A Poet and His Poems

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 a sexton 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 flaming forge,
        And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
        Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

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.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
        Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
        How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
        A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
        Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,
        Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,
        Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
        For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life
        Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
        Each burning deed and thought.

The Children's Hour

by
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Between the dark and the daylight,
       When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
       That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
       The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,
       And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
       Descending the broad hall stair,

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
       And Edith with golden hair.

They whisper, and then a silence;
       Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together
       To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
       A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded
       They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
       O'er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape, they surround me;
       They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
       Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Biship of Bingen
       In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
       Because you have scaled the wall,

Such an old mustache as I am
       Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
       And will not let you depart,

But put you down into the dungeon
       In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
       Yes, forever, and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
       And moulder in dust away!

by
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen, my children and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower as a signal        light,—

One if by land, and two if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with        muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

The Somerset, British man-of-war;

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon like a prison bar,

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and        street

Wanders and watches, with eager ears,

Till in the silence around him he hears

The muster of men at the barrack door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

And the measured tread of the grenadiers,

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North        Church,

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

To the belfry chamber overhead,

And startled the pigeons from their perch

On the sombre rafters, that round him        made

Masses and moving shapes of shade,—

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

In their night encampment on the hill,

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,

The watchful night-wind, as it went

Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, and the secret        dread

Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

On a shadowy something far away,

Where the river widens to meet the bay,—

A line of black that bends and floats

On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse's side,

Now he gazed at the landscape far and        near,

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,

And turned and tightened his saddle girth;

But mostly he watched with eager search

The belfry tower of the Old North Church,

As it rose above the graves on the hill,

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he        turns,

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the        dark,

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing,        a spark

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and        fleet;

That was all! And yet, through the gloom        and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in        his flight,

Kindled the land into flame with its heat

He has left the village and mounted the        steep,

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and        deep,

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders that skirt its edge,

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford        town.

He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer's dog,

And felt the damp of the river fog,

That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,

When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, black and        bare,

Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord        town.

He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

Blowing over the meadow brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have        read

How the British Regulars fired and fled,—

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farmyard wall,

Chasing the redcoats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Under the trees at the turn of the road,

And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

And so through the night went his cry of        alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm,—

A cry of defiance, and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the        door,

And a word that shall echo for evermore!

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

And the midnight message of Paul Revere.