 Section 1 of Voices of the Night and Other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. This is a LibriVox audiobook. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit us at LibriVox.org. This recording by Michelle Fry, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Section 1, forward by the editors, The Life of Longfellow. Those scientists who hold that genius is a morbid distillation from a tainted ancestry would be puzzled to account for Longfellow's undeniable genius. He was descended from two Yorkshire families whose natural healthiness of mind and body had been developing for several generations in the bracing air of New England. The Longfellow's, his father's family, were a sturdy race who had always done their duty without inquiring into their metaphysical motives for doing it. And his mother's family, the Wadsworths, traced their descent to John Alden as wholesome and old Puritan warrior as could well be found. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the poet, was born at Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807. Like Emerson and Hawthorne, he was a quiet boy, fond of books and a verse to taking part in the sports of his school fellows. His nerves shrank from all loud noises. There is a tradition of his having begged a servant on a glorious 4th of July to put cotton in his ears to deaden the roar of the cannon, and in later life, one of his book plates bore the motto, non-clamour said amour. At the age of fifteen, this shy studious lad was sent to Bowdoin College at Brunswick, Maine, after Portland Academy had taught him all it knew. He came prepared to make the most of his opportunities, and after four years of hard work, graduated with distinction and with the promise of a professorship after a year of travel had broadened his mental horizon. The next summer found Longfellow at Paris with all Europe before him. He wandered through England, France, Germany, Italy, Holland and Spain, everywhere studying the languages and absorbing the rich associations of foreign places. His impressions of what he saw were in later years embodied in the prose works Uttramur and Hyde Parion. On his return, he had once assumed the duties of his professorship, finding little time for literature. In 1831, he married an acquaintance of former years, Mary Storer Poehler, with whom he lived most happily until her premature death in 1835. In 1834, a pleasant surprise came in the shape of an offer of the chair of modern languages at Harvard, an offer which Longfellow was only too glad to accept. The new professor's official duties were light, and he had leisure for the literary pursuits, which had ever been his delight. Hyperion, a romance in two volumes, and the voices of the night, a volume of poems containing the reaper and the flowers and the psalm of life, were published in 1839. Two years later appeared ballads and other poems containing the wreck of the Hesperus, the village Blacksmith and Excelsior, and in the following year, poems on slavery. This quiet life of work was interrupted in 1842 by a visit to Dickens in London, but speedily resumed. In July 1843, Longfellow married his second wife, a Miss Appleton, whose acquaintance he had made for the first time during his Swiss tour. Longfellow's ambition was to be the national poet of America, an ambition to which he was spurred on by Margaret Fuller, probably the most intellectual woman of the time in America. She called his poems, Exotic Flowers, with no smell of American soil about them. The outcome of this criticism was the writing of Evangeline, followed later by Hiawatha and Miles Standish, all refreshingly American in flavor. Hiawatha, a poem founded on Indian myths, is cast in the form of the Eddas, the ancient epics of Finland, a form with which Longfellow had become familiar in his studies of the Scandinavian languages. The courtship of Miles Standish pictures the deeds and sufferings of the early Plymouth colony, a recital enlivened only by the description of the courting of Priscilla by proxy. It is not to be understood that Longfellow's fame rested on these American poems alone. He had already written a quantity of poetry, which had established his reputation as a poet, but it was on these that he based his claim to be considered the national poet of America. In 1854, after about 18 years of academic work, Longfellow felt warranted in resigning his Harvard professorship to be free for purely literary pursuits. His home at Cambridge was the large Craigie House, which could boast of having once been the headquarters of Washington. Here, surrounded by a brilliant circle of friends, he lived in all the flush of a happy, successful life until 1861, that fatal year. When his peace was invaded by a frightful calamity. Mrs. Longfellow, while playing with her children, set fire to her dress and was mortally injured by the flames. The poet never recovered from the shock of this bereavement, although he continued his work with unabated vigor until the time of his death in March 1882. After Tennyson, Longfellow has been the most popular poet of his day. Some critics have said that had Tennyson never written the