The Complete Poems. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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,

       When birds sang out their mellow lay,

      And winds were soft, and woods were green,

       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.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM

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AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.

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      When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.

      "Take thy banner! May it wave

       Proudly o'er the good and brave;

       When the battle's distant wail

       Breaks the sabbath of our vale.

       When the clarion's music thrills

       To the hearts of these lone hills,

       When the spear in conflict shakes,

       And the strong lance shivering breaks.

       "Take thy banner! and, beneath

       The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,

       Guard it, till our homes are free!

       Guard it! God will prosper thee!

       In the dark and trying hour,

       In the breaking forth of power,

       In the rush of steeds and men,

       His right hand will shield thee then.

       "Take thy banner! But when night

       Closes round the ghastly fight,

       If the vanquished warrior bow,

       Spare him! By our holy vow,

       By our prayers and many tears,

       By the mercy that endears,

       Spare him! he our love hath shared!

       Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!

       "Take thy banner! and if e'er

       Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,

       And the muffled drum should beat

       To the tread of mournful feet,

       Then this crimson flag shall be

       Martial cloak and shroud for thee."

      The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS

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      I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch

      Was glorious with the sun's returning march,

      And woods were brightened, and soft gales

      Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

      The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,

      They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,

      And, in their fading glory, shone

      Like hosts in battle overthrown.

      As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance.

      Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,

      And rocking on the cliff was left

      The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.

      The veil of cloud was lifted, and below

      Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow

      Was darkened by the forest's shade,

      Or glistened in the white cascade;

      Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,

      The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

       I heard the distant waters dash,

      I saw the current whirl and flash,

      And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,

      The woods were bending with a silent reach.

      Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,

      The music of the village bell

      Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;

      And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,

      Was ringing to the merry shout,

      That faint and far the glen sent out,

      Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,

      Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.

       If thou art worn and hard beset

      With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,

      If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep

      Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,

      Go to the woods and hills! No tears

      Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY

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      There is a quiet spirit in these woods,

      That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;

      Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,

      The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,

      The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.

      With what a tender and impassioned voice

      It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,

      When the fast ushering star of morning comes

      O'er-riding the gray hills with