Journeys Through Bookland Volume Iv Part 5

The strongest claim to the high regard in which Longfellow's poems are held is based on the very qualities that endear him to his child- readers. All his life, even in the midst of affliction and sorrow, he was governed by true, deep kindness for all living things, and by a spirit of helpfulness that is the most beautiful thing expressed in his poetry. Then, too, he was willing always to write simply, that all might be benefited by his pure, high thinking. So consistently and with such power did he put into practice the religion of good will and service to others that his life seems to have been a realization of the desire expressed in Wordsworth's lines:

"And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety."

Some of Longfellow's poems that children like most are named in the following paragraphs:

Perhaps the most interesting for the youngest readers are _Paul Revere's Ride_ and _The Wreck of the Hesperus; The Children's Hour_, in which the poet tells of the daily play-time with his little girls; and _The Village Blacksmith_, together with the verses _From My Arm-Chair_, written when the children gave the chair made from the chestnut tree that had once shaded the Village Blacksmith.

Story-telling poems that children of from ten to twelve years of age can enjoy are: _The Happiest Land_, _The Luck of Edenhall_, _The Elected Knight_, _Excelsior_, _The Phantom s.h.i.+p_, _The Discoverer of the North Cape_, _The Bell of Atri_, _The Three Kings_, _The Emperor's Bird's Nest_ and _The Maiden and the Weatherc.o.c.k_. _The Windmill_ and the translation _Beware_ are especially lively, little poems; and _The Arrow and the Song_ and _Children_ are quite as cheerful though quieter. More serious is _The Day Is Done_, well liked for the restful melody; _The Old Clock on the Stairs_, with its curious refrain; and the famous _Psalm of Life_, the lesson of which has helped many a young boy and girl.

Among the story-poems for children older than twelve years are Longfellow's greatest works, _Evangeline_, _Hiawatha_ and _The Courts.h.i.+p of Miles Standish_; and the minor poems, _Elizabeth_, _The Beleaguered City_ and _The Building of the s.h.i.+p_. Nature poems that appeal to readers of this age are the _Hymn to the Night_, _The Rainy Day_, _The Evening Star_, _A Day of Suns.h.i.+ne_, _The Brook and the Wave_, _Rain in Summer_, and _Wanderer's Night Songs_.

Children who are fond of imagining will enjoy _The Belfry of Bruges_ and _Travels by the Fireside_, and those who like song-poems may select _The Bridge_ or _Stay, Stay at Home, My Heart_.

Nearly all of the poems that have been named are found in collections of Longfellow's works under the t.i.tles of the volumes in which they were originally published. _A Psalm of Life_, for example, is one of the group ent.i.tled _Voices of the Night_; and _Paul Revere's Ride_ is one of the _Tales of a Wayside Inn_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HER GENTLE HAND IN MINE]

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS

_By_ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished n.o.ble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished, Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,*

Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!

*[Footnote: This refers to Longfellow's first wife, Mary Storer Potter, whom he married in 1831. On his second visit to Europe, Mrs. Longfellow died at Rotterdam in 1835.]

TO H. W. L., ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY, 1867.

_By_ JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

I need not praise the sweetness of his song, Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he wrong The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along, Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds.

With loving breath of all the winds his name Is blown about the world, but to his friends A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim, To murmur a _G.o.d bless you!_ and there ends.

Surely if skill in song the shears may stay And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss, If our poor life be lengthened by a lay, He shall not go, although his presence may, And the next age in praise shall double this.

Long days be his, and each as l.u.s.ty-sweet As gracious natures find his song to be; May Age steal on with softly-cadenced feet Falling in music, as for him were meet Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he!

While this little tribute may not be as simple to read as some of the things in this book, yet it is beautiful to those who can read it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LONGFELLOW'S HOME AT CAMBRIDGE]

One of the fine things about good poetry is that it will not only bear study and examination, but will yield new beauty and new pleasure as it is better understood. For instance, take the first stanza above. Lowell says Longfellow's poetry is sweet and easily understood and that one line follows another smoothly. To make us see how smoothly, he makes a beautiful comparison, draws for us an exquisite picture. As smooth, he says, as is our own river Charles when at night, fearing to disturb by so much as a single ripple the reflection of the crescent moon, a mirrored skiff, it glides along noiselessly but whispering gently to the reeds that line its sh.o.r.es.

Again, Lowell says that the very winds love Longfellow, and waft his name about the world, giving him fame and honor; but his friends know him to be a man with a loving heart, and so they steal up to him and murmur through the noisy shoutings of the crowd a simple _G.o.d bless you!_ which they know Longfellow will appreciate on his birthday more than all his fame.

To understand the first line in the third stanza, we must know of the three Fates who in the old Greek myth controlled the life of every man.

One spun the thread of life, a second determined its course, and the third stood by with shears ready to cut the thread where death was due.

Lowell says if being a skillful poet will make a man immortal, if our life can be lengthened by a song, then Longfellow shall not leave us even though his body goes, and in another generation his fame shall be doubly great.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

_By_ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp and black and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat,-- He earns whate'er he can; And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night.

You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like s.e.xton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low.

And children, coming home from school, Look in at the open door; They love to see the naming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a thres.h.i.+ng-floor.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH]

He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.