The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

returning from adventures wild,

       He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink.

      Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same

       Year after year, through all the silent night

      Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame,

       Shines on that inextinguishable light!

      It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

       The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;

      It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,

       And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.

      The startled waves leap over it; the storm

       Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,

      And steadily against its solid form

       Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.

      The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din

       Of wings and winds and solitary cries,

      Blinded and maddened by the light within,

       Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.

      A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,

       Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,

      It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,

       But hails the mariner with words of love.

      "Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships!

       And with your floating bridge the ocean span;

      Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,

       Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!"

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD

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DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD

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      We sat within the farm-house old,

       Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,

      Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,

       An easy entrance, night and day.

      Not far away we saw the port,

       The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,

      The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,

       The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

      We sat and talked until the night,

       Descending, filled the little room;

      Our faces faded from the sight,

       Our voices only broke the gloom.

      We spake of many a vanished scene,

       Of what we once had thought and said,

      Of what had been, and might have been,

       And who was changed, and who was dead;

      And all that fills the hearts of friends,

       When first they feel, with secret pain,

      Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,

       And never can be one again;

      The first slight swerving of the heart,

       That words are powerless to express,

      And leave it still unsaid in part,

       Or say it in too great excess.

      The very tones in which we spake

       Had something strange, I could but mark;

      The leaves of memory seemed to make

       A mournful rustling in the dark.

      Oft died the words upon our lips,

       As suddenly, from out the fire

      Built of the wreck of stranded ships,

       The flames would leap and then expire.

      And, as their splendor flashed and failed,

       We thought of wrecks upon the main,

      Of ships dismasted, that were hailed

       And sent no answer back again.

      The windows, rattling in their frames,

       The ocean, roaring up the beach,

      The gusty blast, the bickering flames,

       All mingled vaguely in our speech.

      Until they made themselves a part

       Of fancies floating through the brain,

      The long-lost ventures of the heart,

       That send no answers back again.

      O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!

       They were indeed too much akin,

      The drift-wood fire without that burned,

       The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

      BY THE FIRESIDE

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RESIGNATION

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      There is no flock, however watched and tended,

       But one dead lamb is there!

      There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

       But has one vacant chair!

      The air is full of farewells to the dying,

       And mournings for the dead;

      The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

       Will not be comforted!

      Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

       Not from the ground arise,

      But oftentimes celestial benedictions

       Assume this dark disguise.

      We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;

       Amid these earthly damps

      What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

       May be heaven's distant lamps.

      There is no Death! What seems so is transition;

       This life of mortal breath

      Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

       Whose portal we call Death.

      She is not dead—the child of our affection—

       But gone unto that school

      Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

       And Christ himself doth rule.

      In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

       By guardian angels led,

      Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

       She lives, whom we call dead.

      Day after day we think what she is doing

       In those bright realms of air;

      Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,