    Project Gutenberg's The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. Longfellow

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    Title: The Children's Own Longfellow

    Author: Henry W. Longfellow

    Posting Date: March 16, 2014 [EBook #9080]
    Release Date: October, 2005
    First Posted: September 3, 2003

    Language: English

    Character set encoding: ASCII

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# The Children's Own Longfellow

## Illustrated

### 1908

#### Publishers' Note

> Longfellow has been fitly called the children's poet. Many of his poems have from their very first appearance been favorites with youthful readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet best beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers that this volume, containing eight of the most popular of these poems, illustrated in color by some of the best known American artists of the present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands of young folks and their parents.

#### Contents

##### The Wreck of the Hesperus

##### The Village Blacksmith

##### Evangeline
Part the First

##### The Song of Hiawatha:
Hiawatha's Sailing
Hiawatha's Fishing

##### The Building of the Ship

##### The Castle-Builder

##### Paul Revere's Ride

##### The Building of the Long Serpent

#### Illustrations

| ##### The Wreck of the Hesperus S.M. Arthurs He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast
| ##### The Village Blacksmith Howard Smith And children coming home from school Look in at the open door
| ##### Evangeline Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music
| ##### Hiawatha's Fishing And he dropped his line of cedar Through the clear, transparent water
| ##### The Building of the Ship C. W. Ashley The sun shone on her golden hair, And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair
| ##### The Castle-Builder Olive Rush A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, And towers that touch imaginary skies
| ##### Paul Revere's Ride Howard Smith A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
| ##### The Building of the Long Serpent "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting For a hundred year!"

i »

#### The Wreck of the Hesperus

> It was the schooner Hesperus,
> That sailed the wintry sea;
> And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
> To bear him company.
> Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
> Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
> And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
> That ope in the month of May.
> The skipper he stood beside the helm,
> His pipe was in his mouth,
> And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
> The smoke now West, now South.
> Then up and spake an old Sailòr,
> Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
> "I pray thee, put into yonder port,
> For I fear a hurricane.
> "Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
> And to-night no moon we see!"
> The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
> And a scornful laugh laughed he.
> Colder and louder blew the wind,
> A gale from the Northeast,
> The snow fell hissing in the brine,
> And the billows frothed like yeast.
> Down came the storm, and smote amain
> The vessel in its strength;
> She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
> Then leaped her cable's length.
> "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
> And do not tremble so;
> For I can weather the roughest gale
> That ever wind did blow."
> He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
> Against the stinging blast;
> He cut a rope from a broken spar,
> And bound her to the mast.
> "O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
> Oh say, what may it be?"
> "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—
> And he steered for the open sea.
> "O father! I hear the sound of guns,
> Oh say, what may it be?"
> "Some ship in distress, that cannot live
> In such an angry sea!"
> "O father! I see a gleaming light,
> Oh say, what may it be?"
> But the father answered never a word,
> A frozen corpse was he.
> Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
> With his face turned to the skies,
> The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
> On his fixed and glassy eyes.
> Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
> That saved she might be;
> And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
> On the Lake of Galilee.
> And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
> Through the whistling sleet and snow,
> Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
> Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
> And ever the fitful gusts between
> A sound came from the land;
> It was the sound of the trampling surf
> On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
> The breakers were right beneath her bows,
> She drifted a dreary wreck,
> And a whooping billow swept the crew
> Like icicles from her deck.
> She struck where the white and fleecy waves
> Looked soft as carded wool,
> But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
> Like the horns of an angry bull.
> Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
> With the masts went by the board;
> Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
> Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
> At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
> A fisherman stood aghast,
> To see the form of a maiden fair,
> Lashed close to a drifting mast.
> The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
> The salt tears in her eyes;
> And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
> On the billows fall and rise.
> Such was The Wreck of the Hesperus,
> In the midnight and the snow!
> Christ save us all from a death like this,
> On the reef of Norman's Woe!

i « »

#### The Village Blacksmith

> Under a spreading chestnut-tree
> The village smithy stands;
> The smith, a mighty man is he,
> With large and sinewy hands;
> And the muscles of his brawny arms
> Are strong as iron bands.
> His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
> His face is like the tan;
> His brow is wet with honest sweat,
> He earns whate'er he can,
> And looks the whole world in the face,
> For he owes not any man.
> Week in, week out, from morn till night,
> You can hear his bellows blow;
> You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
> With measured beat and slow,
> Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
> When the evening sun is low.
> And children coming home from school
> Look in at the open door;
> They love to see the flaming forge,
> And hear the bellows roar,
> And catch the burning sparks that fly
> Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
> He goes on Sunday to the church,
> And sits among his boys;
> He hears the parson pray and preach,
> He hears his daughter's voice,
> Singing in the village choir,
> And it makes his heart rejoice.
> It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
> Singing in Paradise!
> He needs must think of her once more,
> How in the grave she lies;
> And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
> A tear out of his eyes.
> Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
> Onward through life he goes;
> Each morning sees some task begin,
> Each evening sees it close;
> Something attempted, something done,
> Has earned a night's repose.
> Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
> For the lesson thou hast taught!
> Thus at the flaming forge of life
> Our fortunes must be wrought;
> Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
> Each burning deed and thought.

