Evangeline and Other Poems

Evangeline and Other Poems

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


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It has been said that a copy of Longfellow's narrative poem Evangeline could be found in every literate household in America in the nineteenth century. Certainly its poignant romance touched many hearts and stirred deepening interest in the Maine-born Harvard educator who, in his lifetime, would become America's most famous poet. This book contains the complete Evangeline and a number of other widely admired Longfellow poems.
Included are the memorable "The Skeleton in Armor," "The Arsenal at Springfield," "Mezzo Cammin," and "Aftermath." Here, too, is Divina Commedia, the six sonnets on Dante that are among the poet's finest works. All have been reprinted from an authoritative edition of Longfellow's poems.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780486282558
Publisher: Dover Publications
Publication date: 04/12/1995
Series: Dover Thrift Editions
Edition description: Unabridged
Pages: 80
Sales rank: 173,000
Product dimensions: 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x (d)
Age Range: 14 Years

Read an Excerpt

Evangeline and Other Poems


Dover Publications, Inc.

Copyright © 1995 Dover Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-486-11214-5


    The Skeleton in Armor

    "SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!
    Who, with thy hollow breast
    Still in rude armor drest,
    Comest to daunt me!
    Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
    But 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!
    Should not the dove so white
    Follow the sea-mew's flight,
    Why did they leave that night
    Her nest unguarded?

    "Scarce had I put to sea,
    Bearing the maid with me,
    Fairest of all was she
    Among the Norsemen!

    When on the white sea-strand,
    Waving his armed hand,
    Saw we old Hildebrand,
    With twenty horsemen.

    "Then launched they to the blast,
    Bent like a reed each mast,
    Yet we were gaining fast,
    When the wind failed us;
    And with a sudden flaw
    Came round the gusty Skaw,
    So that our foe we saw
    Laugh as he hailed us.

    "And as to catch the gale
    Round veered the flapping sail,
    'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,
    'Death without quarter!'
    Mid-ships with iron keel
    Struck we her ribs of steel;
    Down her black hulk did reel
    Through the black water!

    "As with his wings aslant,
    Sails the fierce cormorant,
    Seeking some rocky haunt,
    With his prey laden,–
    So toward the open main,
    Beating to sea again,
    Through the wild hurricane,
    Bore I the maiden.

    "Three weeks we westward bore,
    And when the storm was o'er,
    Cloud-like we saw the shore
    Stretching to leeward;
    There for my lady's bower
    Built I the lofty tower,
    Which, to this very hour,
    Stands looking seaward.

    "There lived we many years;
    Time dried the maiden's tears;
    She had forgot her fears,
    She was a mother;
    Death closed her mild blue eyes,
    Under that tower she lies;
    Ne'er shall the sun arise
    On such another!

    "Still grew my bosom then,
    Still as a stagnant fen!
    Hateful to me were men,
    The sunlight hateful!
    In the vast forest here,
    Clad in my warlike gear,
    Fell I upon my spear,
    Oh, death was grateful!

    "Thus, seamed with many scars,
    Bursting these prison bars,
    Up to its native stars
    My soul ascended!
    There from the flowing bowl
    Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
    Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"
    Thus the tale ended.


    IN the ancient town of Bruges,
    In the quaint old Flemish city,
    As the evening shades descended,
    Low and loud and sweetly blended,
    Low at times and loud at times,
    And changing like a poet's rhymes,
    Rang the beautiful wild chimes
    From the Belfry in the market
    Of the ancient town of Bruges.

    Then, with deep sonorous clangor
    Calmly answering their sweet anger,
    When the wrangling bells had ended,
    Slowly struck the clock eleven,
    And, from out the silent heaven,
    Silence on the town descended.
    Silence, silence everywhere,
    On the earth and in the air,
    Save that footsteps here and there
    Of some burgher home returning,
    By the street lamps faintly burning,
    For a moment woke the echoes
    Of the ancient town of Bruges.

