He cut it short, did the great god Pan (How tall it stood in the river !), Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sate by the river. This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan (Laughed while he sate by the river), 'The only way, since gods began 20 20 To make sweet music, they could succeed.' Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, 30 And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 35 Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, Making a poet out of a man : The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river. E. B. BROWNING. 39 315 THE SLAVE'S DREAM Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, 5 Wide through the landscape of his dreams He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 10 They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, 16 A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode 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, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds 20 25 30 And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 35 Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, That he started in his sleep and smiled 40 He did not feel the driver's whip, For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, A worn-out fetter, that the soul H. W. LONGFELLOW. 46 316 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 4 This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 10 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 clamour, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 15 19 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 ; 26 The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 30 Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, Were half the power that fills the world with terror, courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, 35 39 Would wear for evermore 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 15 The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. 317 H. W. LONGFELLOW. CHILDREN Come to me, O ye children ! For I hear you at your play, Ye open the eastern windows, Where thoughts are singing swallows, 5 In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, And the first fall of the snow. 10 Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us 15 What the leaves are to the forest, That to the world are children; Through them it feels the glow Come to me, O ye children ! And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. 20 25 For what are all our contrivings, 30 When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks? Ye are better than all the ballads For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. H. W. LONGFELLOW. 35 318 I do not love thee !-no! I do not love thee ! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad. |