idols, or in memoriam, his inferiority to Longfellow would have been manifest. But the power displayed in these high realms of poetry was quite beyond Longfellow's reach. His range is domestic. He lacks the power of depicting deep passion or of robing purely imaginative subjects with ideal grace and color. The forces necessary to the execution of an heroic poem are not his, but on the other hand, in such a description of quiet love and devoted patience as he gives us in Evangeline, Longfellow may be ranked with the greatest of poets. Here's a chronological list of the principal works of Longfellow. Coplas de Monarique, 1833. Uttramur, 1835. Hyperion, 1839. Voices of the Night, 1839. Ballads and other poems, 1841. Poems on Slavery, 1842. Spanish Student, 1843. Poets and Poetry of Europe, 1845. Velfrey of Bruges, 1846. Evangeline, 1847. Kavanaugh, 1849. Seaside and the Fireside, 1850. Golden Legend, 1851. Hiawatha, 1855. Miles Standish, 1858. Tales of a Wayside Inn, 1863. Flower De Luce, 1867. Divine Comedy of Don Quay, Alligieri, 1867 through 70. New England Tragedies, 1868. Divine Tragedy, 1871. Three Books of Song, 1872. Christus, 1872. Aftermath, 1873. Hanging of the Crane, 1874. Mask of Pandora, 1875. Caramos, 1878. Ultimathul, 1880. In the Harbor, Ultimathul, Part II, 1882. And Michael Angelo, 1884. End of Section 1. Section 2 of Voices of the Night and Other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Critical Opinions. This first critique is written by George William Curtis. Child of New England and trained by her best influences of a temperament singularly sweet and serene and with the sturdy rectitude of his race, refined and softened by wide contact with other lands and many men, born in prosperity, accomplished in all literatures, and himself a literary artist of consummate elegance, he was the fine flower of the Puritan stock under its changed modern conditions. Out of strength had come forth sweetness, the grim iconoclast, humming a surly hymn, had issued in the Christian gentleman. Captain Miles Standish had risen into Sir Philip Sidney, the austere morality that relentlessly ruled the elder New England, reappeared in the genius of this singer in the most gracious and captivating form. The foundations of our distinctive literature were largely laid in New England, and they rest upon morality. Literary New England had never a trace of literary bohemia. The most illustrious group and the earliest of American authors and scholars and literary men, the Boston and Cambridge group of the last generation, Channing, the two Danes, Sparks, Everett, Van Croft, Tickner, Prescott, Norton, Ripley, Palfrey, Emerson, Parker, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Agassiz, Lowell, Motley, have been sober and industrious citizens of whom Judge Sewell would have approved. Their lives as well as their works have ennobled literature. They have illustrated the moral sanity of genius. Longfellow shares this trait with them all. It is the moral purity of his verse, which at once charms the heart, and in his first most famous poem, The Psalm of Life, it is the direct inculcation of a moral purpose. Those who insist that literary art, like all other art, should not concern itself positively with morality, must reflect that the heart of this age has been touched as truly by Longfellow, however differently, as that of any time by its master poet. This indeed is his peculiar distinction. Among the great poetic names of the century in English literature, Burns in a general way is the poet of love, Wordsworth of lofty contemplation of nature, Byron of passion, Shelly of aspiration, Keats of romance, Scott of heroic legend, and not less, and quite as distinctively, Longfellow of the domestic affections. He is the poet of the household, of the fireside, of the universal home feeling, The infinite tenderness and patience, the pathos and the beauty of daily life, of familiar emotion, and the common scene. These are the significance of that verse, whose beautiful and simple melody, softly murmuring for more than 40 years, made the singer the most widely beloved of living men. And now we hear from William Michael Rossetti. He is, in a high sense, a literary man, and next a literary artist, and thirdly, a literary artist in the domain of poetry. It would not be true to say that his art is of the intensest kind, our most magical potency, but it is art and imbues whatever he performs. Insofar as a literary artist in poetry is a poet, Longfellow is a poet, and should, to the silencing of all debates and demures, be freely confessed and handsomely installed as such. How far he is a poet in a further sense than this remains to be determined. Having thus summarily considered the actual quality of the work as derived from the endowments of the worker, I next proceed to the grounds upon which the vast popularity of the poems has rested. One main, and in itself all sufficient ground, has just been stated, that the sort of intelligence of which Longfellow is so conspicuous an example includes, preeminently, a great susceptibility to the spirit of the age. The man who meets the spirit of the age halfway will