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

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

From warm Carolinian valleys,

  Nor the Isabel 10

  And the Muscadel

  That bask in our garden alleys.

  Nor the red Mustang,

  Whose clusters hang

  O’er the waves of the Colorado, 15

  And the fiery flood

  Of whose purple blood

  Has a dash of Spanish bravado.

  For richest and best

  Is the wine of the West, 20

  That grows by the Beautiful River;

  Whose sweet perfume

  Fills all the room

  With a benison on the giver.

  And as hollow trees 25

  Are the haunts of bees,

  Forever going and coming;

  So this crystal hive

  Is all alive

  With a swarming and buzzing and humming. 30

  Very good in its way

  Is the Verzenay,

  Or the Sillery soft and creamy;

  But Catawba wine

  Has a taste more divine, 35

  More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy.

  There grows no vine

  By the haunted Rhine,

  By Danube or Guadalquivir,

  Nor on island or cape, 40

  That bears such a grape

  As grows by the Beautiful River.

  Drugged is their juice

  For foreign use,

  When shipped o’er the reeling Atlantic, 45

  To rack our brains

  With the fever pains,

  That have driven the Old World frantic.

  To the sewers and sinks

  With all such drinks, 50

  And after them tumble the mixer;

  For a poison malign

  Is such a Borgia wine,

  Or at best but a Devil’s Elixir.

  While pure as a spring 55

  Is the wine I sing,

  And to praise it, one needs but name it;

  For Catawba wine

  Has need of no sign,

  No tavern-bush to proclaim it. 60

  And this Song of the Vine,

  This greeting of mine,

  The winds and the birds shall deliver

  To the Queen of the West,

  In her garlands dressed, 65

  On the banks of the Beautiful River.

  Santa Filomena

  Published in the first number of the Atlantic Monthly, November, 1857. “For the legend,” Mr. Longfellow writes to Mr. Sumner, “see Mrs. Jameson’s Legendary Art. The modern application you will not miss. In Italian, one may say Filomela or Filomena.” The reference is to Miss Florence Nightingale, who rendered great service in the hospitals during the Crimean War.

  WHENE’ER a noble deed is wrought,

  Whene’er is spoken a noble thought,

  Our hearts, in glad surprise,

  To higher levels rise.

  The tidal wave of deeper souls 5

  Into our inmost being rolls,

  And lifts us unawares

  Out of all meaner cares.

  Honor to those whose words or deeds

  Thus help us in our daily needs, 10

  And by their overflow

  Raise us from what is low!

  Thus thought I, as by night I read

  Of the great army of the dead,

  The trenches cold and damp, 15

  The starved and frozen camp, —

  The wounded from the battle-plain,

  In dreary hospitals of pain,

  The cheerless corridors,

  The cold and stony floors. 20

  Lo! in that house of misery

  A lady with a lamp I see

  Pass through the glimmering gloom,

  And flit from room to room.

  And slow, as in a dream of bliss, 25

  The speechless sufferer turns to kiss

  Her shadow, as it falls

  Upon the darkening walls.

  As if a door in heaven should be

  Opened and then closed suddenly, 30

  The vision came and went,

  The light shone and was spent.

  On England’s annals, through the long

  Hereafter of her speech and song,

  That light its rays shall cast 35

  From portals of the past.

  A Lady with a Lamp shall stand

  In the great history of the land,

  A noble type of good,

  Heroic womanhood. 40

  Nor even shall be wanting here

  The palm, the lily, and the spear,

  The symbols that of yore

  Saint Filomena bore.

  The Discoverer of the North Cape

  A Leaf from King Alfred’s Orosius

  OTHERE, the old sea-captain,

  Who dwelt in Helgoland,

  To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth,

  Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth,

  Which he held in his brown right hand. 5

  His figure was tall and stately,

  Like a boy’s his eye appeared;

  His hair was yellow as hay,

  But threads of a silvery gray

  Gleamed in his tawny beard. 10

  Hearty and hale was Othere,

  His cheek had the color of oak;

  With a kind of a laugh in his speech,

  Like the sea-tide on a beach,

  As unto the King he spoke. 15

  And Alfred, King of the Saxons,

  Had a book upon his knees,

  And wrote down the wondrous tale

  Of him who was first to sail

  Into the Arctic seas. 20

  “So far I live to the northward,

  No man lives north of me;

