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

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СКАЧАТЬ Excelsior!

      "Try not the Pass!" the old man said:

      "Dark lowers the tempest overhead,

      The roaring torrent is deep and wide!

      And loud that clarion voice replied,

       Excelsior!

      "Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest

      Thy weary head upon this breast!"

      A tear stood in his bright blue eye,

      But still he answered, with a sigh,

       Excelsior!

      "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!

      Beware the awful avalanche!"

      This was the peasant's last Good-night,

      A voice replied, far up the height,

       Excelsior!

      At break of day, as heavenward

      The pious monks of Saint Bernard

      Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

      A voice cried through the startled air,

       Excelsior!

      A traveller, by the faithful hound,

      Half-buried in the snow was found,

      Still grasping in his hand of ice

      That banner with the strange device,

       Excelsior!

      There in the twilight cold and gray,

      Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

      And from the sky, serene and far,

      A voice fell, like a falling star,

       Excelsior!

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       Table of Contents

POEMS ON SLAVERY.

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      [The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]

TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING

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      The pages of thy book I read,

       And as I closed each one,

      My heart, responding, ever said,

       "Servant of God! well done!"

      Well done! Thy words are great and bold;

       At times they seem to me,

      Like Luther's, in the days of old,

       Half-battles for the free.

      Go on, until this land revokes

       The old and chartered Lie,

      The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes

       Insult humanity.

      A voice is ever at thy side

       Speaking in tones of might,

      Like the prophetic voice, that cried

       To John in Patmos, "Write!"

      Write! and tell out this bloody tale;

       Record this dire eclipse,

      This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail,

       This dread Apocalypse!

THE SLAVE'S DREAM

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      Beside the ungathered rice he lay,

       His sickle in his hand;

      His breast was bare, his matted hair

       Was buried in the sand.

      Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,

       He saw his Native Land.

      Wide through the landscape of his dreams

       The lordly Niger flowed;

      Beneath the palm-trees on the plain

       Once more a king he strode;

      And heard the tinkling caravans

       Descend the mountain-road.

      He saw once more his dark-eyed queen

       Among her children stand;

      They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,

       They held him by the hand!—

      A tear burst from the sleeper's lids

       And fell into the sand.

      And then at furious speed he rode

       Along the Niger's bank;

      His bridle-reins were golden chains,

       And, with a martial clank,

      At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel

       Smiting his stallion's flank.

      Before him, like a blood-red flag,

       The bright flamingoes flew;

      From morn till night he followed their flight,

       O'er plains where the tamarind grew,

      Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,

       And the ocean rose to view.

      At night he heard the lion roar,

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