The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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CURFEW

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I.

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      Solemnly, mournfully,

       Dealing its dole,

      The Curfew Bell

       Is beginning to toll.

      Cover the embers,

       And put out the light;

      Toil comes with the morning,

       And rest with the night.

      Dark grow the windows,

       And quenched is the fire;

      Sound fades into silence—

       All footsteps retire.

      No voice in the chambers,

       No sound in the hall!

      Sleep and oblivion

       Reign over all!

II.

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      The book is completed,

       And closed, like the day;

      And the hand that has written it

       Lays it away.

      Dim grow its fancies;

       Forgotten they lie;

      Like coals in the ashes,

       They darken and die.

      Song sinks into silence,

       The story is told,

      The windows are darkened,

       The hearth-stone is cold.

      Darker and darker

       The black shadows fall;

      Sleep and oblivion

       Reign over all.

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EVANGELINE

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A TALE OF ACADIE

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      This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

      Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

      Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,

      Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

      Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

      Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

       This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

      Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman

      Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers—

      Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,

      Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?

      Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!

      Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October

      Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean

      Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

       Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,

      Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,

      List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;

      List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.