Thursday, December 21, 2006

Christmastime at Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's




Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(February 27, 1807 – March 24, 1882)






Aftermath


When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
    And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
    And gather in the aftermath.

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
    Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mired with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
    In the silence and the gloom.



Completing Tales of a Wayside Inn, on his sixty-sixth birthday, February 27, 1873, may have inspired Longfellow to write this poem. That third part of Tales was included in the volume named after the poem, in which the poem was placed last, the last of the third flight of his Birds of Passage.








The Children's Hours


Between the dark and the daylight,
    When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
    That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
    The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
    And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
    Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
    And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
    Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
    To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
    A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
    They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
    O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
    They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
    Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
    In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,
    Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
    Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
    And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
    In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
    Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
    And moulder in dust away!





click picture for song in wma format




Christmas Bells


I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
          And wild and sweet
          The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
          Had rolled along
          The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
          A voice, a chime,
          A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
          And with the sound
          The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
          And made forlorn
          The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
          "For hate is strong,
          And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
          The Wrong shall fail,
          The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"








The Cross of Snow


In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
    A gentle face--the face of one long dead--
    Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
    The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
    Never through martyrdom of fire was led
    To its repose; nor can in books be read
    The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
    That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
    Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
    These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
    And seasons, changeless since the day she died.







"'Looking over one day,' says Mr. Longfellow's biographer, 'an illustrated book of Western scenery, his attention was arrested by a picture of that mysterious mountain upon whose lonely, lofty breast the snow lies in long furrows that make a rude but wonderfully clear image of a vast cross. At night, as he looked upon the pictured countenance that hung upon his chamber wall, his thoughts framed themselves into the verses that follow [--above, that is]. He put them away in his portfolio, where they were found after his death."





a Fragment


December 18, 1847


Soft through the silent air descend the feathery snow-flakes;
White are the distant hills, white are the neighboring fields;
Only the marshes are brown, and the river rolling among them
Weareth the leaden hue seen in the eyes of the blind.








written on the back of a note from a Mr. Summer, and dated:

"September 28, 1841. Half past 3 o'clock, morning. Now to bed"



Excelsior


The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
              Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
              Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
              Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!
And loud that clarion voice replied,
              Excelsior!

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
              Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
A voice replied, far up the height,
                Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
              Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
              Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
              Excelsior!








The Good Part

that shall not be taken away



She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,
    In valleys green and cool;
And all her hope and all her pride
    Are in the village school.

Her soul, like the transparent air
    That robes the hills above,
Though not of earth, encircles there
    All things with arms of love.

And thus she walks among her girls
    With praise and mild rebukes;
Subduing e'en rude village churls
    By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide
    Of One who came to save;
To cast the captive's chains aside
    And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessed time foretells
    When all men shall be free;
And musical, as silver bells,
    Their falling chains shall be.

And following her beloved Lord,
    In decent poverty,
She makes her life one sweet record
    And deed of charity.

For she was rich, and gave up all
    To break the iron bands
Of those who waited in her hall,
    And labored in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea
    Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,
    Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers, which never cease,
    That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
    That shines upon her face.








translated by Longfellow from the Spanish


by Francisco de Aldana    (1537-1578)



The Image of God (La Imagen de Dios)


O Lord! who seest, from yon starry height,
    Centred in one the future and the past,
    Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast
    The world obscures in me what once was bright!
Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given,
    To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays;
    Yet in the hoary winter of my days,
    Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven.
Celestial King! O let thy presence pass
    Before my spirit, and an image fair
    Shall meet that look of mercy from on high,
As the reflected image in a glass
    Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there,
    And owes its being to the gazer's eye.








The Meeting


After so long an absence
    At last we meet again:
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
    Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken,
    And but few of us linger now,
Like the Prophet's two or three berries
    In the top of the uppermost bough.

