\ShPreface "Mad, bad and dangerous to know," according to one of his lovers, Byron came of a dissolute family given to marrying first cousins, though he over-stepped the mark when he had an affair with his half-sister. All of this is generally far better known than any of his poetry — a bit like the way in which van Gogh's ear is known to people who cannot tell a van Gogh from a van Daub. Byron was born in 1788, and died in Greece in 1824 while helping fight for Greek independence, leaving much excellent poetry behind him, as well as some reflections on science. He also left behind a daughter, Ada Byron (later Lovelace), who contributed greatly to the development of Babbage's various computers. Like Percy Bysshe Shelley, he was not unaware of science. Here is a comment he made in 1821 or 1822: \IMan is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms.\i Indeed, atoms seems to be a repeating theme. Some years earlier, he had written to his future wife: \IWhy I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to enquire-in the midst of myriads of the living & the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?\i And some years after his death, his half-sister, Augusta Leigh, wrote ungrammatically to Byron's publisher: \IThank God! none of my children have an atom of poetry in their composition!\i Byron left Aberdeen Grammar School for Harrow at the age of ten, but never forgot his Scottish roots, as we can see in \ILochnagar\i, which celebrates a steep, mountain ridge with four distinct peaks above a loch with the same name, in the Cairngorm mountains of Scotland. Because it is usually encountered as a song, it is often regarded as 'trad.', but it is nothing of the sort. Listed below are 11 different Lord Byron poems. Clicking on any link will take you directly to that poem. \B <a name=“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b <a href=#“poem1”>I would I were a careless child</a> <a href=#“poem2”>Lochnagar</a> <a href=#“poem3”>She Walks in Beauty</a> <a href=#“poem4”>Solitude (Byron)</a> <a href=#“poem5”>Stanzas for music</a> <a href=#“poem6”>The Destruction of Sennacherib</a> <a href=#“poem7”>The Dream (Byron poem)</a> <a href=#“poem8”>The Isles of Greece</a> <a href=#“poem9”>Untitled (Byron's Epitaph for Lord Castlereagh)</a> <a href=#“poem10”>When Newton saw an apple fall</a> <a href=#“poem11”>When we two parted</a> \Sh<a name=“poem1”>I would I were a careless child</a> \BI would I were a careless child,\b Still dwelling in my highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. \BFortune! take back these cultured lands,\b Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me among the rocks I love, Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; I ask but this — again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. \BFew are my years, and yet I feel\b The world was ne'er designed for me: Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be? Once I beheld a splendid dream, A visionary scene of bliss: Truth! — wherefore did thy hated beam Awake me to a world like this? \BI loved — but those I loved are gone;\b Had friends — my early friends are fled: How cheerless feels the heart alone When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, The heart — the heart — is lonely still. \BHow dull! to hear the voice of those\b Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist'rous joy is but a name. \BAnd woman, lovely woman! thou,\b My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my bosom now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! Without a sigh I would resign This busy scene of splendid woe, To make that calm contentment mine, Which virtue knows, or seems to know. \BFain would I fly the haunts of men —\b I seek to shun, not hate mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, To flee away and be at rest. \BLord George Gordon Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem2”>Lochnagar</a> \BAway, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,\b In you let the minions of luxury rove, Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains, Round their white summits tho' elements war, Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar. \BAh! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,\b My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid. On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd As daily I strode thro' the pine-cover'd glade. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright Polar star, For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclos'd by the natives of dark Lochnagar! \BYears have roll'd on, Lochnagar, since I left you!\b Years must elapse ere I tread you again. Though nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England, thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roamed over mountains afar Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar. \BLord Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem3”>She Walks in Beauty</a> \BShe walks in beauty like the night\b Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to the tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. \BOne ray the more, one shade the less\b Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place. \BAnd on that cheek and o'er that brow\b So soft, so calm yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow But tell of days in goodness spent A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. \BGeorge Gordon, Lord Byron\b \BBack to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem4”>Solitude (Byron)</a> \BTo sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,\b To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled. \BBut midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,\b To hear, to see, to feel and to possess, And roam alone, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! \BLord Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem5”>Stanzas for music</a> \BThere be none of Beauty's daughters\b With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. \BAnd the midnight moon is weaving\b Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. \BLord Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem6”>The Destruction of Sennacherib</a> \BThe Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,\b And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. \BLike the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,\b That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. \BFor the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,\b And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! \BAnd there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,\b But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. \BAnd there lay the rider distorted and pale,\b With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. \BAnd the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,\b And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal, And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. \BGeorge Gordon, Lord Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem7”>The Dream (Byron poem)</a> \BI\b \BOur life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,\b A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off waking toils, They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity; They pass like spirits of the past — they speak Like sibyls of the future; they have power — The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; They make us what we were not — what they will, And shake us with the vision that's gone by, The dread of vanished shadows — Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? — What are they? Creations of the mind? — The mind can make Substances, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dreamed Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour. \BII\b \BI saw two beings in the hues of