I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace.
But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmèd air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
WISDOM and Spirit of the universe!
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought! And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul; Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man; But with high objects, with enduring things, With life and nature; purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying by such discipline Both pain and fear,-until we recognize A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapours rolling down the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights. When by the margin of the trembling lake, Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went In solitude, such intercourse was mine: Mine was it in the fields both day and night, And by the waters, all the summer long. And in the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and, visible for many a mile, The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons: happy time It was indeed for all of us; for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The village-clock tolled six-I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home.-All shod with steel
We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures,-the resounding horn. The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle: with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars, Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the
The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star;
Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me-even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.
NAY, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if the bee love not these barren boughs? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod
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