be met halfway by that, will be adopted as a favorite child and warmly reposited in the heart. Such has been the case with Longfellow. In sentiment, in perception, in culture, in selection, in utterance, he represents with adequate and even influential but not overwhelming force the tendencies and adaptibilities of the time. He is a good type of the better most, not the exceptionally very best minds of the central or later central period of the 19th century and having the gift of persuasive speech and accomplished art, he can enlist the sympathies of readers who approach his own level of intelligence and can dominate a numberless multitude of those who belong to lower planes but who share nonetheless his own general conceptions and aspirations. Evangelion, whatever may be its shortcomings and blemishes, takes so powerful a hold of feelings that the fate which would at last merge it into oblivion could only be a very hard and even a perverse one. Who that has read it has ever forgotten it or in whose memory does it rest as other than a long-drawn sweetness and sadness that has become a portion and a purifying portion of the experiences of the heart? This by the London Saturday Review. Mr. Longfellow was easily first among his own countrymen as a poet in certain directions as a prose writer but he was also a good deal more than this. There has been a tendency to doubt whether he was entitled to a place in the first rank of poets and the doubt, although we are not disposed to think it well-founded, is perhaps intelligible. Some of the qualities which gave his verse its charm and its very wide popularity and influence also worked, not to perplex for the essence of his style with simplicity but perhaps to vex the critical mind. There is no need to dwell now upon various pieces of verse by Mr. Longfellow which no doubt owed much of their fame to qualities that were less prominent in some of his productions which perhaps were not unnaturally less popular. But it may be said as a general rule that when Longfellow was commonplace in sentiment he was far from commonplace in expression. His verse was full of grace and if one may use the word in this connection of tact. And it cannot perhaps be said to have been want of tact that prevented him from correcting the one odd blunder that he made after it had gone forth to the world and become somewhat surprisingly popular. That he could be and generally was much in reverse of commonplace will hardly be denied by anyone who has made a real study of his work. He has a keen observation of vivid fancy, a scholar-like touch, a not too common gentilease, and a seemingly easy command of rhyme and rhythm. When the qualities which we have touched upon are united in a man who has come before the world as a poet evidently in consequence of the promptings of his nature and not of malice pre-pence and with carefully devised effectation it seems somewhat rash to deny him the high place which the great bulk of his admirers would assign to him because he has perhaps too frequently lapsed into thought if not into diction, which may seem unworthy of such a writer at his best. Nor perhaps is it fair in this regard to leave out of account that Longfellow began his poetic career as the poet, the poet par excellence of a country which had its literature to make. His position as a spokesman in poetry in some country had its advantages and its drawbacks. He was more free from the disadvantages of critical severity and opposition than an English writer could well have been, but such a freedom has its dangers, and to this it might not be too fanciful to trace the lapses of which some mention has been made. That it was to these lapses that he owed a considerable portion of his influence with the mass of the reading or devouring public in England not his fault, and this fact should not, we think, be allowed to obscure in any way the exceptionally fine qualities which he undoubtedly possessed and cultivated. And now from the London Athenium. The essence of Longfellow's writings might be defined thus, domestic morals with a romantic coloring, a warm glow of sentiment, and a full measure of culture. The morals are partly religious, hardly at all sectarian, pure, sincere, and healthy. The romance is sufficiently genuine, yet a trifle factitious, nicely apprehended rather than intense. The sentiment is heartfelt, but a little ordinary, by the very fact of its being ordinary all the more widely and fully responded to. At times where the somewhat false ring are at least an obvious shallowness. Right-minded sentiment, which the author perceives to be creditable to himself and which he aims as if by an earnest and penetrated tone of voice to make impressive to his reader. The culture is broad and general, not that of a bookworm or student, but of a receptive and communicative mind of average grasp and average sympathies. Longfellow had much clearness and persuasiveness, some force, and a great aptitude for improving the occasion. But he had not that imaginative strength, that spacious vision, that depth of personal individuality which impressed somewhat painfully at first, but which alone supply in