THE CHILDREN'S HOUR BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Between the dark and the daylight, When night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me The sound of a door that is opened, From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper and then a silence, A sudden rush from the stairway, By three doors left unguarded, They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me: They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Is not a match for you all? I have you fast in my fortress, In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, GOD'S-ACRE BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow! A PSALM OF LIFE BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Tell me not, in mournful numbers, For the soul is dead that slumbers, Life is real! Life is earnest! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 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, RESIGNATION BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW There is no flock, however watched and tended, There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, The air is full of farewells to the dying, The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Let us be patient! These severe afflictions But oftentimes celestial benedictions We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death! What seems so is transition: This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, the child of our affection, But gone into that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. |