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Eolian harps in the pine

Ring with the song of the Fates;
Infant Bacchus in the vine, -
Far distant yet his chorus waits.

Canst thou copy in verse one chime
Of the wood-bell's peal and cry,
Write in a book the morning's prime,
Or match with words that tender sky?

Wonderful verse of the gods,
Of one import, of varied tone;
They chant the bliss of their abodes
To man imprisoned in his own.

Ever the words of the gods resound;
But the porches of man's ear
Seldom in this low life's round
Are unsealed, that he may hear.

Wandering voices in the air
And murmurs in the wold
Speak what I cannot declare,
Yet cannot all withhold.

When the shadow fell on the lake,
The whirlwind in ripples wrote
Air-bells of fortune that shine and break,
And omens above thought.

But the meanings cleave to the lake,
Cannot be carried in book or urn;
Go thy ways now, come later back,
On waves and hedges still they burn.

These the fates of men forecast,
Of better men than live to-day;

If who can read them comes at last
He will spell in the sculpture, 'Stay.'

TERMINUS1

It is time to be old, To take in sail:

The god of bounds,

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1866.

1 In the last days of the year 1866, when I was returning from a long stay in the Western States, I met my father in New York just starting for his usual win

Who sets to seas a shore,

Came to me in his fatal rounds,

And said: 'No more!

No farther shoot

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And, fault of novel germs, Mature the unfallen fruit.

Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires,
Bad husbands of their fires,
Who, when they gave thee breath,
Failed to bequeath

The needful sinew stark as once,
The Baresark marrow to thy bones,
But left a legacy of ebbing veins,
Inconstant heat and nerveless reins,
Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb,
Amid the gladiators, halt and numb.'

As the bird trims her to the gale,

I trim myself to the storm of time,

I man the rudder, reef the sail,

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Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: Lowly faithful, banish fear,

Right onward drive unharmed;

The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed.'

1866.

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ter lecturing trip, in those days extending beyond the Mississippi. We spent the night together at the St. Denis Hotel, and as we sat by the fire, he read me two or three of his poems for the new May-Day volume, among them 'Terminus.' It almost startled me. No thought of his ageing had ever come to me, and there he sat, with no apparent abatement of bodily vigor, and young in spirit, recognizing with serene acquiescence his failing forces; I think he smiled as he read. He recognized, as none of us did, that his working days were nearly done. They lasted about five years longer, although he lived, in comfortable health, yet ten years beyond those of his activity. Almost at the time when he wrote Terminus' he wrote in his journal : ·

Within I do not find wrinkles and used heart, but unspent youth.' (E. W. EMERSON, in the Centenary Edition.)

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Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,

1 This poem, written when Longfellow was eighteen years old, is interesting as an early example of that love for Indian subjects which later produced 'Hiawatha." It should be compared with Whittier's early poems on Indian subjects, 'Pentucket,' 'The Funeral Tree of the Sokokis, Mary Garvin,'' Mogg Megone,' etc; with Lowell's Chippewa Legend; and with Bryant's The Indian Girl's Lament,' Monument Mountain,' etc.

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2 Longfellow's work as a translator extended from almost the beginning to the end of his poetical career, included versions from the French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Latin, German, Danish, and Anglo-Saxon. and culminated in his rendering of Dante's Divine Comedy. This work unquestionably played an important part in his development, increasing the range and suppleness of his powers, and keeping the poet alive in him during the long period when he was completely absorbed by teaching, lecturing, prose writing, the composition and editing of text-books, and foreign travel. For twelve or thirteen years, between his early poems and the new beginning of his poetical work in thePsalm of Life,' he wrote practically nothing in verse except translations.

Toward the end of his life (in a letter of March 7, 1879) he said of translation: And what a difficult work! There is evidently a great and strange fascination in translating. It seizes people with irresistible power, and whirls them away till they are beside themselves. It is like a ghost beckoning one to follow.' (Life, vol. iii, p. 298.) (In all notes on Longfellow's poems, the Life' referred to is Samuel Longfellow's Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 3 volumes 1887.)

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TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

1 This poem has been called 'the very heart-beat of the American conscience.' When it was first published, anonymously, in the Knickerbocker magazine for October, 1838, it at once attracted attention. Whittier wrote of it in the Freeman: We know not who the author may be, but he or she is no common man or woman. These nine simple verses are worth more than all the dreams of Shelley, and Keats, and Wordsworth. They are alive and vigorous with the spirit of the day in which we live, the moral steam enginery of an age of action.' (Quoted by Professor Carpenter in his Life of Whittier.)

The writing of the Psalm' is recorded in Longfellow's Journal under the date of July 26, 1838. He afterwards said of it, I kept it some time in manuscript, unwilling to show it to any one, it being a voice from my inmost heart at a time when I was rallying from depression.' (Life of Longfellow, vol. i, p. 301.) In other passages of his Journal he speaks of writing another psalm,' a psalm of death,' etc. The psalmist' to whom the young man speaks, is therefore the poet himself. It was the young man's better heart answering and refuting his own mood of despondency.' (Life, vol. i, pp. 283-284.) See further the Life of Longfellow, vol. i, pp. 281-284; and vol. ii, pp. 186, 283. The poem has been translated into many languages, including Chinese and Sanscrit. (Life, vol. i, p. 376; vol. iii, pp. 43, 64.)

Life is real! Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

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THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

2 This poem was written on a beautiful summer night. The moon, a little strip of silver, was just setting behind the grove at Mount Auburn, and the planet Mars blazing in the southeast. There was a singular light in the sky.' (H. W. L.) It was published in the same number of the Knickerbocker as the last, where it was headed A Second Psalm of Life. (Cambridge Edition of Longfellow's Poetical Works.)

There is no light in earth or heaven

But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?
Oh no! from that blue tent above
A hero's armor gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,
The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light
But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,

And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm.

Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know erelong,

Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

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FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS 2

WHEN the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night

Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;

A slightly different version of the first, second, third, sixth, seventh and eighth stanzas, with the title 'Evening Shadows,' is to be found in Longfellow's Journal under the date of February 27, 1838. (Life, vol. i, pp. 287-288). The poem was finished March 26, 1839 (Life, vol. i, pp. 327-328). The fourth stanza alludes to his brother-in-law and closest friend, George W. Pierce, of whose death he had heard in Germany on Christmas Eve of 1835, and of whom he wrote nearly twenty years later: 'I have never ceased to feel that in his death something was taken from my own life which could never be restored. I have constantly in my memory his beautiful and manly character, frank, generous, impetuous, gentle. The sixth and following stanzas allude to Mrs. Longfellow, who died at Rotter dam, November 29, 1835.

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