The Complete Poems. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      Tongues of the dead, not lost But speaking from deaths frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!

      Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps!

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       Table of Contents

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS

       Table of Contents

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR

       Table of Contents

      "Speak! speak I thou fearful guest

       Who, with thy hollow breast

       Still in rude armor drest,

       Comest to daunt me!

       Wrapt not in Eastern balms,

       Bat with thy fleshless palms

       Stretched, as if asking alms,

       Why dost thou haunt me?"

      Then, from those cavernous eyes

      Pale flashes seemed to rise,

      As when the Northern skies

       Gleam in December;

      And, like the water's flow

      Under December's snow,

      Came a dull voice of woe

       From the heart's chamber.

      "I was a Viking old!

      My deeds, though manifold,

      No Skald in song has told,

       No Saga taught thee!

      Take heed, that in thy verse

      Thou dost the tale rehearse,

      Else dread a dead man's curse;

       For this I sought thee.

      "Far in the Northern Land,

      By the wild Baltic's strand,

      I, with my childish hand,

       Tamed the gerfalcon;

      And, with my skates fast-bound,

      Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,

       That the poor whimpering hound

      Trembled to walk on.

      "Oft to his frozen lair

      Tracked I the grisly bear,

      While from my path the hare

       Fled like a shadow;

      Oft through the forest dark

      Followed the were-wolf's bark,

      Until the soaring lark

       Sang from the meadow.

      "But when I older grew,

      Joining a corsair's crew,

      O'er the dark sea I flew

       With the marauders.

      Wild was the life we led;

      Many the souls that sped,

      Many the hearts that bled,

       By our stern orders.

      "Many a wassail-bout

      Wore the long Winter out;

      Often our midnight shout

       Set the cocks crowing,

      As we the Berserk's tale

      Measured in cups of ale,

      Draining the oaken pail,

       Filled to o'erflowing.

      "Once as I told in glee

      Tales of the stormy sea,

      Soft eyes did gaze on me,

       Burning yet tender;

      And as the white stars shine

      On the dark Norway pine,

      On that dark heart of mine

       Fell their soft splendor.

      "I wooed the blue-eyed maid,

      Yielding, yet half afraid,

      And in the forest's shade

       Our vows were plighted.

      Under its loosened vest

      Fluttered her little breast

      Like birds within their nest

       By the hawk frighted.

      "Bright in her father's hall

      Shields gleamed upon the wall,

      Loud sang the minstrels all,

       Chanting his glory;

      When of old Hildebrand

      I asked his daughter's hand,

      Mute did the minstrels stand

       To hear my story.

      "While the brown ale he quaffed,

      Loud then the champion laughed,

      And as the wind-gusts waft

       The sea-foam brightly,

      So the loud laugh of scorn,

      Out of those lips unshorn,

      From the deep drinking-horn

       Blew the foam lightly.

      "She was a Prince's child,

      I but a Viking wild,

      And though she blushed and smiled,

       I was discarded!

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