In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with child-like, credulous affection, LONGFELLOW. A PSALM OF LIFE. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; Not enjoyment and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footsteps on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, Learn to labour and to wait. LONGFELLOW. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, "Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain! Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord hath need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints upon their garments white, And the mother gave in tears and pain, O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, LONGFELLOW. THE SILENT LAND. FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. INTO the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand; Who leads us with a gentle hand, Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land: Into the Silent Land! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! tender morning visions Shall bear hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land! O Land! O land! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted, Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand, To lead us with a gentle hand Into the land of the great departed, Into the Silent Land! LONGFELLOW. THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Descend the mountain-road. He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids, And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew ; |