    But amid my broken slumbers
    Still I heard those magic numbers,
    As they loud proclaimed the flight
    And stolen marches of the night;
    Till their chimes in sweet collision
    Mingled with each wandering vision,
    Mingled with the fortune-telling
    Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies,
    Which amid the waste expanses
    Of the silent land of trances
    Have their solitary dwelling;
    All else seemed asleep in Bruges,
    In the quaint old Flemish city.

    And I thought how like these chimes
    Are the poet's airy rhymes,
    All his rhymes and roundelays,
    His conceits, and songs, and ditties,
    From the belfry of his brain,
    Scattered downward, though in vain,
    On the roofs and stones of cities!
    For by night the drowsy ear
    Under its curtains cannot hear,
    And by day men go their ways,
    Hearing the music as they pass,
    But deeming it no more, alas!
    Than the hollow sound of brass.

    Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
    Lodging at some humble inn
    In the narrow lanes of life,
    When the dusk and hush of night
    Shut out the incessant din
    Of daylight and its toil and strife,
    May listen with a calm delight
    To the poet's melodies,
    Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
    Intermingled with the song,
    Thoughts that he has cherished long;
    Hears amid the chime and singing
    The bells of his own village ringing,
    And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes
    Wet with most delicious tears.

    Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay
    In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé,
    Listening with a wild delight
    To the chimes that, through the night,
    Rang their changes from the Belfry
    Of that quaint old Flemish city.

    The Belfry of Bruges

    IN the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown;
    Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town.

    As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,
    And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.
    Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray,
    Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.

    At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there,
    Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air.

    Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour,
    But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.

    From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high;
    And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky.

    Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times,
    With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,

    Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir;
    And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar.

    Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;
    They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;

    All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer,
    Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre.

    I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old;
    Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold;

    Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies;
    Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.

    I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground;
    I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;

    And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen,
    And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between.

    I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold,
    Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold;

    Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west,
    Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest.

    And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote;
    And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;

    Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand,
    "I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!"

    Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar
    Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more.

    Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware,
    Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.

    The Arsenal at Springfield

    THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
    Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
    But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
    Startles the villages with strange alarms.

    Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
    When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
    What loud lament and dismal Miserere
    Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

    I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
    The cries of agony, the endless groan,
    Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
    In long reverberations reach our own.

    On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
    Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,
    And loud, amid the universal clamor,
    O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

    I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
    Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
    And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
    Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

    The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
    The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
    The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
    The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

    The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
    The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
    And ever and anon, in tones of thunder
    The diapason of the cannonade.

    Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
    With such accursed instruments as these,
    Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
    And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

    Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
    Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
    Given to redeem the human mind from error,
    There were no need of arsenals or forts:

    The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
    And every nation, that should lift again
    Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
    Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

    Down the dark future, through long generations,
    The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
    And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
    I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

    Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
    The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
    But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
    The holy melodies of love arise.

    Mezzo Cammin

    HALF of my life is gone, and I have let
    The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
    The aspiration of my youth, to build
    Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
    Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
    Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
    But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
    Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;

    Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
    Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights, —
    A city in the twilight dim and vast,
    With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights, —
    And hear above me on the autumnal blast
    The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.



    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-Pré.

    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.


Excerpted from Evangeline and Other Poems by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, THOMAS CROFTS. Copyright © 1995 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

From Ballads and Other Poems, 1841
The Skeleton in Armor

From The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems, 1845
The Belfry of Bruges
The Arsenal at Springfield
Mezzo Cammin

Evangeline, 1847

From Flower-de-Luce, 1867
Divina Commedia:
"Oft have I seen at some cathedral door"
"How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!"
"I enter, and I see thee in the gloom"
"With snow-white veil and garments as of flame"
"I life mine eyes, and all the windows blaze"
"O star of morning and of liberty"

From Birds of Passage, 1873

From A Book of Sonnets, ca. 1880
The Cross of Snow

Index of Titles
Index of First Lines

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