Children's Literature Part 121

For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the ger-falcon; 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 wa.s.sail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the c.o.c.ks 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 s.h.i.+elds 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 minstrel 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, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded!

Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-new's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me,-- Fairest of all was she Among the Nors.e.m.e.n!-- When on the white-sea strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty hors.e.m.e.n.

"Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us.

"And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, 'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, Death without quarter!

Mid-s.h.i.+ps with iron-keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water.

"As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden; So toward the open main, Beating the sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the sh.o.r.e Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward.

"There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another!

"Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen!

Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful!

In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended!

There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, _Skoal!_ to the Northland! _Skoal!_"

--Thus the tale ended.

342

THE DAY IS DONE

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night.

As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in its flight.

I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain 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.

343

A PSALM OF LIFE

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!-- For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like m.u.f.fled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife.

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!