the long run the great startling and rousing forces that possess a permanent influence. Now this by E. P. Whipple. Longfellow has a perfect command of that expression which results from restraining rather than cultivating fluency, and his manner is adapted to his theme. He rarely, if ever, mistakes emotions for conceptions. His words are often pictures of his thought. He selects with great delicacy and precision the exact phrase which best expresses or suggests his idea. He colors his style with the skill of a painter. The warm flush and bright tints, as well as the most evanescent hues of language he uses with admirable discretion. In that higher department of his art, that of so combining his words and images, that they make music to the soul as well as to the ear and convey not only his feelings and thoughts but also the very tone and condition of the soul in which they have been, he likewise excels. His imagination in the sphere of its activity is almost perfect in its power to shape invisible forms or to suggest by cunning verbal combinations the feeling or thought he desires to express. But it lacks the strength and daring and the wide sweep which characterize the imagination of such poets as Shelley. He has little of the unrest and frenzy of the bard. We know in reading him that he will never miss his mark, that he will risk nothing, that he will aim to do only that which he feels he can do well. An air of repose of quiet power is around his compositions. He rarely loses sight of common interests and sympathies. He displays none of the stinging earnestness, the vehement sensibility, the gusts of passion which characterize poets of the impulsive class. His spiritualism is not seen in wild struggles after an ineffable something for which earth can afford but imperfect symbols and of which even abstract words can suggest little knowledge. He appears perfectly satisfied with his work. Like his own village blacksmith, he retires every night with the feeling that something has been attempted, that something has been done. His sense of beauty, though uncommonly vivid, is not the highest of which the mind is capable. He has little perception of its mysterious spirit, of that beauty of which all physical loveliness is but a shadow, which oars and thrills the soul into which it enters and lifts the imagination into regions to which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. His mind never appears oppressed, nor his sight dimmed by its exceeding glory. He feels and loves and creates what is beautiful, but he hymns no reverence, and pays no adoration to the spirit of beauty. He would never exclaim with Shelley, oh, awful loveliness. This ends section two. Read for you by Michelle Fry, Battenridge, Louisiana. Section three of Voices of the Night and Other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Voices of the Night Prelude Pleasant it was when woods were green and winds were soft and low to lie amid some silven scene, where the long drooping boughs between, shadows dark and sunlight sheen, alternate come and go. Or where the denser grove receives no sunlight from above, but the dark foliage into weaves in one unbroken roof of leaves, underneath whose sloping eaves the shadows hardly move. Beneath some patriarchal tree I lay upon the ground, his hoary arms uplifted he, and all the broad leaves over me clapped their little hands in glee with one continuous sound. A slumberous sound, a sound that brings the feelings of a dream, as of innumerable wings, as when a bell no longer swings, faint the hollow murmur rings, or meadow, lake, and stream, and dreams of that which cannot die, bright visions came to me, as lapped in thought I used to lie and gaze into the summer sky, where the sailing clouds went by, like ships upon the sea. Dreams that the soul of youth engage ere fancy has been quelled, old legends of the monkish page, traditions of the saint and sage, tales that have the rhyme of age, and chronicles of eld, and loving still these quaint old themes, even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams that crossed by shades and sunny gleams water the green land of dreams, the holy land of song. Therefore at Pentecost, which brings the spring, clothed like a bride, when nestling buds unfold their wings, and bishop's caps have golden rings, musing upon many things I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild, it was a sound of joy, they were my playmates when a child, and rocked me in their arms so wild, still they looked at me and smiled as if I were a boy. And ever whispered mild and low, come, be a child once more, and waved their long arms to and fro, and beckoned solemnly and slow, I could not choose but go into the woodlands whore, into the blithe and breathing air, into the solemn wood, solemn and silent everywhere, nature with folded hands seemed there, kneeling at her evening prayer, like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue of tall and somberess pines, abroad their fin-like branches grew, and where the sunshine darted through, spread a vapor soft and blue in long and sloping lines. And falling on my weary brain, like a fast-falling