As if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe : "Forever-never! Never-forever!" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; That warning time-piece never ceased: "Forever-never! Never-forever!" There groups of merry children played; Even as a miser counts his gold Those hours the ancient time-piece told: "Forever-never! Never-forever!" From that chamber, clothed in white, The dead lay in his shroud of snow! And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair : "Forever-never! Never-forever!" All are scattered now and fled, "Forever-never! Never, here, forever there, Where all parting, pain and care, Sayeth this incessantly: "Forever-never! Never-forever!" TWILIGHT. The twilight is sad and cloudy, But in the fisherman's cottage Close, close it is pressed to the window, Were looking into the darkness, To see some form arise. And a woman's waving shadow Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low. What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind bleak and wild, As they beat at the crazy casement, Tell to that little child? And why do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the colour from her cheek? RESIGNATION. There is no flock, however watched and tended, There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, The air is full of farewells to the dying And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Let us be patient! These severe afflictions But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapours Amid these earthly damps, What seem to us but sad funereal tapers, May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, the child of our affection, But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, Day after day, we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which Nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her, For when, with raptures wild, In our embraces we again enfold her, But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion, And beautiful, with all the soul's expansion, And though at times impetuous with emotion The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, We will be patient and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. I add one simile from the "Address to a Child :" By what astrology of fear or hope Rounds and completes the perfect sphere. A prophecy and intimation, A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light that lies The concluding extract has a stronger recommendation than any other that I can give; it is Mrs. Browning's favourite among the poems of Longfellow : THE ARROW AND THE SONG. I shot an arrow into the air, I breathed a song into the air, I found again in the heart of a friend. I venture to add an anecdote new to the English public. Professor Longfellow's residence at Cambridge, a picturesque old wooden house, has belonging to it the proudest historical associations of which America can boast it was the head-quarters of Washington. One night the poet chanced to look out of his window, and saw by the vague starlight a figure riding slowly past the mansion. The face could not be distinguished; but the tall erect person, the cocked hat, the traditional costume, the often-described white horse, all were present. Slowly he paced before the house and then returned, and then again passed by, after which neither horse nor rider were seen or heard of. Could it really be Washington? or was it some frolic-masquerader assuming his honoured form? For my part I hold firmly to the ghostly side of the story; so did my informant, also a poet and an American, and as worthy to behold the spectre of the illustrious warrior as Professor Longfellow himself. I can hardly say more. |