HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, To make them jog on more merrily with life's burden, VICTORIAN. Yet I fain would die! To go through life, unloving and unloved; To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse, And struggle after something we have not And cannot love; the effort to be strong; And like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile, While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks; All this the dead feel not, - the dead alone! Would I were with them! We shall all be soon. HYPOLITO. VICTORIAN. It cannot be too soon; for I am weary Of this bewildering masquerade of Life, Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers; HYPOLITO. Why seek to know? Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth! VICTORIAN. I confess, That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, And sinks again into the weltering sea, Helpless and hopeless! HYPOLITO. Yet thou shalt not perish. The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star! HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO. THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, 'Life is but an empty dream!' For the soul is dead that slumbers, Life is real! Life is carnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest,' Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, In the world's broad field of battle Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife. Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of Time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, Still aching, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat He earns whatever he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in and week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school And catch the burning sparks that fly Like the chaff from a threshing floor. |