Henry Longfellow - The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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 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 was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,

No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!

Take heed, that in thy verse

Thou dost the tale rehearse,

Else dread a dead man's curse;

For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land,

By the wild Baltic's strand,

I, with my childish hand,

Tamed the gerfalcon;

And, with my skates fast-bound,

Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,

That the poor whimpering hound

Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair

Tracked I the grisly bear,

While from my path the hare

Fled like a shadow;

Oft through the forest dark

Followed the were-wolf's bark,

Until the soaring lark

Sang from the meadow.

"But when I older grew,

Joining a corsair's crew,

O'er the dark sea I flew

With the marauders.

Wild was the life we led;

Many the souls that sped,

Many the hearts that bled,

By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail-bout

Wore the long Winter out;

Often our midnight shout

Set the cocks crowing,

As we the Berserk's tale

Measured in cups of ale,

Draining the oaken pail,

Filled to o'erflowing.

"Once as I told in glee

Tales of the stormy sea,

Soft eyes did gaze on me,

Burning yet tender;

And as the white stars shine

On the dark Norway pine,

On that dark heart of mine

Fell their soft splendor.

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,

Yielding, yet half afraid,

And in the forest's shade

Our vows were plighted.

Under its loosened vest

Fluttered her little breast

Like birds within their nest

By the hawk frighted.

"Bright in her father's hall

Shields gleamed upon the wall,

Loud sang the minstrels all,

Chanting his glory;

When of old Hildebrand

I asked his daughter's hand,

Mute did the minstrels stand

To hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaffed,

Loud then the champion laughed,

And as the wind-gusts waft

The sea-foam brightly,

So the loud laugh of scorn,

Out of those lips unshorn,

From the deep drinking-horn

Blew the foam lightly.

"She was a Prince's child,