain dost thou come,
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I come from yon mountain high and cold,
Where lieth the new snow on the old,
And melts in the summer heat.


Brook, to what river dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the river there below
Where in bunches the violets grow,
And sun and shadow meet.


Brook, to what garden dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the garden in the vale
Where all night long the nightingale
Her love-song doth repeat.


Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the fountain at whose brink
The maid that loves thee comes to drink,
And whenever she looks therein,
I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin,
And my joy is then complete.
412

The Broken Oar

The Broken Oar

Once upon Iceland's solitary strand
A poet wandered with his book and pen,
Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen,
Wherewith to close the volume in his hand.
The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand,
The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken,
And from the parting cloud-rack now and then
Flashed the red sunset over sea and land.
Then by the billows at his feet was tossed
A broken oar; and carved thereon he read,
'Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee';
And like a man, who findeth what was lost,
He wrote the words, then lifted up his head,
And flung his useless pen into the sea.
479

The Black Knight. (From The German Of Uhland)

The Black Knight. (From The German Of Uhland)

'Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness,
When woods and fields put off all sadness,
Thus began the King and spake:
So from the halls
Of ancient Hofburgh's walls,
A luxuriant Spring shall break.


Drums and trumpets echo loudly,
Wave the crimson banners proudly,
From balcony the King looked on;
In the play of spears,
Fell all the cavaliers,
Before the monarch's stalwart son.


To the barrier of the fight
Rode at last a sable Knight.
Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon say!
Should I speak it here,
Ye would stand aghast with fear;
I am a Prince of mighty sway!


When he rode into the lists,
The arch of heaven grew black with mists,
And the castle 'gan to rock.
At the first blow,
Fell the youth from saddle-bow,
Hardly rises from the shock.


Pipe and viol call the dances,
Torch-light through the high hall glances;
Waves a mighty shadow in;
With manner bland
Doth ask the maiden's hand,
Doth with her the dance begin;


Danced in sable iron sark,
Danced a measure weird and dark,
Coldly clasped her limbs around.
From breast and hair
Down fall from her the fair
Flowerets, faded, to the ground.


To the sumptuous banquet came
Every Knight and every Dame.
'Twixt son and daughter all distraught,
With mournful mind
The ancient King reclined,
Gazed at them in silent thought.


Pale the children both did look,
But the guest a beaker took;
Golden wine will make you whole!



The children drank,
Gave many a courteous thank;
Oh, that draught was very cool!


Each the father's breast embraces,
Son and daughter; and their faces
Colourless grow utterly.
Whichever way
Looks the fear-struck father grey,
He beholds his children die.


Woe! the blessed children both
Takest thou in the joy of youth;
Take me, too, the joyless father!
Spake the grim Guest,
From his hollow, cavernous breast,
Roses in the spring I gather!
287

The Bells Of San Blas

The Bells Of San Blas

What say the Bells of San Blas
To the ships that southward pass
From the harbor of Mazatlan?
To them it is nothing more
Than the sound of surf on the shore,--
Nothing more to master or man.


But to me, a dreamer of dreams,
To whom what is and what seems
Are often one and the same,--
The Bells of San Blas to me
Have a strange, wild melody,
And are something more than a name.


For bells are the voice of the church;
They have tones that touch and search
The hearts of young and old;
One sound to all, yet each
Lends a meaning to their speech,
And the meaning is manifold.


They are a voice of the Past,
Of an age that is fading fast,
Of a power austere and grand,
When the flag of Spain unfurled
Its folds o'er this western world,
And the Priest was lord of the land.


The chapel that once looked down
On the little seaport town
Has crumbled into the dust;
And on oaken beams below
The bells swing to and fro,
And are green with mould and rust.


'Is, then, the old faith dead,'
They say, 'and in its stead
Is some new faith proclaimed,
That we are forced to remain
Naked to sun and rain,
Unsheltered and ashamed?


