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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!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

By The Seaside : Sir Humphrey Gilbert

Southward with fleet of ice

Sailed the corsair Death;

Wild and gast blew the blast,

And the east-wind was his breath.

His lordly ships of ice

Glisten in the sun;

On each side, like pennons wide,

Flashing crystal streamlets run.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In The Harbour: Autumn Within

It is autumn; not without

But within me is the cold.

Youth and spring are all about;

It is I that have grown old.

Birds are darting through the air,

Singing, building without rest;

Life is stirring everywhere,

Save within my lonely breast.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Shakespeare

A vision as of crowded city streets,

With human life in endless overflow;

Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow

To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats,

Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets;

Tolling of bells in turrets, and below

Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw

O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

By The Seaside : The Building Of The Ship

"Build me straight, O worthy Master!

Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,

That shall laugh at all disaster,

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"

The merchant's word

Delighted the Master heard;

For his heart was in his work, and the heart

Giveth grace unto every Art.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Morituri Salutamus: Poem For The 50th Anniversary Of The Class Of 1825 In Bowdoin College

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.

~OVID, Fastorum, Lib. vi.

"O Caesar, we who are about to die

Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry

In the arena, standing face to face

With death and with the Roman populace.

O ye familiar scenes,--ye groves of pine,

That once were mine and are no longer mine,--

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Wapentake To Alfred Tennyson

Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine;

Not as a knight, who on the listed field

Of tourney touched his adversary's shield

In token of defiance, but in sign

Of homage to the mastery, which is thine,

In English song; nor will I keep concealed,

And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed,

My admiration for thy verse divine.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Keats

The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep;

The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told!

The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold

To the red rising moon, and loud and deep

The nightingale is singing from the steep;

It is midsummer, but the air is cold;

Can it be death? Alas, beside the fold

A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near his sheep.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Afternoon in February

The day is ending,

The night is descending;

The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes

The red sun flashes

On village windows

That glimmer red.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Seaweed

When descends on the Atlantic

The gigantic

Storm-wind of the equinox,

Landward in his wrath he scourges

The toiling surges,

Laden with seaweed from the rocks:

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges

Of sunken ledges,

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Earlier Poems : An April Day

When the warm sun, that brings

Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,

'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,

When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,

Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming-on of storms.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Autumn

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,

With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,

Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,

And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,

Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow