27.10.2007, 18:29
TO LONGFELLOW IN ENGLAND, 1868.
AN English greeting to the Bard, who bears
His chaplet of sweet song from that far West
Where pine woods, with their branches low depressed,
Cease not lamenting to the scented airs,
For Hiawatha, as he disappears,
Swift sailing to the Island of the Blest,
And for Evangeline, who, now at rest,
With our own Gertrude's self the amaranth shares.
Glad greeting ! for, in many an English home,
The poet's voice has pierced the silent night
With chants of high Resolve, and Joys that come
At Duty's summons ; then, Hope's answering light,
Clear as the red star watching o'er the earth,
Has glowed afresh on life's rekindled hearth.
AN English greeting to the Bard, who bears
His chaplet of sweet song from that far West
Where pine woods, with their branches low depressed,
Cease not lamenting to the scented airs,
For Hiawatha, as he disappears,
Swift sailing to the Island of the Blest,
And for Evangeline, who, now at rest,
With our own Gertrude's self the amaranth shares.
Glad greeting ! for, in many an English home,
The poet's voice has pierced the silent night
With chants of high Resolve, and Joys that come
At Duty's summons ; then, Hope's answering light,
Clear as the red star watching o'er the earth,
Has glowed afresh on life's rekindled hearth.