'Once, in our tower aloof,
We rang over wall and roof
Our warnings and our complaints;
And round about us there
The white doves filled the air,
Like the white souls of the saints.


'The saints! Ah, have they grown
Forgetful of their own?
Are they asleep, or dead,



That open to the sky
Their ruined Missions lie,
No longer tenanted?


'Oh, bring us back once more
The vanished days of yore,
When the world with faith was filled;
Bring back the fervid zeal,
The hearts of fire and steel,
The hands that believe and build.


'Then from our tower again
We will send over land and main
Our voices of command,
Like exiled kings who return
To their thrones, and the people learn
That the Priest is lord of the land!'


O Bells of San Blas in vain
Ye call back the Past again;
The Past is deaf to your prayer!
Out of the shadows of night
The world rolls into light;
It is daybreak everywhere.
313

The Arrow and the Song

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.


I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?


Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
310

The Artist. (Sonnet I.)

The Artist. (Sonnet I.)

Nothing the greatest artist can conceive
That every marble block doth not confine
Within itself; and only its design
The hand that follows intellect can achieve.
The ill I flee, the good that I believe,
In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine,
Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine
Art, of desired success, doth me bereave.
Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face,
Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain,
Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny,
If in thy heart both death and love find place
At the same time, and if my humble brain,
Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.
270

The Angel And The Child. (From Jean Reboul, The Baker Of Nismes)

The Angel And The Child. (From Jean Reboul, The Baker Of Nismes)

An angel with a radiant face,
Above a cradle bent to look,
Seemed his own image there to trace,
As in the waters of a brook.


'Dear child! who me resemblest so,'
It whispered, 'come, O come with me!
Happy together let us go,
The earth unworthy is of thee!


'Here none to perfect bliss attain;
The soul in pleasure suffering lies;
Joy hath an undertone of pain,
And even the happiest hours their sighs.


'Fear doth at every portal knock;
Never a day serene and pure
From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock
Hath made the morrow's dawn secure.


'What then, shall sorrows and shall fears
Come to disturb so pure a brow?
And with the bitterness of tears
These eyes of azure troubled grow?


'Ah no! into the fields of space,
Away shalt thou escape with me;
And Providence will grant thee grace
Of all the days that were to be.


'Let no one in thy dwelling cower,
In sombre vestments draped and veiled;
But let them welcome thy last hour,
As thy first moments once they hailed.


'Without a cloud be there each brow;
There let the grave no shadow cast;
When one is pure as thou art now,
The fairest day is still the last.'


And waving wide his wings of white,
The angel, at these words, had sped
Towards the eternal realms of light!--
Poor mother! see, thy son is dead!
359

Thangbrand the Priest

Thangbrand the Priest

Short of stature, large of limb,
Burly face and russet beard,
All the women stared at him,
When in Iceland he appeared.
"Look!" they said,
With nodding head,
"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."


All the prayers he knew by rote,
He could preach like Chrysostome,
From the Fathers he could quote,
He had even been at Rome.
A learned clerk,
A man of mark,
Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.


He was quarrelsome and loud,
And impatient of control,
Boisterous in the market crowd,
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl,
Everywhere
Would drink and swear,
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.


In his house this malcontent
Could the King no longer bear,
So to Iceland he was sent
To convert the heathen there,
And away
One summer day
Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.


There in Iceland, o'er their books
Pored the people day and night,
But he did not like their looks,
Nor the songs they used to write.
All this rhyme
Is waste of time! "
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.


To the alehouse, where he sat,
Came the Scalds and Saga men;
Is it to be wondered at,
That they quarrelled now and then,
When o'er his beer
Began to leer
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?


All the folk in Altafiord
Boasted of their island grand;
Saying in a single word,
"Iceland is the finest land



That the sun
Doth shine upon!"
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.


And he answered: "What's the use
Of this bragging up and down,
When three women and one goose
Make a market in your town! "
Every Scald
Satires scrawled
On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.


