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

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across the setting sun,

       Across the boundless plain,

      The column and its broader shadow run,

       Till thought pursues in vain.

      The vision vanishes! These walls again

       Shut out the lurid sun,

      Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain;

       The half-hour's sand is run!

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      The old house by the lindens

       Stood silent in the shade,

      And on the gravelled pathway

       The light and shadow played.

      I saw the nursery windows

       Wide open to the air;

      But the faces of the children,

       They were no longer there.

      The large Newfoundland house-dog

       Was standing by the door;

      He looked for his little playmates,

       Who would return no more.

      They walked not under the lindens,

       They played not in the hall;

      But shadow, and silence, and sadness

       Were hanging over all.

      The birds sang in the branches,

       With sweet, familiar tone;

      But the voices of the children

       Will be heard in dreams alone!

      And the boy that walked beside me,

       He could not understand

      Why closer in mine, ah! closer,

       I pressed his warm, soft hand!

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      Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,

       Ere yet his last he breathed,

      To the merry monks of Croyland

       His drinking-horn bequeathed—

      That, whenever they sat at their revels,

       And drank from the golden bowl,

      They might remember the donor,

       And breathe a prayer for his soul.

      So sat they once at Christmas,

       And bade the goblet pass;

      In their beards the red wine glistened

       Like dew-drops in the grass.

      They drank to the soul of Witlaf,

       They drank to Christ the Lord,

      And to each of the Twelve Apostles,

       Who had preached his holy word.

      They drank to the Saints and Martyrs

       Of the dismal days of yore,

      And as soon as the horn was empty

       They remembered one Saint more.

      And the reader droned from the pulpit

       Like the murmur of many bees,

      The legend of good Saint Guthlac,

       And Saint Basil's homilies;

      Till the great bells of the convent,

       From their prison in the tower,

      Guthlac and Bartholomaeus,

       Proclaimed the midnight hour.

      And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,

       And the Abbot bowed his head,

      And the flamelets flapped and flickered,

       But the Abbot was stark and dead.

      Yet still in his pallid fingers

       He clutched the golden bowl,

      In which, like a pearl dissolving,

       Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

      But not for this their revels

       The jovial monks forbore,

      For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!

       We must drink to one Saint more!"

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      By his evening fire the artist

       Pondered o'er his secret shame;

      Baffled, weary, and disheartened,

       Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.

      'T was an image of the Virgin

       That had tasked his utmost skill;

      But, alas! his fair ideal

       Vanished and escaped him still.

      From a distant Eastern island

       Had the precious wood been brought

      Day and night the anxious master

       At his toil untiring wrought;

      Till, discouraged and desponding,

       Sat he now in shadows deep,

      And the day's humiliation

       Found oblivion in sleep.

      Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master!

       From the burning brand of oak

      Shape the thought that stirs within thee!"

       And the startled artist woke—

      Woke, and from the smoking embers

       Seized and quenched the glowing wood;

      And therefrom he carved an image,

       And he saw that it was good.

      O thou sculptor, painter, poet!

       Take this lesson to thy heart:

      That is best which lieth nearest;

       Shape from that thy work of art.

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      Once into a quiet village,

       Without haste and without heed,

      In the golden prime of morning,

       Strayed the poet's winged steed.

      It was Autumn, and incessant

       Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,

      And, like living coals, the apples

       Burned among the withering leaves.

      Loud the clamorous bell was ringing

       From its belfry gaunt and grim;

      'T was the daily call to labor,

       Not a triumph meant for him.

      Not

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