youth\b Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs: the hill Was crowned with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, Not by the sport of nature, but of man: These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing — the one on all that was beneath Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her; And both were young, and one was beautiful: And both were young — yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him; he had looked Upon it till it could not pass away; He had no breath, no being, but in hers: She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words; she was his sight, For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, Which coloured all his objects; — he had ceased To live within himself: she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all; upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony. But she in these fond feelings had no share: Her sighs were not for him; to her he was Even as a brother — but no more; 'twas much, For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestowed on him; Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-honoured race. — It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why? Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved Another; even now she loved another, And on the summit of that hill she stood Looking afar if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. \BIII\b \BA change came o'er the spirit of my dream.\b There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparisoned: Within an antique Oratory stood The Boy of whom I spake; — he was alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned His bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twere With a convulsion — then rose again, And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears. And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet: as he paused, The Lady of his love re-entered there; She was serene and smiling then, and yet She knew she was by him beloved; she knew — For quickly comes such knowledge — that his heart Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched, but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp He took her hand; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way; And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. \BIV\b \BA change came o'er the spirit of my dream.\b The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couched among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruined walls that had survived the names Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fastened near a fountain; and a man, Glad in a flowing garb, did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumbered around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in heaven. \BV\b \BA change came o'er the spirit of my dream.\b The Lady of his love was wed with One Who did not love her better: in her home, A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold! Upon her face there was a tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. What could her grief be? — she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be? — she had loved him not, Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Nor could he be a part of that which preyed Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. \BVI\b \BA change came o'er the spirit of my dream.\b The Wanderer was returned. — I saw him stand Before an altar — with a gentle bride; Her face was fair, but was not that which made The Starlight of his Boyhood; — as he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock That in the antique Oratory shook His bosom in its solitude; and then — As in that hour — a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced — and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reeled around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been — But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, And the remembered chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny, came back And thrust themselves between him and the light; What business had they there at such a time? \BVII\b \BA change came o'er the spirit of my dream.\b The Lady of his love; — Oh! she was changed, As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift; What is it but the telescope of truth? Which strips the distance of its fantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real! \BVIII\b \BA change came o'er the spirit of my dream.\b The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compassed round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed In all which was served up to him, until, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains; with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues: and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was opened wide, And voices from the deep abyss revealed A marvel and a secret. — Be it so. \BIX\b \BMy dream is past; it had no further change.\b It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality — the one To end in madness — both in misery \BLord Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem8”>The Isles of Greece</a> \BThe isles of Greece! the isles of Greece\b Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. \BThe Scian and the Teian muse,\b The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest. \BThe mountains look on Marathon -\b And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. \BA king sate on the rocky brow\b Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations; - all were his! He counted them at break of day - And when the sun set, where were they? \BAnd where are they? and where art thou,\b My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now - The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? \B'Tis something in the dearth of fame,\b Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush - for Greece a tear. \BMust we but weep o'er days more blest?\b Must we but blush? - Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae! \BWhat, silent still? and silent all?\b Ah! no; - the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, 'Let one living head, But one, arise, - we come, we come!' 'Tis but the living who are dumb. \BIn vain - in vain: strike other chords;\b Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine: Hark! rising to the ignoble call - How answers each bold Bacchanal! \BYou have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;\b Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave - Think ye he meant them for a slave? \BFill high the bowl with Samian wine!\b We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served - but served Polycrates - A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. \BThe tyrant of the Chersonese\b Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! O that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. \BFill high the bowl with Samian wine!\b On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. \BTrust not for freedom to the Franks -\b They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells: But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad. \BFill high the bowl with Samian wine!