When the forest shall mislead me,
When the night and morning lie,

When sea and land refuse to feed me,
"Twill be time enough to die;
Then will yet my mother yield
A pillow in her greenest field,
Nor the June flowers scorn to cover
The clay of their departed lover."

- From "WOODNOTES."

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

AMERICA, 1807-1882

Daybreak

A wind came up out of the sea,

And said, "O mists, make room for me."

It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone."

And hurried landward far away,
Crying, "Awake! it is the day."
It said unto the forest, "Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, "O bird, awake and sing."

And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow; the day is near."

It whispered to the fields of corn,
"Bow down, and hail the coming morn."

It shouted through the belfry-tower,
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."

And he wandered away and away

With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,

She would sing a more wonderful song,

Or tell a more marvelous tale.

So she keeps him still a child,
And will not let him go,

Though at times his heart beats wild
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

Though at times he hears in his dreams
The Ranz des Vaches of old,

And the rush of mountain streams

From the glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, "Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn;

It is growing late and dark,

And my boy does not return!"

10

15

20

5

10

15

20

Hymn to the Night

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

My spirit drank repose;

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, -
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

AMERICA, 1819-1891

Longing

Of all the myriad moods of mind
That through the soul come thronging,
Which one was e'er so dear, so kind,

So beautiful as Longing?

The thing we long for, that we are

For one transcendent moment
Before the Present poor and bare

Can make its sneering comment.

Still, through our paltry stir and strife,
Glows down the wished Ideal,
And Longing molds in clay what Life
Carves in the marble Real;
To let the new life in, we know,
Desire must ope the portal;
Perhaps the longing to be so

Helps make the soul immortal.