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Bridge," "The Reaper and the Flowers," "The Builders," "Sandalphon,' ‚" "Haunted Houses," and "The Village Blacksmith." Longfellow is perhaps the most popular with young people of all the American poets. His thought in most cases is quite within their grasp, and his rhythm is almost perfect.

66

EPIMETHEUS

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. - Many of you who do not care for poetry generally, will enjoy very much of what Longfellow has written. Many of his minor poems are very beautiful, and nearly all are remarkable for their perfect rhythm, which with many is the feature of poetry that first attracts. The most popular of his longer poems are Evangeline" and "The Courtship of Miles Standish." Parts of "Hiawatha" are still read very widely, though the poem as a whole is not as popular as formerly. Several of the stories in "Tales of a Wayside Inn" are very interesting, and told in a charming manner. Many of his poems are in the Riverside Literature Series of Houghton, Mifflin and Co. You should own, if possible, his complete poems.

AVE I dreamed, or was it real?

HA

What I saw as in a vision,

When to marches hymeneal

In the land of the Ideal

Moved my thoughts o'er fields Elysian?

What are these the guests whose glances
Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me?
These the wild, bewildering fancies,
That with dithyrambic dances

As with magic circles bound me?

Ah! how cold are their caresses!

Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms!

Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose disheveled tresses

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms.

O my songs! whose winsome measures
Filled my heart with secret rapture!
Children of my golden leisures!
Must even your delights and pleasures
Fade and perish with the capture?

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,
When they came to me unbidden ;
Voices single and in chorus,

Like the wild birds singing o'er us
In the dark of branches hidden.

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Must each noble aspiration
Come at last to this conclusion,
Jarring discord, wild confusion,
Lassitude, renunciation?

Not with steeper fall nor faster,
From the sun's serene dominions,
Not through brighter realms nor vaster,
In swift ruin and disaster,

Icarus fell with shattered pinions!

Sweet Pandora! Dear Pandora!
Why did mighty Jove create thee
Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora,
Beautiful as young Aurora,

If to win thee is to hate thee?

No, not hate thee! for this feeling
Of unrest and long resistance

Is but passionate appealing,
A prophetic whisper stealing

O'er the chords of our existence.

Him whom thou dost once enamour,
Thou beloved, never leavest;

In life's discord, strife, and clamor
Still he feels thy spell of glamour ;
Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest.

Weary hearts by thee are lifted,

Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted,

Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted,
Lives, like days in summer, lengthened.

Therefore art thou ever dearer,
O my Sibyl, my deceiver!

For thou makest each mystery clearer,
And the unattained seems nearer,
When thou fillest my heart with fever!

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces!

Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces:

Let us turn and wander thither !

EXCELSIOR

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

THE shades of night were falling fast,

As through an Alpine village passed A youth who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

His brow was sad his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath.
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

"Try not the pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast i "
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche !"

This was the peasant's last good night,
A voice replied far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of St. Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveler, by the faithful hound,
Half buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

THE BRIDGE

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

STOOD on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,

And the moon rose over the city,

Behind the dark church tower.

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