\b Our virgins dance beneath the shade - I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. \BPlace me on Sunium's marbled steep,\b Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine - Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! \BGeorge Gordon Byron, Lord Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem9”>Untitled (Byron's Epitaph for Lord Castlereagh)</a> \BPosterity will ne'er survey A nobler scene than this. Here lie the bones of Castlereagh. Stop traveller, and piss. \BLord Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem10”>When Newton saw an apple fall</a> \BWhen Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation - 'Tis \Isaid\i (for I'll not answer above ground For any sage's creed or calculation) - A mode of proving that the earth turned round In a most natural whirl, called 'gravitation'; And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple. \BMan fell with apples, and with apples rose, If this be true; for we must deem the mode In which Sir Isaac could disclose Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, A thing to counterbalance human woes: For, ever since, immortal man hath glowed With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. \BGeorge Gordon, Lord Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem11”>When we two parted</a> \BWhen we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. \BThe dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow - It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. \BThey name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me - Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. \BIn secret we met - In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. \BGeorge Gordon Byron, Lord Byron\b \B Back to <a href=#“Byron”>LORD BYRON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b 2009-06-07T10:17:14+10:00 false 219 16 2009-06-08T22:53:38+10:00 \ShPreface Tennyson was born in Lincolnshire, England, in 1809, and died in 1892. He is one of the most popular English poets and was Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom Listed below are 13 different Lord Tennyson poems. Clicking on any link will take you directly to that poem. \B <a name=“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b <a href=#“poem1”>Blow, Bugle, blow</a> <a href=#“poem2”>Come Not, When I am Dead</a> <a href=#“poem3”>Early spring</a> <a href=#“poem4”>Maud (Tennyson poem)</a> <a href=#“poem5”>Ring Out, Wild Bells</a> <a href=#“poem6”>Song: the owl</a> <a href=#“poem7”>The Charge of the Light Brigade</a> <a href=#“poem8”>The death of the old year</a> <a href=#“poem9”>The Eagle (Tennyson poem)</a> <a href=#“poem10”>The Kraken (Tennyson poem)</a> <a href=#“poem11”>The Lady of Shalott</a> <a href=#“poem12”>The Lotos-Eaters</a> <a href=#“poem13”>Tithonus</a> \Sh<a name=“poem1”>Blow, Bugle, blow</a> \BThe splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going!\B O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. \BO love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem2”>Come Not, When I am Dead</a> \BCome not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest: Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie; Go by, go by. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem3”>Early spring</a> \BOnce more the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And domes the red-ploughed hills With loving blue; The blackbirds have their wills, The throstles too. \BOpens a door in Heaven; From skies of glass A Jacob's ladder falls On greening grass, And o'er the mountain-walls Young angels pass. \BBefore them fleets the shower, And burst the buds, And shine the level lands, And flash the floods; The stars are from their hands Flung through the woods, \BThe woods with living airs How softly fanned, Light airs from where the deep, All down the sand, Is breathing in his sleep, Heard by the land. \BO, follow, leaping blood, The season's lure! O heart, look down and up, Serene, secure, Warm as the crocus cup, Like snow-drops, pure! \BPast, Future glimpse and fade Through some slight spell, A gleam from yonder vale, Some far blue fell; And sympathies, how frail, In sound and smell! \BTill at thy chuckled note, Thou twinkling bird, The fairy fancies range, And, lightly stirred, Ring little bells of change From word to word. \BFor now the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And thaws the cold, and fills The flower with dew; The blackbirds have their wills, The poets too. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem4”>Maud (Tennyson poem)</a> \BCome into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, Night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown. \BFor a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die. \BAll night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon. \BI said to the lily, 'There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play.' Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. \BI said to the rose, 'The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose, 'For ever and ever, mine.' \BAnd the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash'd in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; \BFrom the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise. \BThe slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. \BQueen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. To the flowers, and be their sun. \BThere has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;' The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;' And the lily whispers, 'I wait.' \BShe is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem5”>Ring Out, Wild Bells</a> \BRing out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. \BRing out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. \BRing out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more, Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. \BRing out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. \BRing out the want, the care the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. \BRing out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. \BRing out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. \BRing in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem6”>Song: the owl</a> \BWhen cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. \BWhen merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem7”>The Charge of the Light Brigade</a> \BHalf a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. \BII.\b \B'Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. \BIII\b \BCannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. \BIV\b \BFlash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. \BV\b \BCannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. \BVI\b \BWhen can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem8”>The death of the old year</a> \BFull knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die. \BHe lieth still, he doth not move; He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above, He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. \BHe frothed his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. \BHe was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. \BHow hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps; the light burns low; 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die. \BHis face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes; tie up his chin; Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem9”>The Eagle (Tennyson poem)</a> \BHe clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. \BThe wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem10”>The Kraken (Tennyson poem)</a> \BBelow the thunders of the upper deep, Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides; above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous and secret cell Unnumber'd and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the lumbering green. There hath he lain for ages, and will lie Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem11”>The Lady of Shalott</a> \BPART I\b \BOn either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. \BWillows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. \BBy the margin, willow-veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? \BOnly reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.' \BPART II\b \BThere she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. \BAnd moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. \BSometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. \BBut