  To the east are wild mountain-chains,

  And beyond them meres and plains;

  To the westward all is sea. 25

  “So far I live to the northward,

  From the harbor of Skeringes-hale,

  If you only sailed by day,

  With a fair wind all the way,

  More than a month would you sail. 30

  “I own six hundred reindeer,

  With sheep and swine beside;

  I have tribute from the Finns,

  Whalebone and reindeer-skins,

  And ropes of walrus-hide. 35

  “I ploughed the land with horses,

  But my heart was ill at ease,

  For the old seafaring men

  Came to me now and then,

  With their sagas of the seas; — 40

  “Of Iceland and of Greenland,

  And the stormy Hebrides,

  And the undiscovered deep; —

  Oh I could not eat nor sleep

  For thinking of those seas. 45

  “To the northward stretched the desert,

  How far I fain would know;

  So at last I sallied forth,

  And three days sailed due north,

  As far as the whale-ships go. 50

  “To the west of me was the ocean,

  To the right the desolate shore,

  But I did not slacken sail

  For the walrus or the whale,

  Till after three days more. 55

  “The days grew longer and longer,

  Till they became as one,

  And northward through the haze

  I saw the sullen blaze

  Of the red midnight sun. 60

  “And then uprose before me,

  Upon the water’s edge,

  The huge and haggard shape

  Of that unknown North Cape,

  Whose form is like a wedge. 65

  “The sea was rough and stormy,

  The tempest howled and wailed,

  And the sea-fog, like a ghost,

  Haunted that dreary coast,

  But onward still I sailed. 70

  “Four days I steered to eastward,

  Four days without a night:

  Round in a fiery ring

  Went the great sun, O King,

  With
red and lurid light.” 75

  Here Alfred, King of the Saxons,

  Ceased writing for a while;

  And raised his eyes from his book,

  With a strange and puzzled look,

  And an incredulous smile. 80

  But Othere, the old sea-captain,

  He neither paused nor stirred,

  Till the King listened, and then

  Once more took up his pen,

  And wrote down every word. 85

  “And now the land,” said Othere,

  “Bent southward suddenly,

  And I followed the curving shore

  And ever southward bore

  Into a nameless sea. 90

  “And there we hunted the walrus,

  The narwhale, and the seal;

  Ha! ‘t was a noble game!

  And like the lightning’s flame

  Flew our harpoons of steel. 95

  “There were six of us all together,

  Norsemen of Helgoland;

  In two days and no more

  We killed of them threescore,

  And dragged them to the strand!” 100

  Here Alfred the Truth-teller

  Suddenly closed his book,

  And lifted his blue eyes,

  With doubt and strange surmise

  Depicted in their look. 105

  And Othere the old sea-captain

  Stared at him wild and weird,

  Then smiled, till his shining teeth

  Gleamed white from underneath

  His tawny, quivering beard. 110

  And to the King of the Saxons,

  In witness of the truth,

  Raising his noble head,

  He stretched his brown hand, and said,

  “Behold this walrus-tooth!” 115

  Daybreak

  A WIND came up out of the sea,

  And said, “O mists, make room for me.”

  It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,

  Ye mariners, the night is gone.”

  And hurried landward far away, 5

  Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”

  It said unto the forest, “Shout!

  Hang all your leafy banners out!”

  It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing,

  And said, “O bird, awake and sing.” 10

  And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,

  Your clarion blow; the day is near.”

  It whispered to the fields of corn,

  “Bow down, and hail the coming morn.”

  It shouted through the belfry-tower, 15

  “Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”

  It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,

  And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”

  The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz

  May 28, 1857

  Read by Mr. Longfellow at a dinner, at which he presided, given to Agassiz on the occasion.

  IT was fifty years ago

  In the pleasant month of May,

  In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,

  A child in its cradle lay.

  And Nature, the old nurse, took 5

  The child upon her knee,

  Saying: “Here is a story-book

  Thy Father has written for thee.”

  “Come, wander with me,” she said,

  “Into regions yet untrod; 10

  And read what is still unread

  In the manuscripts of God.”

