The Complete Poems - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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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 on its way,

      Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,

      The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun

      Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,

      Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,

      Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,

      The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,

      In many a lazy syllable, repeating

      Their old poetic legends to the wind.

       And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill

      The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,

      My busy fancy oft embodies it,

      As a bright image of the light and beauty

      That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms

      We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues

      That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds

      When the sun sets. Within her tender eye

      The heaven of April, with its changing light,

      And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,

      And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair

      Is like the summer tresses of the trees,

      When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek

      Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,

      With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,

      It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

      As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes

      Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy

      To have it round us, and her silver voice

      Is the rich music of a summer bird,

      Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

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      On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down, The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its golden leaves.

      Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes.

      But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave.

      They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.

      A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads.

      Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death dirge of the slain; Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief.

      Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.

      They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.

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      Ye voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose!

      Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!"

      Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm!

      Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest dark and hoar!

      Tongues of the dead, not lost But speaking from deaths frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!

      Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps!

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      "Speak! speak I thou fearful guest

       Who, with thy hollow breast

       Still in rude armor drest,

       Comest to daunt me!

       Wrapt not in Eastern balms,

       Bat with thy fleshless palms

       Stretched, as if asking alms,

       Why dost thou haunt me?"

      Then, from those cavernous eyes

      Pale flashes seemed to rise,

      As when the Northern skies

       Gleam in December;

      And, like the water's flow

      Under December's snow,

      Came a dull voice of woe

       From the heart's chamber.

      "I

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