swer, Stammered in his speech a little, In a circle round the doorway, It is well,' they said, 'O brother, That you come so far to see us!' 100 110 120 130 Then the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, Told his message to the people, Told the purport of his mission, Told them of the Virgin Mary, And her blessed Son, the Saviour, How in distant lands and ages He had lived on earth as we do; How he fasted, prayed, and labored; How the Jews, the tribe accursed, And ascended into heaven. And the chiefs made answer, saying: 140 Whom the Master of Life had sent them From the shining land of Wabun. Heavy with the heat and silence From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless Weary with the heat of Summer, Slowly o'er the simmering landscape Breaking through its shields of shadow, From his place rose Hiawatha, 17C Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, 'I am going, O Nokomis, 180 Forth into the village went he, But my guests I leave behind me; On the shore stood Hiawatha, 190 200 Whispered to it, Westward! westward!' And with speed it darted forward. And the evening sun descending One long track and trail of splendor, 210 Sailed into the purple vapors, And the people from the margin Like the new moon slowly, slowly 220 230 And they said, Farewell forever!' Said, 'Farewell, O Hiawatha !' And the forests, dark and lonely, Moved through all their depths of darkness, Sighed, 'Farewell, O Hiawatha !' And the waves upon the margin Rising, rippling on the pebbles, Sobbed, Farewell, O Hiawatha !' And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, From her haunts among the fen-lands, Screamed, Farewell, Ŏ Hiawatha !' Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, 24C Nov. 1855. MY LOST YOUTH OFTEN I think of the beautiful town1 Often in thought go up and down 1 From Longfellow's Journal: March 29, 1855 - At night as I lie in bed, a poem comes into my mind, a memory of Portland, my native town, the city by the sea. Siede la terra dove nato fui Sulla marina. March 30- Wrote the poem; and am rather pleased with it, and with the bringing in of the two lines of the old Lapland song, A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. (Life, vol. ii., p. 284.) There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song 7c Come over me like a chill: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each wellknown street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,2 And with joy that is almost pain 80 My heart goes back to wander there, And the strange and beautiful song, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' 1855 9c (1858.) 212 It hailed the ships, and cried, 'Sail on, And hurried landward far away, It said unto the forest, Shout! It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, It shouted through the belfry-tower, And slow, as in a dream of bliss, As if a door in heaven should be On England's annals, through the long 10 20 1 For the legend, see Mrs. Jameson's Legendary Art (ii, 298). The modern application you will not miss. In Italian, one may say Filomela or Filomena. (LONGFELLOW.) The modern application' is to Florence Nightin gale. Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock. 10 Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron; Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, 'Not Angles, but Angels.' Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower. 20 Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. 'Look at these arms," he said, the warlike weapons that hang here Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection! This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate, Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish; Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish 30 Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.' Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing: Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon !' Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling: 'See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging; That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage; So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, 40 |