Then were these teachers still:
This moon, yon quiet hill,
The sea, and more than all, the swelling breeze that brings,
With every hour like this,
A dream of life and bliss,
With healing to the sad heart on its wings.
Then would the chanted strain
Of the old bard again
Bring cheerful thoughts once more around the evening fire;
Then would the pure and young,
Such as the minstrel sung,
Once more rejoice to hear the young earth's infant lyre.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Born at Portland, Maine, 1807.
THE LIGHT OF STARS.
THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon
Drops down behind the sky.
There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.
Is it the tender star of love?
The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above, A hero's armour gleams.
And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,
The shield of that red star.
O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, And I am strong again.
Within my breast there is no light, But the cold light of stars; I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars.
The star of the unconquer'd will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possess'd.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm!
O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.
THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary: My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,
Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all: Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
THE QUADROON GIRL.
THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moor'd with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale.
Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew Watch'd the gray alligator slide Into the still bayou.
Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, Reach'd them from time to time, Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon a world of crime.
The Planter, under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seem'd in haste to go.
He said "My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon;
I only wait the evening tides, And the rising of the moon."
Before them, with her face upraised, In timid attitude,
Like one half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood.
eyes were large, and full of light, Her arms and neck were bare;
No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, And her own long raven hair.
And on her lips there play'd a smile As holy, meek, and faint,
As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint.
“The soil is barren,--the farm is old;" The thoughtful Planter said; Then look'd upon the Slaver's gold, And then upon the maid.
His heart within him was at strife With such accursed gains;
For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins.
But the voice of nature was too weak; He took the glittering gold!
Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold.
The Slaver led her from the door,
He led her by the hand.
To be his slave and paramour In a strange and distant land!
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 row'd 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 climb'd to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And started the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,- Up the light ladder, slender 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, Wrapp'd 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,
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