in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; 'I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott. \BPART III\b \BA bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. \BThe gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. \BAll in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. \BHis broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'Tirra lirra,' by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. \BShe left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; 'The curse is come upon me!' cried The Lady of Shalott. \BPART IV\b \BIn the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. \BAnd down the river's dim expanse - Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance - With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. \BLying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right - The leaves upon her falling light - Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. \BHeard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. \BUnder tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. \BWho is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, 'She has a lovely face; God in His mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.' \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem12”>The Lotos-Eaters</a> \B"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. \BA land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. \BThe charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem'd the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. \BBranches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. \BThey sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, "We will return no more"; And all at once they sang, "Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." \BChoric Song\b \I \BThere is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentler on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. \BII \BWhy are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm!" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? \BIII \BLo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. \BIV \BHateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. \BV \BHow sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! \BVI \BDear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change: For surely now our household hearths are cold, Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. \BVII \BBut, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelid still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill - To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine - To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. \BVIII \BThe Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer - some, 'tis whisper'd - down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem13”>Tithonus</a> \BThe woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms. Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man-- So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed To his great heart none other than a God! I asked thee, "Give me immortality." Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills, And beat me down and marred and wasted me, And though they could not end me, left me maimed To dwell in presence of immortal youth, And all I was ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, though even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears, To hear me? Let me go; take back thy gift. Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renewed. Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosened manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth be true? "The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." Ay me! ay me! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch--if I be he that watched-- The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not forever in thine East; How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rose shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground. Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave; Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn, I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels. \BAlfred, Lord Tennyson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Tennyson”>LORD TENNYSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b 2009-06-07T16:18:12+10:00 false 221 16 2009-06-08T22:53:41+10:00 \ShPreface Longfellow was born in Maine in 1807 and died in 1882. In the interim, he spent a number of years as a professor of modern languages at Harvard, and did much to make American themes acceptable in poetry. For some reason, he is widely parodied. He had a sad married life with his two wives dying, one from a miscarriage and one from a fire. He was a very popular poet and was a member of the Fireside Poets – a group of five well-known 19th century American poets. Listed below are 20 different Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poems. Clicking on any link will take you directly to that poem. \B <a name=“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b <a href=#“poem1”>A Psalm Of Life</a> <a href=#“poem2”>Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie</a> <a href=#“poem3”>Excelsior (Longfellow poem)</a> <a href=#“poem4”>Four by the clock</a> <a href=#“poem5”>Haroun Al Raschid</a> <a href=#“poem6”>Hiawatha's Departure</a> <a href=#“poem7”>My Lost Youth</a> <a href=#“poem8”>Nature (Longfellow poem)</a> <a href=#“poem9”>Paul Revere's Ride</a> <a href=#“poem10”>Robert Burns (Longfellow poem)</a> <a href=#“poem11”>Santa Filomena</a> <a href=#“poem12”>The Arrow and the Song</a> <a href=#“poem13”>The Children's Hour</a> <a href=#“poem14”>The Cross of Snow</a> <a href=#“poem15”>The Day is Done</a> <a href=#“poem16”>The Rainy Day</a> <a href=#“poem17”>There Was a Little Girl</a> <a href=#“poem18”>The Slave's Dream</a> <a href=#“poem19”>The Village Blacksmith</a> <a href=#“poem20”>The Wreck of the Hesperus</a> \Sh<a name=“poem1”>A Psalm Of Life</a> \BWhat The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.\b \BTell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! - For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. \BLife is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. \BNot enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. \BArt is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. \BIn the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! \BTrust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, - act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! \BLives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; \BFootprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. \BLet us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow\b \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem2”>Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie</a> \BWadsworth wrote this poem in 1847. Its time is based on what is known in history as the Great Upheaval. This is when French colonists, called Acadians, were forcibly deported from the Canadian provinces of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia in the second half of the 18th century.\b \BThe poem concerns a girl called Evangeline and her search for Gabriel, her lost love. \BThis poem is around 16,000 words long, and only the introduction is provided here. \BThis is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers - Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré. Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow The above poem was the model for \IThe Metre Columbian\i poem, by Anonymous, listed below. \ShThe Metre Columbian \BThis verse is a parody of Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie. \BThis is the metre Columbian. The soft-flowing trochees and dactyls, Blended with fragments spondaic, and here and there an iambus, Syllables often sixteen, or more or less, as it happens, Difficult always to scan, and depending greatly on accent, Being a close imitation, in English, of Latin hexameters - Fluent in sound and avoiding the stiffness of blank verse, Having the grandeur and flow of America's mountains and rivers, Such as no bard could achieve in a mean little island like England; Oft, at the end of a line, the sentence dividing abruptly Breaks, and in accents mellifluous, follows the thoughts of the author. \BAnon. \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem3”>Excelsior (Longfellow poem)</a> \BThe shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device - Excelsior! \BHis brow was sad; his eye beneath Flashed like a falchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue - Excelsior! \BIn happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright, Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan - Excelsior! \B"Try not the pass," the old man said: "Dark lowers the tempest overhead; The roaring torrent is deep and wide." And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior! \B"Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered with a sigh, Excelsior! \B"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last Good-night: A voice replied, far up the height: Excelsior! \BAt break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior! \BA traveller, 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! \BThere 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! \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem4”>Four by the clock</a> \BFour by the clock! and yet not day; But the great world rolls and wheels away, With its cities on land, and its ships at sea, Into the dawn that is to be! \BOnly the lamp in the anchored bark Sends its glimmer across the dark, And the heavy breathing of the sea Is the only sound that comes to me. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem5”>Haroun Al Raschid</a> \BOne day, Haroun Al Raschid read \BA book wherein the poet said:- \B"Where are the kings, and where the rest Of those who once the world possessed? \B"They're gone with all their pomp and show, They're gone the way that thou shalt go. \B"O thou who choosest for thy share The world, and what the world calls fair, \B"Take all that it can give or lend, But know that death is at the end!" \BHaroun Al Raschid bowed his head: Tears fell upon the page he read. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem6”>Hiawatha's Departure</a> (from \IThe Song of Hiawatha\i) \BBy the shore of Gitchie Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam, In the pleasant Summer morning, Hiawatha stood and waited. All the air was full of freshness, All the earth was bright and joyous, And before him through the sunshine, Westward toward the neighboring forest Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, Passed the bees, the honey-makers, Burning, singing in the sunshine. Bright above him shown the heavens, Level spread the lake before him; From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, Aparkling, flashing in the sunshine; On its margin the great forest Stood reflected in the water, Every tree-top had its shadow, Motionless beneath the water. From the brow of Hiawatha Gone was every trace of sorrow, As the fog from off the water, And the mist from off the meadow. With a smile of joy and triumph, With a look of exultation, As of one who in a vision Sees what is to be, but is not, Stood and waited Hiawatha. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow For a parody, see \IThe Modern Hiawatha\i below by George A. Strong. We know nothing at all about Mr. Strong, but within the specialist art form of parodying 'Hiawatha', he is too good to leave out. His is a parody of the style seen in \IHiawatha's Departure\i. \ShThe Modern Hiawatha \BHe killed the noble Mudjokivis. Of the skin he made him mittens, Made them with the fur side inside, Made them with the skin side outside. He, to get the warm side inside, Put the inside skin side outside. He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside. That's why he put the fur side inside, Why he put the skin side outside, Why he turned them inside outside. \BGeorge A. Strong \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem7”>My Lost Youth</a> \BOften I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BI can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BI remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BI remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BI remember the sea-fight far away, How it thunder'd o'er the tide! And the dead sea-captains, as they lay In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BI can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighbourhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BI remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the schoolboy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BThere are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BStrange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BAnd Deering's woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, 'And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem8”>Nature (Longfellow poem)</a> \BAs a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem9”>Paul Revere's Ride</a> \BListen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. \BHe said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,- One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm For the country folk to be up and to arm," \BThen he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. \BMeanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. \BThen he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,- By the trembling ladder, steep and tall To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. \BBeneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,- A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. \BMeanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! \BA hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. \BIt was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. \BIt was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. \BIt was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. \BYou know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. \BSo through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem10”>Robert Burns (Longfellow poem)</a> \BI see amid the fields of Ayr A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, Sings at his task So clear, we know not if it is The laverock's song we hear, or his, Nor care to ask. \BFor him the ploughing of those fields A more ethereal harvest yields Than sheaves of grain; Songs flush with Purple bloom the rye, The plover's call, the curlew's cry, Sing in his brain. \BTouched by his hand, the wayside weed Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed Beside the stream Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass And heather, where his footsteps pass, The brighter seem. \BHe sings of love, whose flame illumes The darkness of lone cottage rooms; He feels the force, The treacherous undertow and stress Of wayward passions, and no less The keen remorse. \BAt moments, wrestling with his fate, His voice is harsh, but not with hate; The brushwood, hung Above the tavern door, lets fall Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall Upon his tongue. \BBut still the music of his song Rises o'er all elate and strong; Its master-chords Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood, Its discords but an interlude Between the words. \BAnd then to die so young and leave Unfinished what he might achieve! Yet better sure Is this, than wandering up and down An old man in a country town, Infirm and poor. \BFor now he haunts his native land As an immortal youth; his hand Guides every plough; He sits beside each ingle-nook, His voice is in each rushing brook, Each