i « »

#### Evangeline

> This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
> Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
> Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
> Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
> Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
> Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
> This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
> Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
> Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,—
> Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
> Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
> Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
> Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
> Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
> Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.
> Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
> Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
> List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest;
> List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

i « »

##### Part the First

> I
> In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
> Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré
> Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
> Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
> Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
> Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
> Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
> West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
> Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
> Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
> Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
> Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.
> There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
> Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
> Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
> Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
> Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
> There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
> Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
> Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
> Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
> Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
> Mingled their sounds with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.
> Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
> Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
> Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
> Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
> Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank
> Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry
> Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
> Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
> Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
> Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,—
> Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from
> Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
> Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
> But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
> There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
> Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
> Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré,
> Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
> Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
> Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
> Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;
> White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.
> Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
> Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,
> Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
> Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
> When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
> Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
> Fair was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
> Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
> Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
> Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,
> Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
> Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
> Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
> But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—
> Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
> Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
> When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
> Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
> Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
> Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
> Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath
> Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
> Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,
> Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,
> Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
> Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown
> Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
> Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard.
> There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;
> There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,
> Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame
> Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.
> Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one
> Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,
> Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.
> There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
> Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes
> Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
> Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pré
> Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.
> Many a youth, as he knelt in church and opened his missal,
> Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;
> Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!
> Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,
> And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,
> Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;
> Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,
> Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered
> Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.
> But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;
> Gabriel Lajeunesse. the son of Basil the blacksmith,
> Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;
> For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,
> Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.
> Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood
> Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,
> Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters
> Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.
> But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,
> Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
> There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him
> Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,
> Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel
> Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.
> Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness
> Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,
> Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,
> And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,
> Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.
> Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,
> Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.
> Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,
> Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow
> Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;
> Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!
> Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.
> He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,
> Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.
> She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.
> "Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine
> Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;
> She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,
> Filling it with love and the ruddy faces of children.
> II
> Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
> And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
> Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,
> Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.
> Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
> Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
> All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
> Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
> Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted
> Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
> Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,
> Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
> Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
> Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
> Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
> Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.
> Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
> Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
> All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
> Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
> While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
> Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest
> Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.
> Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.
> Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
> Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.
> Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,
> And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.
> Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
> Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,
> Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
> Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,
> Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,
> Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,
> Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
> Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
> Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
> When from the forest at night, through the starry silence the wolves howled.
> Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
> Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.
> Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,
> While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
> Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,
> Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
> Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
> Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
> Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.
> Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,
> Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;
> Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
> Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
> In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer
> Sat in his elbow-chair and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths
> Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,
> Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,
> Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.
> Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair
> Laughed in the flickering light; and the pewter plates on the dresser
> Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.
> Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
> Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him
> Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.
> Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,
> Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.
> Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,
> While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,
> Followed the old man's song and united the fragments together.
> As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,
> Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,
> So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.
> Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,
> Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.
> Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,
> And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
> "Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,
> "Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle
> Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
> Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;
> Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling
> Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams
> Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."
> Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,
> Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:—
> "Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
> Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with
> Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
> Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."
> Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,
> And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:—
> "Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors
> Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.
> What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded
> On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate
> Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time
> Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."
> Then made answer the farmer: "Perhaps some friendlier purpose
> Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England
> By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,
> And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."
> "Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,
> Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:—
> "Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal,
> Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,
> Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of tomorrow.
> Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;
> Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."
> Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:—
> "Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,
> Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,
> Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.
> Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow
> Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.
> Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village
> Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,
> Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.
> René Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.
> Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"
> As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,
> Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,
> And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.
> III
> Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
> Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;
> Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung
> Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows
> Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.
> Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred
> Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.
> Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,
> Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.
> Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,
> Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
> He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;
> For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,
> And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,
> And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
> Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;
> And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,
> And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,
> And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,
> With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
> Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,
> Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,
> "Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,
> And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."
> Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,—
> "Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
> And what their errand may be I know not better than others.
> Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention
> Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"
> "God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;
> "Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?
> Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"
> But without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,—
> "Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice
> Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
> When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."
> This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it
> When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.
> "Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
> Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
> Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,
> And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
> Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.
> Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,
> Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.
> But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;
> Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty
> Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace
> That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion
> Fell on an orphan girl who lived as a maid in the household.
> She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,
> Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
> As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,
> Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder
> Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand
> Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,
> And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,
> Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."
> Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith
> Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;
> All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors
> Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.
> Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
> Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
> Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pré;
> While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
> Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
> Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.
> Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
> And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
> Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
> Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;
> And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,
> Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
> Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
> While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
> Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.
> Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men
> Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre,
> Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.
> Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
> Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
> Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mists of the meadows.
> Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
> Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
> Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry
> Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
> Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.
> Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step
> Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.
> Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,
> And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.
> Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.
> Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
> Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.
> Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.
> Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press
> Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded
> Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.
> This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,
> Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.
> Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight
> Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden
> Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.
> Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
> Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!
> Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,
> Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.
> Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness
> Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
> Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.
> And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass
> Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
> As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!
> IV
> Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré.
> Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,
> Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.
> Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor
> Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.
> Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,
> Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
> Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk
> Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,
> Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,
> Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.
> Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.
> Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors
> Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.
> Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
> For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,
> All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.
> Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:
> For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;
> Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness
> Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.
> Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,
> Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.
> There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;
> There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
> Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,
> Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.
> Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white
> Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler
> Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.
> Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,
> Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunquerque,
> And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.
> Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances
> Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
> Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.
> Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!
> Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!
> So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous
> Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
> Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,
> Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones
> Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.
> Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them
> Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor
> Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,—
> Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
> Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.
> Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,
> Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.
> "You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.
> Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,
> Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper
> Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.
> Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;
> Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds
> Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province
> Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there
> Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!
> Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"
> As, when the air is serene in sultry solstice of summer,
> Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones
> Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,
> Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,
> Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;
> So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.
> Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose
> Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,
> And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.
> Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations
> Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others
> Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,
> As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.
> Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,—
> "Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!
> Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"
> More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier
> Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.
> In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,
> Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
> Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
> Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence
> All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;
> Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful
> Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.
> "What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?
> Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,
> Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
> Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?
> Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?
> This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it
> Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?
> Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!
> See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!
> Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'
> Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,
> Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'"
> Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people
> Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,
> While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
> Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar.
> Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,
> Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria
> Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,
> Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.
> Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides
> Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.
> Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand
> Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,
> Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each
> Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.
> Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;
> There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;
> There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy,
> And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.
> Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset
> Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.
> Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
> And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,—
> Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!
> Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,
> Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women,
> As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,
> Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.
> Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors
> Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
> Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.
> Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.
> All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows
> Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,
> "Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer
> Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.
> Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.
> Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted,
> Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.
> Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.
> In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall
> Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.
> Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder
> Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!
> Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;
> Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.
> V
> Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
> Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
> Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
> Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
> Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,
> Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
> Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
> Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
> While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
> Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach
> Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
> All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;
> All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.
> Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
> Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.
> Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors
> Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
> Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
> Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,
> Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
> So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
> Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
> Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,
> Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:—
> "Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!
> Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"
> Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside
> Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
> Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
> Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
> Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,—
> Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,
> And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
> Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
> Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,—
> "Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another
> Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"
> Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father
> Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!
> Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep
> Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.
> But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,
> Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.
> Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.
> There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
> Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
> Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children
> Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
> So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
> While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
> Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
> Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean
> Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
> Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.
> Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
> Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
> All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,
> Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
> Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
> Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
> Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
> Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
> Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
> Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,—
> Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.
> Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
> Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
> But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,
> Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.
> Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
> Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.
> Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,
> Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,
> Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.
> Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,
> And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,
> Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,
> E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.
> Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,
> Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,
> But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.
> "Benedicite!" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.
> More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents
> Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,
> Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.
> Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
> Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them
> Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.
> Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.
> Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
> Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
> Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,
> Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.
> Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
> Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
> Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
> Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.
> Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,
> Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops
> Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
> These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
> Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
> "We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"
> Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,
> Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle
> Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
> Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
> Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,
> When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,
> Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
> Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
> Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.
> Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden
> Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
> And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
> Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore
> Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
> Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
> Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.
> Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.
> Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;
> And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.
> Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,
> Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.
> Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,
> Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,
> And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.
> Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,—
> "Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season
> Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,
> Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."
> Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,
> Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,
> But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré.
> And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,
> Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,
> Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
> 'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
> With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.
> Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
> And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
> Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.

