Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet!
Womanhood and childhood fleet !

Henry W. Longfellow.

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

Henry W. Longfellow.

EXCELSIOR.

Ar break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior !

A traveler, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far.
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

Henry W. Longfellow.

ENDYMION.

THE rising moon has hid the stars,
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,

With shadows brown between.

And silver-white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

Henry W. Longfellow.

THE STARS.

THE star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

O fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

THE SPRING.

Henry W. Longfellow.

THE Sun is bright, the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elms I hear
The blue-bird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where, waiting till the west wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
Henry W. Longfellow.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR.

ONCE as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning out tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.

Henry W. Longfellow.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

AND children coming home from school
Look in at the open door:

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Henry W. Longfellow.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

THERE is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,

He

reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

Henry W. Longfellow.

FLOWERS.

And with childlike, credulous affection,
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.

Henry W. Longfellow.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

ERE the evening lamps are lighted,
And like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall.

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;

The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more

Henry W. Longfellow.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I HAVE read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms, vast and wan,
Beleaguer the human soul.

Henry W. Longfellow.

VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD.

VISIONS of childhood! Stay, O stay!
Ye were so sweet and wild!
And distant voices seemed to say,
"It cannot be ! they pass away!
Other themes demand thy lay;
Thou art no more a child!"

Henry W. Longfellow.

SELECTIONS PROM VARIOUS POEMS.

O THOU child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands,-life hath snares!

A FEELING of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles rain.

AND the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

THE hooded clouds, like friars,

Tell their beads in drops of rain.

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

INTO each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

THE heights by great men reached and kept,
Were not attained by sudden flight
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.

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.

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.

Henry W. Longfellow.

PENTUCKET.

How sweetly on the wood-girt town

The mellow light of sunset shone !

Each small, bright lake, whose waters still