The Complete Poems - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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and the mist,

      And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

       That my soul cannot resist:

      A feeling of sadness and longing,

       That is not akin to pain,

      And resembles sorrow only

       As the mist resembles the rain.

      Come, read to me some poem,

       Some simple and heartfelt lay,

      That shall soothe this restless feeling,

       And banish the thoughts of day.

      Not from the grand old masters,

       Not from the bards sublime,

      Whose distant footsteps echo

       Through the corridors of Time.

      For, like strains of martial music,

       Their mighty thoughts suggest

      Life's endless toil and endeavor;

       And to-night I long for rest.

      Read from some humbler poet,

       Whose songs gushed from his heart,

      As showers from the clouds of summer,

       Or tears from the eyelids start;

      Who, through long days of labor,

       And nights devoid of ease,

      Still heard in his soul the music

       Of wonderful melodies.

      Such songs have power to quiet

       The restless pulse of care,

      And come like the benediction

       That follows after prayer.

      Then read from the treasured volume

       The poem of thy choice,

      And lend to the rhyme of the poet

       The beauty of thy voice.

      And the night shall be filled with music

       And the cares, that infest the day,

      Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

       And as silently steal away.

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      The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead.

      Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red.

      The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain;

      While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train.

      The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell;

      Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell.

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      Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows.

      The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee.

      There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse.

      Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn.

      Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As the leaves with the libations Of Olympus.

      Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic—

      When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns In the twilight.

      Thou recallest bards, Who in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages.

      Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer.

      Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings.

      Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet Yorick and his boon companions Sang these ditties.

      Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks;—Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus!

      Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them.

      Thou hast been their friend; They, alas! have left thee friendless! Yet at least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome.

      And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering songs shall nestle In my bosom—

      Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel.

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      Vogelweid the Minnesinger,

       When he left this world of ours,

      Laid his body in the cloister,

       Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.

      And he gave the monks his treasures,

       Gave them all with this behest:

      They should feed the birds at noontide

       Daily on his place of rest;

      Saying, "From these wandering minstrels

       I have learned the art of song;

      Let me now repay the lessons

       They have taught so well and long."

      Thus the bard of love departed;

       And, fulfilling his desire,

      On his tomb the birds were feasted

       By the children of the choir.

      Day by day, o'er tower and turret,

       In foul weather and in fair,

      Day by day, in vaster numbers,

       Flocked the poets of the air.

      On the tree whose heavy branches

       Overshadowed all the place,

      On the pavement, on the tombstone,

       On the poet's sculptured face,

      On the cross-bars of each window,

       On the lintel of each door,

      They renewed the War of Wartburg,

       Which the bard had fought before.

      There they sang their merry carols,

       Sang their lauds on every side;

      And the name their voices uttered

       Was the name of Vogelweid.

      Till at length the portly abbot

       Murmured, "Why this waste of food?

      Be

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