  And he wandered away and away

  With Nature, the dear old nurse,

  Who sang to him night and day 15

  The rhymes of the universe.

  And whenever the way seemed long,

  Or his heart began to fail,

  She would sing a more wonderful song,

  Or tell a more marvellous tale. 20

  So she keeps him still a child,

  And will not let him go,

  Though at times his heart beats wild

  For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

  Though at times he hears in his dreams 25

  The Ranz des Vaches of old,

  And the rush of mountain streams

  From glaciers clear and cold;

  And the mother at home says, “Hark!

  For his voice I listen and yearn; 30

  It is growing late and dark,

  And my boy does not return!”

  Children

  COME to me, O ye children!

  For I hear you at your play,

  And the questions that perplexed me

  Have vanished quite away.

  Ye open the eastern windows, 5

  That look towards the sun,

  Where thoughts are singing swallows

  And the brooks of morning run.

  In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,

  In your thoughts the brooklet’s flow, 10

  But in mine is the wind of Autumn

  And the first fall of the snow.

  Ah! what would the world be to us

  If the children were no more?

  We should dread the desert behind us 15

  Worse than the dark before.

  What the leaves are to the forest,

  With light and air for food,

  Ere their sweet and tender juices

  Have been hardened into wood, — 20

  That to the world are children;

  Through them it feels the glow

  Of a brighter and sunnier climate

  Than reaches the trunks below.

  Come to me, O ye children! 25

  And whisper in my ear

  What the birds and the winds are singing

  In your sunny atmosphere.

  For what are all our contrivings,

  And the wisdom of our books, 30

  When compared with your caresses,

  And the gladness of your looks?

  Ye are better than all the ballads

  That ever were sung or said;

  For ye are living poems, 35

  And all the rest are dead.

  Sandalphon

  HAVE you read in the Talmud of old,

  In the Legends the Rabbins have told

  Of the limitless realms of the air,

  Have you read it, — the marvellous story

  Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 5

  Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

  How, erect, at the outermost gates

  Of the City Celestial he waits,

  With his feet on the ladder of light,

  That, crowded with angels unnumbered, 10

  By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered

  Alone in the desert at night?

  The Angels of Wind and of Fire

  Chant only one hymn, and expire

  With the song’s irresistible stress; 15

  Expire in their rapture and wonder,

  As harp-strings are broken asunder

  By music they throb to express.

  But serene in the rapturous throng,

  Unmoved by the rush of the song, 20

  With eyes unimpassioned and slow,

  Among the dead angels, the deathless

  Sandalphon stands listening breathless

  To sounds that ascend from below; —

  From the spirits on earth that adore, 25

  From the souls that entreat and implore

  In the fervor and passion of prayer;

  From the hearts that are broken with losses,

  And weary with dragging the crosses

  Too heavy for mortals to bear. 30

  And he gathers the prayers as he stands,

  And they change into flowers in his hands,

  Into garlands of purple and red;

  And beneath the great arch of the portal,

  Through the streets of the City Immortal 35

  Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

  It is but a legend, I know, —

  A fable, a phantom, a show,

  Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;

  Yet the old medi
æval tradition, 40

  The beautiful, strange superstition,

  But haunts me and holds me the more.

  When I look from my window at night,

  And the welkin above is all white,

  All throbbing and panting with stars, 45

  Among them majestic is standing

  Sandalphon the angel, expanding

  His pinions in nebulous bars.

  And the legend, I feel, is a part

  Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 50

  The frenzy and fire of the brain,

  That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,

  The golden pomegranates of Eden,

  To quiet its fever and pain.

  FLIGHT THE SECOND

  The Children’s Hour

  Included in the volume which contained the first series of Tales of a Wayside Inn, 1863.

  BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,

  When the night is beginning to lower,

  Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,

  That is known as the Children’s Hour.

  I hear in the chamber above me 5

  The patter of little feet,

  The sound of a door that is opened,

  And voices soft and sweet.

  From my study I see in the lamplight,

  Descending the broad hall stair, 10

  Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,

  And Edith with golden hair.

  A whisper, and then a silence:

  Yet I know by their merry eyes

  They are plotting and planning together 15

  To take me by surprise.

  A sudden rush from the stairway,

  A sudden raid from the hall!