Newspaper History

Tag: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  • The Tide

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, June 14, 1915. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    The tide rises, the tide falls,
    The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
    Along the sea-sands damp and brown
    The traveler hastens toward the town.
        And the tide rises, the tide falls.

    Darkness settles on roof and walls,
    But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;
    The little waves, with their soft white hands,
    Efface the footprints in the sands.

    The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
    Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
    The day returns, but nevermore
    Returns the traveler to the shore,
        And the tide rises, the tide falls.

  • The Arrow and the Song

    From the Evening Public Ledger, May 14, 1915. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    I shot an arrow into the air,
    It fell to earth, I know not where;
    For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
    Could not follow it in its flight.

    I breathed a song into the air,
    It fell to earth, I know not where;
    For who has sight so keen and strong
    That it can follow the flight of song?

    Long, long afterward, in an oak
    I found the arrow, still unbroke;
    And the song, from beginning to end,
    I found again in the heart of a friend.

  • The Village Blacksmith

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 14, 1914. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    Under a spreading chestnut-tree
        The village smithy stands;
    The smith, a mighty man is he,
        With large and sinewy hands;
    And the muscles of his brawny arms
        Are strong as iron bands.

    His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
        His face is like the tan;
    His brow is wet with honest sweat,
        He earns whate’er he can,
    And looks the whole world in the face,
        For he owes not any man.

    Week in, week out, from morn till night,
        You can hear his bellows blow;
    You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
        With measured beat and slow,
    Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
        When the evening sun is low.

    And children coming home from school
        Look in at the open door;
    They love to see the flaming forge,
        And hear the bellows roar,
    And catch the burning sparks that fly
        Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

    He goes on Sunday to the church,
        And sits among his boys;
    He hears the parson pray and preach,
        He hears his daughter’s voice
    Singing in the village choir
        And it makes his heart rejoice.

    It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
        Singing in Paradise!
    He needs must think of her once more,
        How in the grave she lies;
    And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
        A tear out of his eyes.

    Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
        Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
        Each evening sees it close
    Something attempted, something done,
        Has earned a night’s repose.

    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
        For the lesson thou hast taught!
    Thus at the flaming forge of life
        Our fortunes must be wrought;
    Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
        Each burning deed and thought.

  • The Day is Done

    From the Newark Evening Star, June 16, 1914. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    The day is done, and the darkness
        Falls from the wings of Night,
    As a feather is wafted downward
        From an eagle’s flight.

    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,
        That is not akin to pain,
    And resembles sorrow only
        As the mist resembles the rain.

    Come, read to me some poem,
        Some simple and heartfelt lay,
    That shall soothe this restless feeling,
        And banish the thoughts of day.

    Not from the grand old masters,
        Not from the bards sublime,
    Whose distant footsteps echo
        Through the corridors of Time.

    For, like strains of martial music,
        Their mighty thoughts suggest
    Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
        And tonight I long to rest.

    Read from some humble 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,
        And nights devoid of ease,
    Still heard in his soul the music
        Of wonderful melodies.

    Such songs have power to quiet
        The restless pulse of care,
    And come like the benediction
        That follows after prayer.

    Then read from the treasured volume
        The poem of thy choice,
    And lend to the rhymes of the poet
        The beauty of thy voice.

    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.

  • The Secrets of the Sea

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 2, 1913.
 By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
 

 Ah, what pleasant visions haunt me
     As I gaze upon the sea!
 All the old romantic legends,
     All my dreams come back to me.
 
 Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,
     Such as gleam in ancient lore;
 And the singing of the sailors
     And the answer from the shore!
 
 Most of all the Spanish ballad
     Haunts one oft and tarries long,
 Of the noble Count Arnaldos
     And the sailors mystic song.
 
 Like the long waves on a sea-beach,
     Where the sand as silver shines
 With a soft, monotonous cadence
     Flow its unrhymed lyric lines—
 
 Telling how the count Arnaldos,
     With his hawk upon his hand,
 Saw a fair and stately galley
     Steering onward to the land—
 
 How he heard the ancient helmsman
     Chant a song so wild and clear
 That the sailing sea-bird slowly
     Poised upon the mast to hear—
 
 Till his soul was full of longing,
     And he cried with impulse strong—
 “Helmsman! For the love of heaven,
     Teach me, too, that wondrous song!”
 
 “Wouldst thou (so the helmsman answered),
     Learn the secret of the sea?
 Only those who brave its dangers
     Comprehend its mystery.”
 
 In each sail that skims the horizon,
     In each landyard blowing breeze,
 I behold that stately galley,
     Hear those mournful melodies—
 
 Till my soul is full of longing
     For the secret of the sea,
 And the heart of the great ocean
     Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

  • The Builders

    From the New York Tribune, December 15, 1912. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
 

All are architects of Fate,
     Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
     Some with ornaments of rhyme.
 
No thing useless is, or low;
     Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
     Strengthens and supports the rest.
 
For the structure that we raise
     Time is with materials filled;
 Our todays and yesterdays
     Are the blocks with which we build.
 
Truly shape and fashion these;
     Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not because no man sees,
     Such things will remain unseen.
 
In the elder days of art
     Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
     For the gods see everywhere.
 
Let us do our work as well,
     Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house where gods may dwell
     Beautiful, entire, clean.
 
Else, our lives are incomplete,
     Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
     Stumble as they seek to climb.
 
Build today, then, strong and sure,
     With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
     Shall tomorrow find its place.
 

Thus alone can we attain
     To those turrets where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain
     And one boundless reach of sky.