The Complete Poems. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

       TO VITTORIA COLONNA

       VII

       DANTE

       VIII

       CANZONE

       THE NATURE OF LOVE

       BY GUIDO GUINIZELLI

       FROM THE PORTUGUESE

       SONG

       BY GIL VICENTE

       FROM EASTERN SOURCES

       THE FUGITIVE

       A TARTAR SONG

       I

       II

       III

       THE SIEGE OF KAZAN

       THE BOY AND THE BROOK

       TO THE STORK

       FROM THE LATIN

       VIRGIL'S FIRST ECLOGUE

       OVID IN EXILE

       AT TOMIS, IN BESSARABIA, NEAR THE MOUTHS OF THE DANUBE.

       TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy XII.

      Pleasant it was, when woods were green,

       And winds were soft and low,

      To lie amid some sylvan scene.

      Where, the long drooping boughs between,

      Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

       Alternate come and go;

      Or where the denser grove receives

       No sunlight from above,

      But the dark foliage interweaves

      In one unbroken roof of leaves,

      Underneath whose sloping eaves

       The shadows hardly move.

      Beneath some patriarchal tree

       I lay upon the ground;

      His hoary arms uplifted he,

      And all the broad leaves over me

      Clapped their little hands in glee,

       With one continuous sound;—

      A slumberous sound, a sound that brings

       The feelings of a dream,

      As of innumerable wings,

      As, when a bell no longer swings,

      Faint the hollow murmur rings

       O'er meadow, lake, and stream.

      And dreams of that which cannot die,

       Bright visions, came to me,

      As lapped in thought I used to lie,

      And gaze into the summer sky,

      Where the sailing clouds went by,

       Like ships upon the sea;

      Dreams that the soul of youth engage

       Ere Fancy has been quelled;

      Old legends of the monkish page,

      Traditions of the saint and sage,

      Tales that have the rime of age,

       And chronicles of Eld.

      And, loving still these quaint old themes,

       Even in the city's throng

      I feel the freshness of the streams,

      That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,

      Water the green land of dreams,

       The holy land of song.

      Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings

       The Spring, clothed like a bride,

      When nestling buds unfold their wings,

      And bishop's-caps have golden rings,

      Musing upon many things,

       I sought the woodlands wide.

      The green trees whispered low and mild;

       It was a sound of joy!

      They were my playmates when a child,

      And rocked me in their arms so wild!

      Still they looked at me and smiled,

       As if I were a boy;

      And ever whispered, mild and low,

       "Come, be a child once more!"

      And waved their long arms to and fro,

      And beckoned solemnly and slow;

      O, I could not choose but go

       Into the woodlands hoar—

      Into the blithe and breathing air,

       Into the solemn wood,

      Solemn and silent everywhere

      Nature with folded hands seemed there

      Kneeling at her evening prayer!

       Like one in prayer I stood.

      Before me rose an avenue

       Of tall and sombrous pines;

      Abroad their fan-like branches grew,

      And, where the sunshine darted through,

      Spread a vapor soft and blue,

       In long and sloping lines.

      And, falling on my weary brain,

       Like a fast-falling shower,

      The dreams of youth came back again,

      Low lispings of the summer rain,

      Dropping on the ripened grain,

       As once upon the flower.

      Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay!

       Ye were so sweet and wild!

      And distant