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

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Has grown familiar with your song;

      I hear it in the opening year,

       I listen, and it cheers me long.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

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

      "Take thy banner! May it wave

       Proudly o'er the good and brave;

       When the battle's distant wail

       Breaks the sabbath of our vale.

       When the clarion's music thrills

       To the hearts of these lone hills,

       When the spear in conflict shakes,

       And the strong lance shivering breaks.

       "Take thy banner! and, beneath

       The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,

       Guard it, till our homes are free!

       Guard it! God will prosper thee!

       In the dark and trying hour,

       In the breaking forth of power,

       In the rush of steeds and men,

       His right hand will shield thee then.

       "Take thy banner! But when night

       Closes round the ghastly fight,

       If the vanquished warrior bow,

       Spare him! By our holy vow,

       By our prayers and many tears,

       By the mercy that endears,

       Spare him! he our love hath shared!

       Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!

       "Take thy banner! and if e'er

       Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,

       And the muffled drum should beat

       To the tread of mournful feet,

       Then this crimson flag shall be

       Martial cloak and shroud for thee."

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

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

      Was glorious with the sun's returning march,

      And woods were brightened, and soft gales

      Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

      The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,

      They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,

      And, in their fading glory, shone

      Like hosts in battle overthrown.

      As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance.

      Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,

      And rocking on the cliff was left

      The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.

      The veil of cloud was lifted, and below

      Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow

      Was darkened by the forest's shade,

      Or glistened in the white cascade;

      Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,

      The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

       I heard the distant waters dash,

      I saw the current whirl and flash,

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

      The woods were bending with a silent reach.

      Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,

      The music of the village bell

      Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;

      And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,

      Was ringing to the merry shout,

      That faint and far the glen sent out,

      Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,

      Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.

       If thou art worn and hard beset

      With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,

      If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep

      Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,

      Go to the woods and hills! No tears

      Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

       Table of Contents

      There is a quiet spirit in these woods,

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

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

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

      The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.

      With what a tender and impassioned voice

      It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,

      When the fast ushering star of morning comes

      O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;

      Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,

      In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,

      Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves

      In the green valley, where the silver brook,

      From its full laver, pours the white cascade;

      And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

      Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.

      And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

      Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

      In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

      And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid

      The silent majesty of these deep woods,

      Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,

      As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air

      Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards

      Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.

      For them there was an eloquent voice in all

      The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,

      The flowers, the leaves, the river

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