shower, the dreams of youth came back again, low lispings of the summer rain, dropping on the ripened grain, as once upon the flower. Visions of childhood stay, oh, stay, ye were so sweet and wild, and distant voices seemed to say, it cannot be, they pass away, other themes demand thy lay, thou art no more a child. The land of song within thee lies, watered by living springs, the lids of fancies sleepless eyes, our gates unto that paradise, holy thoughts like stars arise, its clouds are angels' wings. Learn that henceforth thy song shall be, not mountains kept with snow, nor forests sounding like the sea, nor rivers flowing carelessly, where the woodlands bend to see, the bending heavens is below. There is a forest where the den of iron branches sounds, a mighty river roars between, and whosoever looks therein, sees the heavens all black with sin, sees not its depths nor bounds. A thwart the swinging branches cast, soft rays of sunshine pour, then comes the fearful wintery blast, our hopes like withered leaves fall fast, pallid lips say it is past, we can return no more. Look then into thine heart and write, yes, into life's deep stream, all forms of sorrow and delight, all solemn voices of the night, that can soothe thee or affright, be these henceforth thy theme. End of section three. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read for you by Michelle Fry, by Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Section four of Voices of the Night and Other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Hymn to the Night. This section begins with a quotation from Orestes by Euripides, translated from the Greek by R. Potter. Awful queen whose gentle power brings sweet oblivion of our woes, and in the calm and gentle hour distills the blessings of repose. Come, awful night, come from the gloom of Erebus profound, and spread thy sabre-tinctured wings around. Speed to this royal house thy flight for pallide grief and wild affright and all the horrors of despair. Here pour their rage and threaten ruin here. Note Orestes in classical mythology was a son of Agamemnon and Cleitemnestra. He was pursued by the Furies, who drove him mad as a punishment for the murder of his mother. In the tragedy, Orestes calls on sleep as his greatest boon. This is followed by a quotation from the Iliad. Most welcome earnestly prayed for night. And now for Longfellow's Hymn to the Night. I heard the trailing garments of the night sweep through her marble halls. I saw her sable skirt so fringed with light from the celestial walls. I felt her presence by its spell of might, stoop oromy from above, the calm majestic presence of the night as of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, the manifold soft charms that fill the haunted chambers of the night like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air my spirit drank repose. The fountain of perpetual peace flows there from those deep cisterns flows. O holy night, from thee I learned to bear what man has borne before. Thou last thy finger on the lips of care and they complain no more. Peace, peace, are resties like I breathe this prayer. Descend with broad-winged flight, the welcome, the thrice prayed for, the most fair, the best beloved night. End of section four. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section five of Voices of the Night and Other Porns by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. A Psalm of Life. What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist. Tell me not in mournful numbers, life is but an empty dream, for the soul is dead that slumbers and things are not what they seem. Life is real, life is earnest, and the grave is not its goal. Dust thou art to dust returnest was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment and not sorrow is our destined end or way, but to act that each tomorrow find us farther than today. 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 in the bivouac of life be not like dumb-driven cattle be a hero in the strife. Trust no future how ere pleasant the dead past bury its dead. Act, act in the living present, heart within and God or head. Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime and departing leave behind us footsteps on the sands of time. Footsteps that perhaps another sailing or life's solemn mane, a forlorn and shipwrecked brother seeing shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing with a heart for any fate, still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait. A couple of footnotes to this poem provided by the editor. Dust to Art and Dust to Returnist is from Genesis 319 and as two footsteps on the sand in later editions Longfellow changed this to Footprints. This ends Section 5. This LibriVox recording is in the Public Domain read for you by Michelle Fry, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Section 6 of Voices of the Night and Other Porns by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Reaper and the Flowers. There is a reaper whose name is Death and with his sickle keen he reaps the bearded grain at a breath and the flowers that grow between. Shall I have not that his fair saith he, have not but the bearded grain, though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again. He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, he kissed their drooping leaves. It was for the Lord of Paradise he bound them in his sheaves. My Lord has need of these florets, gay, the reaper said and smiled. Dear tokens on earth are they where he was once a child. They shall all bloom in fields of light, transplanted by my care and saints upon their garments white these sacred blossoms wear. And the mother gave in tears and pain the flowers she most did love. She knew she should find them all again in the fields of light above. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath the reaper that day, to as an angel visited the green earth and took the flowers away. End of section 6 the reaper and the flowers. This Libra Fox recording is in the public domain read for you by Michelle Fry Baton Rouge, Louisiana in February 2019. Section 7 of Voices of the Night and Other Porns by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Light of Stars The night is come but not too soon and sinking silently all silently the little moon drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven but the cold light of stars and the first watch of night is given to the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love, the star of love and dreams? Oh, no, from that blue tent a hero's armor gleams and earnest thoughts within me rise when I behold afar suspended in the evening skies the shield of that red star. Oh, star of strength I see thee stand and smile upon my pain, thou beckonest with thy mailed hand and I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light but the cold light of stars I give the first watch of the night to the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will he rises in my breast serene and resolute and still and calm and self-possessed. And thou too whoso ere thou art that read this brief song as one by one thy hopes depart be resolute and calm. Oh, fear not in a world like this thou shalt no ere long know how sublime a thing it is to suffer and be strong. End of Section 7 The Light of Stars This Leeravax recording is in the public domain Section 8 of Voices of the Night and Other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Footsteps of Angels When the hours of day are numbered and the voices of the night are the better soul that slumbered to a wholly calm delight. ere the evening lamps are lighted and like phantoms grim and tall, shadows from the fitful firelight dance upon the parlor wall. Then the forms of the departed enter at the open door the beloved, the true hearted come to visit me once more. He the young and strong who cherished noble longings for the strife roadside fell and perished weary with the march of life. They the holy ones and weakly who the cross of suffering bore folded their pale hands so meekly spake with us on earth no more. And with them the being beauteous who unto my youth was given more than all things else to love me and is now a saint in heaven. With the slow and noiseless footstep comes that messenger divine, takes the vacant chair beside me, lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me with those deep and tender eyes like the stars so still and saint like looking downward from the skies. Uttered not yet comprehended is the spirit's voiceless prayer. Soft rebukes in blessings ended breathing from her lips of air. O thou, oft depressed and lonely, all my fears are laid aside if I but remember only such as these have lived and died. Footnote Longfellow's line The Being Beauteous was an illusion to his first wife. End of section 8 Footsteps of Angels This LibriVox recording is in public domain. Section 9 of Voices of the Night and Other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Flowers Spake full well in language quaint and olden one who dwelleth by the castle drawn, when he called the flowers so blue and golden, stars that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are in we read our history as astrologers and seers availed, yet not wrapped about with awful mystery like the burning stars which they beheld. Wonders truths and manifold as wondrous God hath written in those stars above but not less in the bright flowerets under us stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation written all over this great world of ours making evident our own creation in these stars of earth, these golden flowers. End of the poet, faithful and foreseeing, sees alike in stars and flowers a part of the self same universal being which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, tremulous leaves with soft and silver lining buds that open only to decay. Brilliant hopes all woven in gorgeous tissues flaunting gaily in the golden light, large desires with most uncertain issues tender wishes blossoming at night. These in flowers and men are more than seeming flowers are they of the self same powers which the poet in no idle dreaming sith in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us they are glowing some like stars to tell us spring is born others their blue eyes with tears are flowing