i « »

#### The Song of Hiawatha

##### Hiawatha's Sailing

> "Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
> Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
> Growing by the rushing river,
> Tall and stately in the valley!
> I a light canoe will build me,
> Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
> That shall float upon the river,
> Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
> Like a yellow water-lily!
> "Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
> Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
> For the Summer-time is coming,
> And the sun is warm in heaven,
> And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
> Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
> In the solitary forest,
> By the rushing Taquamenaw,
> When the birds were singing gayly,
> In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
> And the sun, from sleep awaking,
> Started up and said, "Behold me!
> Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"
> And the tree with all its branches
> Rustled in the breeze of morning,
> Saying, with a sigh of patience,
> "Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
> With his knife the tree he girdled;
> Just beneath its lowest branches,
> Just above the roots, he cut it,
> Till the sap came oozing outward;
> Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
> Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
> With a wooden wedge he raised it,
> Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
> "Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
> Of your strong and pliant branches,
> My canoe to make more steady,
> Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
> Through the summit of the Cedar
> Went a sound, a cry of horror,
> Went a murmur of resistance;
> But it whispered, bending downward,
> "Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
> Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
> Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
> Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
> Like two bended bows together.
> "Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
> Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
> My canoe to bind together,
> So to bind the ends together
> That the water may not enter,
> That the river may not wet me!"
> And the Larch, with all its fibres,
> Shivered in the air of morning,
> Touched his forehead with its tassels,
> Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
> "Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
> From the earth he tore the fibres,
> Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
> Closely sewed the bark together,
> Bound it closely to the frame-work.
> "Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
> Of your balsam and your resin,
> So to close the seams together
> That the water may not enter,
> That the river may not wet me!"
> And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
> Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
> Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
> Answered wailing, answered weeping,
> "Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
> And he took the tears of balsam,
> Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
> Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
> Made each crevice safe from water.
> "Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
> All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
> I will make a necklace of them,
> Make a girdle for my beauty,
> And two stars to deck her bosom!"
> From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
> With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
> Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
> Saying with a drowsy murmur,
> Through the tangle of his whiskers,
> "Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
> From the ground the quills he gathered,
> All the little shining arrows,
> Stained them red and blue and yellow,
> With the juice of roots and berries;
> Into his canoe he wrought them,
> Round its waist a shining girdle,
> Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
> On its breast two stars resplendent.
> Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
> In the valley, by the river,
> In the bosom of the forest;
> And the forest's life was in it,
> All its mystery and its magic,
> All the lightness of the birch-tree,
> All the toughness of the cedar,
> All the larch's supple sinews;
> And it floated on the river
> Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
> Like a yellow water-lily.
> Paddles none had Hiawatha,
> Paddles none he had or needed,
> For his thoughts as paddles served him,
> And his wishes served to guide him;
> Swift or slow at will he glided,
> Veered to right or left at pleasure.
> Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
> To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
> Saying, "Help me clear this river
> Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."
> Straight into the river Kwasind
> Plunged as if he were an otter,
> Dived as if he were a beaver,
> Stood up to his waist in water,
> To his arm-pits in the river,
> Swam and shouted in the river,
> Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
> With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
> With his feet the ooze and tangle.
> And thus sailed my Hiawatha
> Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
> Sailed through all its bends and windings,
> Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
> While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
> Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
> Up and down the river went they,
> In and out among its islands,
> Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
> Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
> Made its passage safe and certain,
> Made a pathway for the people,
> From its springs among the mountains,
> To the waters of Pauwating,
> To the bay of Taquamenau.