rustling bough. \BHis presence haunts this room to-night, A form of mingled mist and light From that far coast. Welcome beneath this roof of mine! Welcome! this vacant chair is thine, Dear guest and ghost! \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem11”>Santa Filomena</a> \BWhene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. \BThe tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. \BHonor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! \BThus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,— \BThe wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. \BLo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. \BAnd slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. \BAs if a door in heaven should be Opened, and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone was spent. \BOn England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past. \BA lady with a lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood. \BNor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem12”>The Arrow and the Song</a> \BI shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where: For so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. \BI breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? \BLong, long afterward, in an oak, I found the arrow still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem13”>The Children's Hour</a> \BBetween the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations That is known as the Children's Hour. \BI hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. \BFrom my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall-stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. \BA whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. \BA sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall! \BThey climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. \BThey almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! \BDo you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all? \BI have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeons In the round-tower of my heart. \BAnd there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away! \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem14”>The Cross of Snow</a> \BThis poem was written by Longfellow two years before he died. It reflects on the death of his second wife, Frances, who died when her dress caught fire. In trying to put out the fire, Longfellow was also badly burned \BIn the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face - the face of one long dead - Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. Here in this room she died; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight*. There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died. \Ibenedight*\i blessed \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem15”>The Day is Done</a> \BThe day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. \BI see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: \BA feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. \BCome, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. \BNot from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time, \BFor, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour; And tonight I long for rest. \BRead from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; \BWho, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. \BSuch songs have a power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And comes like the benediction That follows after prayer. \BThen read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. \BAnd 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. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem16”>The Rainy Day</a> \BThe day is cold, and dark, and dreary It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. \BMy life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. \BBe still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem17”>There Was a Little Girl</a> \BThere was a little girl, who had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead, And when she was good she was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid. \BShe stood on her head, on her little trundle-bed, With nobody by for to hinder; She screamed and she squalled, she yelled and she bawled, And drummed her little heels against the winder. \BHer mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys Playing in the empty attic, She rushed upstairs, and caught her unawares, And spanked her, most emphatic. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem18”>The Slave's Dream</a> \BBeside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land. \BWide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain-road. \BHe saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand!- A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand. \BAnd then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. \BBefore him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. \BAt night he heard the lion roar, And the hyena scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream. \BThe forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee. \BHe did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem19”>The Village Blacksmith</a> \BUnder a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. \BHis hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. \BWeek in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. \BAnd 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. \BHe 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 it makes his heart rejoice. \BIt 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. \BToiling, - rejoicing, - sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. \BThanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \Sh<a name=“poem20”>The Wreck of the Hesperus</a> \BIt was the schooner Hesperus That sailed the wintry sea: And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. \BBlue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds The ope in the month of May. \BThe skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. \BThen up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. \B"Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And tonight no moon we see!" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. \BColder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. \BDown came the storm, and smote amain, The vessel in its strength: She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. \B"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so: For I can weather the roughest gale, That ever wind did blow." \BHe wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. \B"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?" "Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"- And he steered for the open sea. \B"O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" \B"O father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. \BLashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. \BThen the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. \BAnd fast through the midnight dark and drear Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. \BAnd ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. \BThe breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a weary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. \BShe struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. \BHer rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! \BAt daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast. \BThe salt sea was frozed on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. \BSuch was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! \BHenry Wadsworth Longfellow \B Back to <a href=#“Longfellow”>H W LONGFELLOW LIST OF POEMS</a>\b 2009-06-08T22:26:25+10:00 false 222 16 2009-06-08T22:53:33+10:00