Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, "I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!" Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sunillumined square. A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. The scene of this poem is mentioned in the poet's diary, under date of August 31, 1846. In the afternoon a delicious drive with F. and C. through Brookline, by the church and 'the green lane,' and homeward through a lovelier lane, with barberries and wild vines clustering over the old stone walls." THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed, And summon from the shadowy Past The Past and Present here unite Here runs the highway to the town; There the green lane descends, Through which I walked to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends! The shadow of the linden trees Lay moving on the grass; Thy dress was like the lilies, I saw the branches of the trees "Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born!" Solemnly sang the village choir On that sweet Sabbath morn. Through the closed blinds the golden sun Poured in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen By Jacob in his dream. And ever and anon, the wind Sweet-scented with the hay, Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves That on the window lay. Long was the good man's sermon, Long was the prayer he uttered, But now, alas! the place seems changed; Part of the sunshine of the scene Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine trees dark and high, A low and ceaseless sigh; This memory brightens o'er the past, THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. On his wedding journey in the summer of 1843, Mr. Longfellow passed through Springfield, Massachusetts, and visited the United States arsenal there, in company with Mr. Charles Sumner. "While Mr. Sumner was endeavoring," says Mr. S. Longfellow, to impress upon the attendant that the money expended upon these weapons of war would have been much better spent upon a great library, Mrs. Longfellow pleased her husband by remarking how like an organ looked the ranged and shining gun-barrels which covered the walls from floor to ceiling, and suggesting what mournful music Death would bring from them. 'We grew quite warlike against war,' she wrote, and I urged H. to write a peace poem.' The poem was written some months later and published in Graham's Magazine, April, 1844. Mr. Longfellow in writing of it to Mr. Sumner notes: "On the back of my peace poem is a paper called The Battle-Grounds of America. This is the reverse of the medal.” THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. 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, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamor, 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, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; 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, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" |