i « »

##### Hiawatha's Fishing

> Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,
> On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
> With his fishing-line of cedar,
> Of the twisted bark of cedar,
> Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
> Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
> In his birch canoe exulting
> All alone went Hiawatha.
> Through the clear, transparent water
> He could see the fishes swimming
> Far down in the depths below him;
> See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
> Like a sunbeam in the water,
> See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
> Like a spider on the bottom,
> On the white and sandy bottom.
> At the stern sat Hiawatha,
> With his fishing-line of cedar;
> In his plumes the breeze of morning
> Played as in the hemlock branches;
> On the bows, with tail erected,
> Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
> In his fur the breeze of morning
> Played as in the prairie grasses.
> On the white sand of the bottom
> Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
> Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
> Through his gills he breathed the water,
> With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
> With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
> There he lay in all his armor;
> On each side a shield to guard him,
> Plates of bone upon his forehead,
> Down his sides and back and shoulders
> Plates of bone with spines projecting!
> Painted was he with his war-paints,
> Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.
> Spots of brown and spots of sable;
> And he lay there on the bottom,
> Fanning with his fins of purple,
> As above him Hiawatha
> In his birch canoe came sailing,
> With his fishing-line of cedar.
> "Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,
> Down into the depths beneath him,
> "Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!
> Come up from below the water,
> Let us see which is the stronger!"
> And he dropped his line of cedar
> Through the clear, transparent water,
> Waited vainly for an answer,
> Long sat waiting for an answer,
> And repeating loud and louder,
> "Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"
> Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
> Fanning slowly in the water,
> Looking up at Hiawatha,
> Listening to his call and clamor,
> His unnecessary tumult,
> Till he wearied of the shouting;
> And he said to the Kenozha,
> To the pike, the Maskenozha,
> "Take the bait of this rude fellow,
> Break the line of Hiawatha!"
> In his fingers Hiawatha
> Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;
> As he drew it in, it tugged so
> That the birch canoe stood endwise,
> Like a birch log in the water,
> With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
> Perched and frisking on the summit.
> Full of scorn was Hiawatha
> When he saw the fish rise upward,
> Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
> Coming nearer, nearer to him,
> And he shouted through the water,
> "Esa! esa! shame upon you!
> You are but the pike, Kenozha,
> You are not the fish I wanted,
> You are not the King of Fishes!"
> Reeling downward to the bottom
> Sank the pike in great confusion,
> And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
> Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
> To the bream, with scales of crimson,
> "Take the bait of this great boaster,
> Break the line of Hiawatha!"
> Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
> Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
> Seized the line of Hiawatha,
> Swung with all his weight upon it,
> Made a whirlpool in the water,
> Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
> Round and round in gurgling eddies,
> Till the circles in the water
> Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
> Till the water-flags and rushes
> Nodded on the distant margins.
> But when Hiawatha saw him
> Slowly rising through the water,
> Lifting up his disk refulgent,
> Loud he shouted in derision,
> "Esa! esa! shame upon you!
> You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
> You are not the fish I wanted,
> You are not the King of Fishes!"
> Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
> Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
> And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
> Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
> Heard his challenge of defiance,
> The unnecessary tumult,
> Ringing far across the water.
> From the white sand of the bottom
> Up he rose with angry gesture,
> Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
> Clashing all his plates of armor,
> Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
> In his wrath he darted upward,
> Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
> Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
> Both canoe and Hiawatha.
> Down into that darksome cavern
> Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
> As a log on some black river
> Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
> Found himself in utter darkness,
> Groped about in helpless wonder,
> Till he felt a great heart beating,
> Throbbing in that utter darkness.
> And he smote it in his anger,
> With his fist, the heart of Nahma.
> Felt the mighty King of Fishes
> Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
> Heard the water gurgle round him
> As he leaped and staggered through it,
> Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
> Crosswise then did Hiawatha
> Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
> Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
> In the turmoil and confusion,
> Forth he might be hurled and perish.
> And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
> Frisked and chattered very gayly,
> Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
> Till the labor was completed.
> Then said Hiawatha to him,
> "O my little friend, the squirrel,
> Bravely have you toiled to help me;
> Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
> And the name which now he gives you;
> For hereafter and forever
> Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
> Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"
> And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
> Gasped and quivered in the water,
> Then was still, and drifted landward
> Till he grated on the pebbles,
> Till the listening Hiawatha
> Heard him grate upon the margin,
> Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
> Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
> Lay there dead upon the margin.
> Then he heard a clang and flapping,
> As of many wings assembling,
> Heard a screaming and confusion,
> As of birds of prey contending,
> Saw a gleam of light above him,
> Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
> Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
> Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
> Gazing at him through the opening,
> Heard them saying to each other,
> "'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"
> And he shouted from below them,
> Cried exulting from the caverns:
> "O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
> I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
> Make the rifts a little larger,
> With your claws the openings widen,
> Set me free from this dark prison,
> And henceforward and forever
> Men shall speak of your achievements,
> Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
> Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"
> And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
> Toiled with beak and claws together,
> Made the rifts and openings wider
> In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
> And from peril and from prison,
> From the body of the sturgeon,
> From the peril of the water,
> They released my Hiawatha.
> He was standing near his wigwam,
> On the margin of the water,
> And he called to old Nokomis,
> Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
> Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
> Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
> With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
> "I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
> Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;
> "Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
> Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
> Drive them not away, Nokomis,
> They have saved me from great peril
> In the body of the sturgeon,
> Wait until their meal is ended,
> Till their craws are full with feasting,
> Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
> To their nests among the marshes;
> Then bring all your pots and kettles,
> And make oil for us in Winter."
> And she waited till the sun set,
> Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
> Rose above the tranquil water,
> Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
> From their banquet rose with clamor,
> And across the fiery sunset
> Winged their way to far-off islands,
> To their nests among the rushes.
> To his sleep went Hiawatha,
> And Nokomis to her labor,
> Toiling patient in the moonlight,
> Till the sun and moon changed places,
> Till the sky was red with sunrise,
> And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
> Came back from the reedy islands,
> Clamorous for their morning banquet.
> Three whole days and nights alternate
> Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls
> Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
> Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
> Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
> And upon the sands lay nothing
> But the skeleton of Nahma.

