HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW WOODS IN WINTER (1807-1882) 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, 10 When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, 19 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. United States Literary Gazette, Feb. 1, 1825. BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down The glory that the wood receives, At sunset. in its golden leaves. Far upward in the mellow light In the warm blush of evening shone; 10 By which the Indian's soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard They sang, that by his native bowers A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin And the broad belt of shells and beads. 30 Before, a dark-haired virgin train Stripped of his proud and martial dress, They buried the dark chief; they freed 1825. 40 Atlantic Souvenir for 1827. A PSALM OF LIFE What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 10 And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Lives of great men all remind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, 20 30 Knickerbocker Magazine, Oct., 1838. PRELUDE 1 Pleasant it was, when woods were green 1 Written as introduction to the "Voices of the Night" collected and published in 1839. |