stand like roof amid the golden corn. Not alone in springs are memorial bearing and in summers green emblazoned field but in arms of brave old autumn's wearing in the center of his brazen shield. Not alone in meadows and green alleys on the mountaintop and by the brink of sequestered pools in woodland valleys where the slaves of nature stoop to drink. Not alone in her vast dome of glory not on graves of birds and beast alone but in old cathedrals high and on the tombs of heroes carved in stone. In the cottage of the rudest peasant in ancestral homes whose crumbling towers speaking of the past and to the present tell us of the ancient games of flowers. In all places then and in all seasons flowers expand their light and soul like wings teaching us by most persuasive reasons how they are to human things and with childlike credulous affection we behold their tender buds expand emblems of our own great resurrection, emblems of the bright and better land. End of section nine Flowers. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section 10 of Voices of the Night and Other Porms by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Beleaguered City I have read in some old marvelous tale some legend strange and vague that a midnight host of specters pale beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldows rushing stream with the wan moon overhead there stood as in an awful dream the army of the dead. White as a sea fog landward bound the spectral camp was seen and with a sorrowful deep sound the river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there nor sentries paced the mist like banners clasped the air as clouds with clouds embrace. But when the old cathedral bell proclaimed the morning prayer the white pavilions rose and fell on the alarmed air. From the broad valley vast and far the troubled army fled up rose the glorious morning star the ghastly host was dead. I have read in the marvelous heart of man that strange and mystics grow that an army of phantoms vast and wan beleaguered the human soul encamped beside life's rushing stream in fancy's misty light gigantic shapes and shadows gleam anxious through the night. Upon its midnight battle ground the spectral camp is seen and with a sorrowful deep sound flows the river of life between. No other voice nor sound is there in the army of the grave no other challenge breaks the air but the rushing of life's wave. And when the Solomon deep church bell entreats the soul to pray the midnight phantoms feel the spell the shadows sweep away. Down the broad veil of tears afar the spectral camp has fled faith shineth as a morning star our ghastly fears are dead. End of section 10 the beleaguered city this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section 11 of Voices of the Night and Other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Midnight Mass for the Dying Year Yes the year is growing old and his eye is pale and bleared death with frosty hand and cold plucks the old man by the beard sorely sorely the leaves are falling falling solemnly and slow caw caw the rooks are calling it is a sound of woe a sound of woe through the woods and mountain passes the winds like anthems roll their chanting solemn masses singing pray for this poor soul pray pray and the hooded clouds like friars tell their beads in drops of rain and patter their doleful prayers but their prayers are all in vain all in vain there he stands in the foul weather the foolish fond old year crowned with wild flowers and with heather like a weak despised leer a king a king then comes the summer like day bids the old man rejoice his joy his last oh the old man gray loveth that ever soft voice gentle and low to the crimson woods he saith to the voice gentle and low of the soft air like a daughter's breath pray do not mock me so do not laugh at me and now the sweet day is dead cold in his arms it lies no stain from its breath is spread over the glassy skies no mist or stain then to the old year dyeth and the forest utter a moan like the voice of one who cryeth in the wilderness alone vex not his ghost then comes with an awful roar gathering and sounding on the storm wind from Labrador the wind Yurok Lydon the storm wind howl howl and from the forest sweep the red leaves away with the sins that thou uphorst oh soul could thus decay and be swept away for there shall come a mightier blast there shall be a darker day as from heaven downcast like red leaves be swept away Kyrie Ellison Kriste Ellison a couple of footnotes Yurok Lydon is a tempestuous south east wind which raises great waves the name is derived from the Greek euros the south east wind and a Clyden a wave Kyrie Ellison Kriste Ellison in Greek Lord have pity Christ have pity these are brief petitions used as responses in the Roman Catholic Church end of section 11 Midnight Mass for the dying year this is the last of 11 poems grouped under the heading Voices of the Night the next 14 poems are grouped under the heading Miscellaneous this Sleaver Fox recording is in the public domain Voices of the Night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow the Skeleton in Armor this is the first of the 13 