30

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!
And strive to make my steps keep pace
with thine.

The air is filled with some unknown perfume;

The congregation of the dead make room For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine; Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine

The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.

From the confessionals I hear arise
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies,
And lamentations from the crypts below;
And then a voice celestial that begins 40
With the pathetic words, "Although your
sins

As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow.'

star of morning and of liberty! O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines

Above the darkness of the Apennines,
Forerunner of the day that is to be!
The voices of the city and the sea,
The voices of the mountains and the pines,
Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines
Are footpaths for the thought of Italy!
Thy flame is blown abroad from all the
heights,

Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,

80

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,

In their own language hear the wondrous word,

And many are amazed and many doubt. 1866

KILLED AT THE FORD 1

1866.

He is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose
pleasant word,

Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

1 In a letter dated March 23, 1866, Longfellow states that this poem was not the record of a particular event.

Carried him back to the silent camp.
And laid him as if asleep on his bed;
And I saw by the light of the surgeon's
lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,
And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth, 30
Till it reached a town in the distant
North,

Till it reached a house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat Without a murmur, without a cry;

And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,

For one who had passed from cross to

crown,

And the neighbors wondered that she should die.

1866. The Atlantic Monthly, April, 1866.

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY"

In the Athenæum Gallery

Well, Miss, I wonder where you live,
I wonder what's your name,
I wonder how you came to be
In such a stylish frame;

Perhaps you were a favorite child,
Perhaps an only one;

Perhaps your friends were not aware
You had your portrait done!

Yet you must be a harmless soul;
I cannot think that Sin

Would care to throw his loaded dice,
With such a stake to win;

I cannot think you would provoke
The poet's wicked pen,

Or make young women bite their lips,
Or ruin fine young men.

Pray, did you ever hear, my love,
Of boys that go about,
Who, for a very trifling sum,
Will snip one's picture out?
I'm not averse to red and white,
But all things have their place,
I think a profile cut in black

Would suit your style of face!

I love sweet features; I will own
That I should like myself

To see my portrait on a wall,
Or bust upon a shelf;

But nature sometimes makes one up
Of such sad odds and ends,

It really might be quite as well Hushed up among one's friends!

10

20

30

The Amateur, June 15, 1830.

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,

His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,

And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;

Oh there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,

But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!.

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,—“Oh, what was that, my daughter?"

"'T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water."

"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"

"T is nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's been a-swimming past."

20

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,—“Now bring me my harpoon!

I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."

Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,

Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like seaweed on a clam,

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,

And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;

But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,

And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

The Amateur, July 17, 1830.

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS

There are three ways in which men take One's money from his purse,

And very hard it is to tell

Which of the three is worse;

But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.

You 're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;

A fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about
A bullet in your brains.

It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;
It's very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;

And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you 're going out to dine,-
Some odious creature begs

You'll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,

Poor little, lovely innocents,
All clamorous for bread,-
And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.

You 're sitting on your window-seat,
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound, that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide

Of music seems to come,

There's something like a human voice, And something like a drum;

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20

30

40

You sit in speechless agony,

Until your ear is numb.

Poor "home, sweet home" should seem to be

A very dismal place;

Your "auld acquaintance" all at once
Is altered in the face;

Their discords sting through Burns and
Moore,

Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.
You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,
And break the legs of Time.

But hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,

And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound;

It cannot be,-it is,-it is,

A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,

And pay the owner of the bear

That stunned you with his paw,
And buy the lobster that has had
Your knuckles in his claw;

But if you are a portly man,
Put on your fiercest frown,
And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town;
Then close your sentence with an oath,
And shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat!

50

70

New England Galaxy, 1830.

OLD IRONSIDES 1

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;

1 The "Constitution" was launched in 1797, served against the pirates in the Mediterranean, and became famous for her exploits in the War of 1812. She was almost entirely rebuilt in 1834 and continued in commission until 1881. See Freneau's "Ode on the Frigate Constitution," p. 115,