THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

1

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.

2

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!

3

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.

4

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's songs

And loud, amid the universal clamor,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

5

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-drum made of serpent's skin;

6

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;

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.

8

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?

9

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 nor forts:

10

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!

11

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!"

12

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.

3

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

4

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling.
And banish the thoughts of day.

5

Not from the grana old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

6

For, like the strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

7

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

8

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.