I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. Published in Graham's Magazine, September, 1845. THE day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain; While through the meadows, A funeral train. The bell is pealing, To the dismal knell ; Shadows are trailing, Like a funeral bell. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK. "October 6, 1845. F.'s birthday. I ought to have written a poem for the occasion. Instead of doing so, I wrote the song without rhyme, To an Old Danish Song Book. "October 7. Retouched and finished the song of yesterday. What is said of the Scald refers, of course, only to some of the melodies, which may possibly be as old as the days of Hakon Jarl, or older. Hamlet and Yorick are only symbolical of any old king and his jester." A couple of years later, Mr. Longfellow was reading Andersen's Story of my Life, and he notes: Autumn always brings back very freshly my autumnal sojourn in Copenhagen, delightfully mingled with bracing air and yellow falling leaves. I have tried to record the impression in the song To an Old Danish Song Book." WELCOME, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine As the leaves with the libations Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages. Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Once Prince Frederick's Guard Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus ! Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, Thou hast been their friend; They, alas! have left thee friendless! Yet at least by one warm fireside And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, |