i « »

#### The Building of the Ship

> "Build me straight, O worthy Master!
> Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
> That shall laugh at all disaster,
> And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
> The merchant's word
> Delighted the Master heard;
> For his heart was in his work, and the heart
> Giveth grace unto every Art.
> A quiet smile played round his lips,
> As the eddies and dimples of the tide
> Play round the bows of ships,
> That steadily at anchor ride.
> And with a voice that was full of glee,
> He answered, "Erelong we will launch
> A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,
> As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
> And first with nicest skill and art,
> Perfect and finished in every part,
> A little model the Master wrought,
> Which should be to the larger plan
> What the child is to the man,
> Its counterpart in miniature;
> That with a hand more swift and sure
> The greater labor might be brought
> To answer to his inward thought.
> And as he labored, his mind ran o'er
> The various ships that were built of yore,
> And above them all, and strangest of all
> Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
> Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
> With bows and stern raised high in air,
> And balconies hanging here and there,
> And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
> And eight round towers, like those that frown
> From some old castle, looking down
> Upon the drawbridge and the moat.
> And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,
> Shall be of another form than this!"
> It was of another form, indeed;
> Built for freight, and yet for speed,
> A beautiful and gallant craft;
> Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
> Pressing down upon sail and mast,
> Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
> Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
> With graceful curve and slow degrees,
> That she might be docile to the helm,
> And that the currents of parted seas,
> Closing behind, with mighty force,
> Might aid and not impede her course.
> In the ship-yard stood the Master,
> With the model of the vessel,
> That should laugh at all disaster,
> And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
> Covering many a rood of ground,
> Lay the timber piled around;
> Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
> And scattered here and there, with these,
> The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
> Brought from regions far away,
> From Pascagoula's sunny bay,
> And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
> Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
> To note how many wheels of toil
> One thought, one word, can set in motion!
> There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
> But every climate, every soil,
> Must bring its tribute, great or small,
> And help to build the wooden wall!
> The sun was rising o'er the sea,
> And long the level shadows lay,
> As if they, too, the beams would be
> Of some great, airy argosy,
> Framed and launched in a single day.
> That silent architect, the sun,
> Had hewn and laid them every one,
> Ere the work of man was yet begun.
> Beside the Master, when he spoke,
> A youth, against an anchor leaning,
> Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
> Only the long waves, as they broke
> In ripples on the pebbly beach,
> Interrupted the old man's speech.
> Beautiful they were, in sooth,
> The old man and the fiery youth!
> The old man, in whose busy brain
> Many a ship that sailed the main
> Was modelled o'er and o'er again;—
> The fiery youth, who was to be
> The heir of his dexterity,
> The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,
> When he had built and launched from land
> What the elder head had planned.
> "Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!
> Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
> And follow well this plan of mine.
> Choose the timbers with greatest care;
> Of all that is unsound beware;
> For only what is sound and strong
> To this vessel shall belong.
> Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
> Here together shall combine.
> A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
> And the UNION be her name!
> For the day that gives her to the sea
> Shall give my daughter unto thee!"
> The Master's word
> Enraptured the young man heard;
> And as he turned his face aside,
> With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
> Standing before
> Her father's door,
> He saw the form of his promised bride.
> The sun shone on her golden hair,
> And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
> With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
> Like a beauteous barge was she,
> Still at rest on the sandy beach,
> Just beyond the billow's reach;
> But he
> Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
> Ah, how skilful grows the hand
> That obeyeth Love's command!
> It is the heart, and not the brain,
> That to the highest doth attain,
> And he who followeth Love's behest
> Far excelleth all the rest!
> Thus with the rising of the sun
> Was the noble task begun,
> And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds
> Were heard the intermingled sounds
> Of axes and of mallets, plied
> With vigorous arms on every side;
> Plied so deftly and so well,
> That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
> The keel of oak for a noble ship,
> Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
> Was lying ready, and stretched along
> The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
> Happy, thrice happy, every one
> Who sees his labor well begun,
> And not perplexed and multiplied,
> By idly waiting for time and tide!
> And when the hot, long day was o'er,
> The young man at the Master's door
> Sat with the maiden calm and still,
> And within the porch, a little more
> Removed beyond the evening chill,
> The father sat, and told them tales
> Of wrecks in the great September gales,
> Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,
> And ships that never came back again,
> The chance and change of a sailor's life,
> Want and plenty, rest and strife,
> His roving fancy, like the wind,
> That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
> And the magic charm of foreign lands,
> With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
> Where the tumbling surf,
> O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
> Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
> As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
> And the trembling maiden held her breath
> At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
> With all its terror and mystery,
> The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,
> That divides and yet unites mankind!
> And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
> From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
> The silent group in the twilight gloom,
> And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
> And for a moment one might mark
> What had been hidden by the dark,
> That the head of the maiden lay at rest,
> Tenderly, on the young man's breast!
> Day by day the vessel grew,
> With timbers fashioned strong and true,
> Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,
> Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
> A skeleton ship rose up to view!
> And around the bows and along the side
> The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
> Till after many a week, at length,
> Wonderful for form and strength,
> Sublime in its enormous bulk,
> Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
> And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
> Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething
> Caldron, that glowed,
> And overflowed
> With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