Something worse they did than that!
And what vexed him most of all
Was a figure in shovel hat,
Drawn in charcoal on the wall;
With words that go
Sprawling below,
"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."


Hardly knowing what he did,
Then he smote them might and main,
Thorvald Veile and Veterlid
Lay there in the alehouse slain.
"To-day we are gold,
To-morrow mould!"
Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest


Much in fear of axe and rope,
Back to Norway sailed he then.
"O, King Olaf! little hope
Is there of these Iceland men!"
Meekly said,
With bending head,
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
386

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Identification and basic context

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was an American poet and educator. He was born in Portland, Maine, and his family had deep roots in New England. He wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Longfellow's early life was shaped by a comfortable family background and a strong emphasis on education. He entered Bowdoin College at the age of 14, where he developed a passion for literature and languages. He was a gifted student, excelling in his studies and beginning to publish his early verses during this time. His education provided him with a broad knowledge of classical literature and European traditions.

Literary trajectory

Longfellow's literary career began with the publication of early poems in magazines. After extensive travel and study in Europe, he returned to the United States and embarked on a prolific writing career. His fame grew steadily with collections like 'Voices of the Night' and 'The Song of Hiawatha.' He also became a respected professor, teaching at Bowdoin and later at Harvard University, where he influenced generations of students. His later works continued to explore historical and legendary themes.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Longfellow's major works include 'Voices of the Night' (1839), 'Ballads and Other Poems' (1841), 'The Spanish Student' (1843), 'Evangeline' (1847), 'The Song of Hiawatha' (1855), and 'The Courtship of Miles Standish' (1858). His poetry is characterized by its narrative quality, lyrical beauty, and often moralistic or sentimental tone. He frequently employed traditional forms, such as the ballad and the sonnet, but also experimented with longer narrative poems. Themes explored include love, loss, domestic life, heroism, American history and legend, and the passage of time. His language is generally clear, accessible, and rich in imagery, aiming for emotional resonance with a broad audience.

Cultural and historical context

Longfellow lived and wrote during a period of significant national growth and change in the United States, a time often referred to as the American Renaissance. He was part of the so-called 'Fireside Poets,' a group of American writers whose work was popular and widely read in American homes. His poetry often reflected and shaped American identity, drawing on national myths and historical events. He was aware of European literary trends but sought to create a distinctly American literary voice.

Personal life

Longfellow experienced significant personal tragedies, including the deaths of both his wives. These losses deeply affected him and are often reflected in the elegiac and melancholic strains found in some of his poetry. He maintained friendships with many prominent literary figures of his day and was a respected academic.

Recognition and reception

Longfellow was immensely popular during his lifetime, both in the United States and internationally, particularly in Britain. His poems were widely recited, set to music, and studied in schools. While lauded for his accessibility and emotional appeal by the general public, some later critics found his work overly sentimental or conventional. However, his place as a foundational figure in American poetry remains secure.

Influences and legacy

Longfellow was influenced by European Romantic poets, particularly German and English writers. He, in turn, influenced many subsequent American poets and helped to establish a tradition of narrative and lyrical poetry in the United States. His works were instrumental in shaping a sense of national identity and cultural heritage.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critical interpretations of Longfellow's work often focus on his role in popularizing poetry, his engagement with American history and myth, and the balance between his accessible style and the deeper emotional currents in his verse. Debates sometimes arise regarding the perceived sentimentality versus genuine pathos in his work.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Longfellow was a gifted linguist and professor, fluent in several languages. He was also known for his considerable literary fame, which sometimes presented challenges, as he struggled to find quiet moments for composition amidst public demands. His home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a former headquarters of George Washington, became a literary landmark.

Death and memory

Longfellow died in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His death was widely mourned, and he was remembered as one of America's greatest poets. His works continue to be read and studied, maintaining his status as a significant figure in American literary history.