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And those who heard the Singers three
Disputed which the best might be ;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart.

But the great Master said, "I see
No best in kind, but in degree;

I gave a various gift to each,

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

"These are the three great chords of might,
And he whose ear is tuned aright
Will hear no discord in the three,
But the most perfect harmony."

SUSPIRIA.

TAKE them, O Death! and bear away
Whatever thou canst call thine own!
Thine image, stamped upon this clay,
Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves!

Take them, O great Eternity!
Our little life is but a gust
That bends the branches of thy tree,

And trails its blossoms in the dust!

HYMN

FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION.

The brother was the Rev. Samuel Longfellow, the poet's biographer. In his diary, February 8, 1848, Mr. Longfellow wrote: "S. returned from Portland. Read to him the chant I wrote for his ordination, — a midnight thought. He likes it, and will have it sung."

CHRIST to the young man said: "Yet one thing

more;

If thou wouldst perfect be,

Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor,
And come and follow me!"

Within this temple Christ again, unseen,
Those sacred words hath said,

And his invisible hands to-day have been
Laid on a young man's head.

And evermore beside him on his way
The unseen Christ shall move,
That he may lean upon his arm and
"Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?"

say,

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,
To make the scene more fair;
Beside him in the dark Gethsemane
Of pain and midnight prayer.

O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!
Like the beloved John

To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,
And thus to journey on!

APPENDIX

I. JUVENILE POEMS.

WHEN Mr. Longfellow made his first collection of poems in Voices of the Night, he included a group of Earlier Poems, but printed only seven out of a number which bore his initials or are directly traceable to him. He chose these, doubtless, not as specimens of his youthful work, but because of all that he had written ten years or more before, they only appeared to him to have poetic qualities which he could regard with any complacency. It is not likely that any readers will be found to contravene his judgment in the omission of the other verses, but since this edition is intended for the student as well as for the general reader, it has been thought best to print here those poetical exercises which curious investigators have recovered from the obscurity in which Mr. Longfellow was entirely willing to leave them. They are printed in as nearly chronological order as may be.

THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND.

Mr. Longfellow's first verses, so far as known, printed in the Portland Gazette, November 17, 1820.

Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast

That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,

As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,
Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.

The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell
Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;

The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er,

And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more.

The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.

They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,
And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,
And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

HENRY.

TO IANTHE.

Written during his third year at Bowdoin College, and printed in the Portland Advertiser, August 28, 1824.

When upon the western cloud

Hang day's fading roses,
When the linnet sings aloud

And the twilight closes,

As I mark the moss-grown spring
By the twisted holly,

Pensive thoughts of thee shall bring
Love's own melancholy.

Lo, the crescent moon on high
Lights the half-choked fountain;
Wandering winds steal sadly by
From the hazy mountain.
Yet that moon shall wax and wane,
Summer winds pass over,-

Ne'er the heart shall love again

Of the slighted lover!

When the russet autumn brings
Blighting to the forest,
Twisted close the ivy clings

To the oak that 's hoarest;

So the love of other days

Cheers the broken-hearted;

But if once our love decays
'Tis for aye departed.

When the hoar-frost nips the leaf
Pale and sear it lingers,

Wasted in its beauty brief

By decay's cold fingers;
Yet unchanged it ne'er again

Shall its bloom recover;

Thus the heart shall aye remain

Of the slighted lover.

Love is like the songs we hear

O'er the moonlit ocean;

Youth, the spring-time of a year
Passed in Love's devotion!
Roses of their bloom bereft
Breathe a fragrance sweeter;
Beauty has no fragrance left
Though its bloom is fleeter.

Then when tranquil evening throws
Twilight shades above thee,
And when early morning glows, -

Think on those that love thee !

For an interval of years

We ere long must sever,

But the hearts that love endears
Shall be parted never.

THANKSGIVING.

The United States Literary Gazette, November 15, 1824.

When first in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
To sacred hymnings and elysian song
His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke.
Devotion breathed aloud from every chord :
The voice of praise was heard in every tone,
And prayer and thanks to Him, the Eternal One,
To Him, that with bright inspiration touched
The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song,
And warmed the soul with new vitality.
A stirring energy through Nature breathed:
The voice of adoration from her broke,
Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard
Long in the sullen waterfall, what time
Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth
Its bloom or blighting; when the Summer smiled;
Or Winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned.

The Deity was there; a nameless spirit
Moved in the breasts of men to do him homage;
And when the morning smiled, or evening pale

Hung weeping o'er the melancholy urn,
They came beneath the broad, o'erarching trees,
And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft,
Where pale the vine clung round their simple altars,
And gray moss mantling hung. Above was heard
The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees
Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty;
And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below,
The bright and widely wandering rivulet
Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots

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