We cordially greet each other
    In the old, familiar tone;
And we think, though we do not say it,
    How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas
    And many a Happy New Year
But each in his heart is thinking
    Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes,
    And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
    And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish
    Between the ghosts and the guests;
And a mist and shadow of sadness
    Steals over our merriest jests.








published in the Knickerbocker as The Fifth Psalm


also called An Autumnal Chant in Longfellow's diary


Midnight Mass for the Dying Year


Yes, the Year is growing old,
    And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
    Plucks the old man by the beard,
              Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
    Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
    It is a sound of woe,
              A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain passes
    The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
    Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
              Pray, pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
    Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
    But their prayers are all in vain,
              All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,
    The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
        Like weak, despised Lear,
              A king, a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
    Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last!    Oh, the man gray
    Loveth that ever-soft voice,
              Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,
    To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
    "Pray do not mock me so!
              Do not laugh at me!"

And now the sweet day is dead;
    Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
    Over the glassy skies,
              No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
    And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
    In the wilderness alone,
              "Vex not his ghost!"

Then comes, with an awful roar,
    Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
    The wind Euroclydon,
                The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest
    Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
    O soul! could thus decay,
              And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,
    There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast
    Like red leaves be swept away!
              Kyrie, eleyson!
              Christe, eleyson!





Snow-Flakes


Out of the bosom of the Air,
    Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
    Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
        Silent, and soft, and slow
        Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
    Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
    In the white countenance confession,
        The troubled sky reveals
        The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
    Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
    Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
        Now whispered and revealed
        To wood and field.








The Three Kings


Three Kings came riding from far away,
    Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
    For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
    That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
    Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
    Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
    Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
    Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
    With the people they met at some wayside well.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,
    "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
    To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;
    We know of no king but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
    Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,
    Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,
    And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
    The only one in the gray of morn
Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
    The city of David where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
    Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
    And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,
    In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
    Of a kingdom not human but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth
    Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
    Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:
    The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
    The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
    And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
    Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
    With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
    And returned to their homes by another way.








The Wind Over the Chimney


See, the fire is sinking low,
Dusky red the embers glow,
    While above them still I cower,
While a moment more I linger,
Though the clock, with lifted finger,
    Points beyond the midnight hour.

Sings the blackened log a tune
Learned in some forgotten June
    From a school-boy at his play,
When they both were young together,
Heart of youth and summer weather
    Making all their holiday.

And the night-wind rising, hark!
How above there in the dark,
    In the midnight and the snow,
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,
Like the trumpets of Iskander,
    All the noisy chimneys blow!

Every quivering tongue of flame
Seems to murmur some great name,
    Seems to say to me, "Aspire!"
But the night-wind answers, "Hollow
Are the visions that you follow,
    Into darkness sinks your fire!"

Then the flicker of the blaze
Gleams on volumes of old days,
    Written by masters of the art,
Loud through whose majestic pages
Rolls the melody of ages,
    Throb the harp-strings of the heart.

And again the tongues of flame
Start exulting and exclaim:
    "These are prophets, bards, and seers;
In the horoscope of nations,
Like ascendant constellations,
    They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries: "Despair!
Those who walk with feet of air
    Leave no long-enduring marks;
At God's forges incandescent
Mighty hammers beat incessant,
    These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought;
Books are sepulchres of thought;
    The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,
Like the withered leaves in lonely
    Churchyards at some passing tread."

Suddenly the flame sinks down;
Sink the rumors of renown;
    And alone the night-wind drear
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,--
"'T is the brand of Meleager
    Dying on the hearth-stone here!"

And I answer,--"Though it be,
Why should that discomfort me?
    No endeavor is in vain;
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing
    Is the prize the vanquished gain."








written in Longfellow's college years, before he was 19


Woods in Winter


When winter winds are piercing chill,
    And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
    That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
    Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
    And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
    The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
    The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
    Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
    And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
    When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
    And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
    Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
    Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds!    my ear
    Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
    I listen, and it cheers me long.








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