> And amid the clamors
> Of clattering hammers,
> He who listened heard now and then
> The song of the Master and his men:—
> "Build me straight, O worthy Master,
> Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
> That shall laugh at all disaster,
> And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
> With oaken brace and copper band,
> Lay the rudder on the sand,
> That, like a thought, should have control
> Over the movement of the whole;
> And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
> Would reach down and grapple with the land,
> And immovable and fast
> Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
> And at the bows an image stood,
> By a cunning artist carved in wood,
> With robes of white, that far behind
> Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
> It was not shaped in a classic mould,
> Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
> Or Naiad rising from the water,
> But modelled from the Master's daughter!
> On many a dreary and misty night,
> 'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
> Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
> Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
> The pilot of some phantom bark,
> Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
> By a path none other knows aright!
> Behold, at last,
> Each tall and tapering mast
> Is swung into its place;
> Shrouds and stays
> Holding it firm and fast!
> Long ago,
> In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
> When upon mountain and plain
> Lay the snow,
> They fell,—those lordly pines!
> Those grand, majestic pines!
> 'Mid shouts and cheers
> The jaded steers,
> Panting beneath the goad,
> Dragged down the weary, winding road
> Those captive kings so straight and tall,
> To be shorn of their streaming hair,
> And naked and bare,
> To feel the stress and the strain
> Of the wind and the reeling main,
> Whose roar
> Would remind them forevermore
> Of their native forests they should not see again.
> And everywhere
> The slender, graceful spars
> Poise aloft in the air,
> And at the mast-head,
> White, blue, and red,
> A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.
> Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
> In foreign harbors shall behold
> That flag unrolled,
> 'T will be as a friendly hand
> Stretched out from his native land,
> Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!
> All is finished! and at length
> Has come the bridal day
> Of beauty and of strength.
> To-day the vessel shall be launched!
> With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
> And o'er the bay,
> Slowly, in all its splendors dight,
> The great sun rises to behold the sight.
> The ocean old,
> Centuries old,
> Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
> Paces restless to and fro,
> Up and down the sands of gold.
> His beating heart is not at rest;
> And far and wide,
> With ceaseless flow,
> His beard of snow
> Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
> He waits impatient for his bride.
> There she stands,
> With her foot upon the sands,
> Decked with flags and streamers gay,
> In honor of her marriage day,
> Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
> Round her like a veil descending,
> Ready to be
> The bride of the gray old sea.
> On the deck another bride
> Is standing by her lover's side.
> Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
> Like the shadows cast by clouds,
> Broken by many a sudden fleck,
> Fall around them on the deck.
> The prayer is said,
> The service read,
> The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
> And in tears the good old Master
> Shakes the brown hand of his son,
> Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek
> In silence, for he cannot speak,
> And ever faster
> Down his own the tears begin to run.
> The worthy pastor—
> The shepherd of that wandering flock,
> That has the ocean for its wold,
> That has the vessel for its fold,
> Leaping ever from rock to rock
> Spake, with accents mild and clear,
> Words of warning, words of cheer,
> But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.
> He knew the chart
> Of the sailor's heart,
> All its pleasures and its griefs,
> All its shallows and rocky reefs,
> All those secret currents, that flow
> With such resistless undertow,
> And lift and drift, with terrible force,
> The will from its moorings and its course.
> Therefore he spake, and thus said he:—
> "Like unto ships far off at sea,
> Outward or homeward bound, are we.
> Before, behind, and all around,
> Floats and swings the horizon's bound,
> Seems at its distant rim to rise
> And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
> And then again to turn and sink,
> As if we could slide from its outer brink.
> Ah! it is not the sea,
> It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
> But ourselves
> That rock and rise
> With endless and uneasy motion,
> Now touching the very skies,
> Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
> Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
> Like the compass in its brazen ring,
> Ever level and ever true
> To the toil and the task we have to do,
> We shall sail securely, and safely reach
> The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
> The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
> Will be those of joy and not of fear!"
> Then the Master,
> With a gesture of command,
> Waved his hand;
> And at the word,
> Loud and sudden there was heard,
> All around them and below,
> The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
> Knocking away the shores and spurs.
> And see! she stirs!
> She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel
> The thrill of life along her keel,
> And, spurning with her foot the ground,
> With one exulting, joyous bound,
> She leaps into the ocean's arms!
> And lo! from the assembled crowd
> There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
> That to the ocean seemed to say,
> "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
> Take her to thy protecting arms,
> With all her youth and all her charms!"
> How beautiful she is! How fair
> She lies within those arms, that press
> Her form with many a soft caress
> Of tenderness and watchful care!
> Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
> Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
> The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
> Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
> Sail forth into the sea of life,
> O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
> And safe from all adversity
> Upon the bosom of that sea
> Thy comings and thy goings be!
> For gentleness and love and trust
> Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
> And in the wreck of noble lives
> Something immortal still survives!
> Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
> Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
> Humanity with all its fears,
> With all the hopes of future years,
> Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
> We know what Master laid thy keel,
> What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
> Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
> What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
> In what a forge and what a heat
> Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
> Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
> 'T is of the wave and not the rock;
> 'T is but the flapping of the sail,
> And not a rent made by the gale!
> In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
> In spite of false lights on the shore,
> Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
> Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
> Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
> Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
> Are all with thee,—are all with thee!

i « »

#### The Castle-Builder

> A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
> A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
> A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
> And towers that touch imaginary skies.
> A fearless rider on his father's knee,
> An eager listener unto stories told
> At the Round Table of the nursery,
> Of heroes and adventures manifold.
> There will be other towers for thee to build;
> There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
> There will be other legends, and all filled
> With greater marvels and more glorified.
> Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
> Rising and reaching upward to the skies;
> Listening to voices in the upper air,
> Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.

i « »

#### Paul Revere's Ride

> Listen, my children, and you shall hear
> Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
> On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
> Hardly a man is now alive
> Who remembers that famous day and year.
> He said to his friend, "If the British march
> By land or sea from the town to-night,
> Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
> Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
> One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
> And I on the opposite shore will be,
> Ready to ride and spread the alarm
> Through every Middlesex village and farm,
> For the country folk to be up and to arm."
> Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
> Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
> Just as the moon rose over the bay,
> Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
> The Somerset, British man-of-war;
> A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
> Across the moon like a prison bar,
> And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
> By its own reflection in the tide.
> Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
> Wanders and watches with eager ears,
> Till in the silence around him he hears
> The muster of men at the barrack door,
> The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
> And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
> Marching down to their boats on the shore.
> Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
> By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
> To the belfry-chamber overhead,
> And startled the pigeons from their perch
> On the sombre rafters, that round him made
> Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
> By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
> To the highest window in the wall,
> Where he paused to listen and look down
> A moment on the roofs of the town,
> And the moonlight flowing over all.
> Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
> In their night-encampment on the hill,
> Wrapped in silence so deep and still
> That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
> The watchful night-wind, as it went
> Creeping along from tent to tent,
> And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
> A moment only he feels the spell
> Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
> Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
> For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
> On a shadowy something far away,
> Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
> A line of black that bends and floats
> On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
> Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
> Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
> On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
> Now he patted his horse's side,
> Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
> Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
> And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
> But mostly he watched with eager search
> The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
> As it rose above the graves on the hill,
> Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
> And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
> A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
> He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
> But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
> A second lamp in the belfry burns!
> A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
> A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
> And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
> Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
> That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
> The fate of a nation was riding that night;
> And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
> Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
> He has left the village and mounted the steep,
> And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
> Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
> And under the alders that skirt its edge,
> Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
> Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
> It was twelve by the village clock,
> When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
> He heard the crowing of the cock,
> And the barking of the farmer's dog,
> And felt the damp of the river fog,
> That rises after the sun goes down.
> It was one by the village clock,
> When he galloped into Lexington.
> He saw the gilded weathercock
> Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
> And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
> Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
> As if they already stood aghast
> At the bloody work they would look upon.
> It was two by the village clock,
> When he came to the bridge in Concord town
> He heard the bleating of the flock,
> And the twitter of birds among the trees,
> And felt the breath of the morning breeze
> Blowing over the meadows brown.
> And one was safe and asleep in his bed
> Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
> Who that day would be lying dead,
> Pierced by a British musket-ball.
> You know the rest. In the books you have read.
> How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
> How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
> From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
> Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
> Then crossing the fields to emerge again
> Under the trees at the turn of the road,
> And only pausing to fire and load.
> So through the night rode Paul Revere;
> And so through the night went his cry of alarm
> To every Middlesex village and farm,—
> A cry of defiance and not of fear,
> A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
> And a word that shall echo forevermore!
> For, borne on the night-wind of the Past
> Through all our history, to the last,
> In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
> The people will waken and listen to hear
> The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
> And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

i «

#### The Building of the Long Serpent

> Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,
> In his ship-yard by the sea,
> Whistling, said, "It would bewilder
> Any man but Thorberg Skafting,
> Any man but me!"
> Near him lay the Dragon stranded,
> Built of old by Raud the Strong,
> And King Olaf had commanded
> He should build another Dragon,
> Twice as large and long.
> Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,
> As he sat with half-closed eyes,
> And his head turned sideways, drafting
> That new vessel for King Olaf
> Twice the Dragon's size.
> Round him busily hewed and hammered
> Mallet huge and heavy axe;
> Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;
> Whirred the wheels, that into rigging
> Spun the shining flax!
> All this tumult heard the master,—
> It was music to his ear;
> Fancy whispered all the faster,
> "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
> For a hundred year!"
> Workmen sweating at the forges
> Fashioned iron bolt and bar,
> Like a warlock's midnight orgies
> Smoked and bubbled the black caldron
> With the boiling tar.
> Did the warlocks mingle in it,
> Thorberg Skafting, any curse?
> Could you not be gone a minute
> But some mischief must be doing,
> Turning bad to worse?
> 'T was an ill wind that came wafting
> From his homestead words of woe;
> To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,
> Oft repeating to his workmen,
> Build ye thus and so.
> After long delays returning
> Came the master back by night;
> To his ship-yard longing, yearning,
> Hurried he, and did not leave it
> Till the morning's light.
> "Come and see my ship, my darling!"
> On the morrow said the King;
> "Finished now from keel to carling;
> Never yet was seen in Norway
> Such a wondrous thing!"
> In the ship-yard, idly talking,
> At the ship the workmen stared:
> Some one, all their labor balking,
> Down her sides had cut deep gashes,
> Not a plank was spared!
> "Death be to the evil-doer!"
> With an oath King Olaf spoke!
> "But rewards to his pursuer!"
> And with wrath his face grew redder
> Than his scarlet cloak.
> Straight the master-builder, smiling,
> Answered thus the angry King:
> "Cease blaspheming and reviling,
> Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting
> Who has done this thing!"
> Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,
> Till the King, delighted, swore,
> With much lauding and much thanking,
> "Handsomer is now my Dragon
> Than she was before!"
> Seventy ells and four extended
> On the grass the vessel's keel;
> High above it, gilt and splendid,
> Rose the figure-head ferocious
> With its crest of steel.
> Then they launched her from the tressels,
> In the ship-yard by the sea;
> She was the grandest of all vessels,
> Never ship was built in Norway
> Half so fine as she!
> The Long Serpent was she christened,
> 'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!
> They who to the Saga listened
> Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting
> For a hundred year!

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