He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! H. W. LONGFELLOW 315 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! Down the dark future, through long generations, I hear once more the vcice of Christ say, 'Peace!' Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The holy melodies of love arise. 316 H. W. LONGFELLOW CHILDREN Come to me, O ye children! Ye open the eastern windows, In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn; And the first fall of the snow. Ah! what would the world be to us What the leaves are to the forest, That to the world are children ; Through them it feels the glow Come to me, O ye children! What the birds and the winds are singing For what are all our contrivings, Ye are better than all the ballads And all the rest are dead. H. W. LONGFELLOW 317 I do not love thee !-no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad. I do not love thee !—yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me : And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee! I do not love thee !-yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear. I do not love thee !-yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew. I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart ; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art. CAROLINE E. S. NORTON 318 RUBAIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM OF I Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night II Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry, 6 Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.' III And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before IV Now the New Year reviving old Desires, Where the White Hand of MOSES on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the ground suspires. V Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose, And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows; But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, And still a Garden by the Water blows. VI And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine High-piping Pehleví, with Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!'-the Nightingale cries to the Rose That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine. VII Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring VIII And look-a thousand Blossoms with the Day And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away. |