poems that are grouped under the heading Miscellaneous this poem begins with a preface by Longfellow the following ballad was suggested to me while riding on the seashore at Newport Rhode Island a year or two previous a skeleton up at Fall River clad in broken and corroded armor and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the round tower at Newport generally known hitherto as the old windmill though now claimed by the Danes as the work of their early ancestors Professor Raffin in the memoirs de la Société Rale des Antiquaries du Nord for 1838-1839 says quote mistaken in this instance the style in which the more ancient stone edifices of the north were constructed the style which belongs to the Roman or Antigothic architecture and which especially after the time of Charlemagne diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the west and north of Europe where it continued to predominate until the close of the 12th century that style which some authors have from one of its most striking characteristics called the round arch style the same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture on the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date of its erection that no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch nor any approximation to it it is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period from such characteristics as remain however we can scarcely form any other inference than one in which I am persuaded that all who are familiar with old northern architecture will concur that this building was erected at a period decidedly not later than the 12th century this remark applies of course to the original building only and not to the alterations that it subsequently received for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses for example as the substructure of a windmill and laterally as a hay magazine to the same times may be referred the windows the fireplace and the apertures made above the columns that this building could not have been erected for a windmill is what an architect will easily discern end quote I will not enter into a discussion of the point it is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport who has passed his days within sight of the round tower will be ready to exclaim with sun show God bless me did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing for that it was nothing but a windmill and nobody could mistake it but one who had the like in his head and now we start with the poem the skeleton in armor speak speak thou fearful guest who with thy hollow breast still in rude armor dressed comest to daunt me wrapped not in eastern bombs but with thy fleshless palms stretched as if asking alms why must thou haunt me then from those cavernous eyes pale flashes seemed to rise as when the northern skies gleam in December and like the waters flow under December snow came a dull voice of woe from the heart's chamber I was a viking old my deeds though manifold no scald in song has told no saga taught thee take heed that in thy verse thou dost the tale rehearse else dread a dead man's curse for this I sought thee far in the northern land by the wild Baltic strand I with my childish hand tamed the gir falcon and with my skates fast bound skimmed that half frozen sound that the poor whimpering hound trembled to walk on off to his frozen lair tracked I the grizzly bear while from my path the hare fled like a shadow off to the forest dark followed the werewolf's bark until the soaring lark sang from the meadow but when I older grew joining a corsairs crew or the dark sea I flew with the marauders wild was the life we led many the souls that sped many the hearts that bled many the hearts that bled by our stern orders many of us sail about wore the long winter out often our midnight shouts set the cocks crowing as we the berserk's tail measured in cups of ale draining the oak in pale filled to our flowing once as I told in glee tales of the stormy sea soft eyes did gaze on me burning yet tender and as the white stars shine on the dark Norway pine on that dark heart of mine fell there soft splendor I wooed the blue eyed maid yielding yet half afraid and in the forest's shade our vows were plighted under the loosened vest fluttered her little breast like birds within their nest by the hawk frighted bright in her father's hall fields gleamed upon the wall loud sang the minstrel's all chanting his glory when of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand mute did the minstrel stand to hear my story while the brown ale he queffed loud then the champion left as the wind gusts swept the sea foam brightly so the loud laugh of scorn out of those lips unshorn from the deep drinking horn blew the foam lightly she was a prince's child I but a viking wild and though she blushed and smiled I was discarded should not the dove so white fellow the sea muse flight why did they leave that night her nest unguarded scarce that I put to sea bearing the maid with me fairest of all was she among the Norsemen when on the white sea strand waving his arm at hand saw we old Hildebrand with twenty horsemen then launched day to the blast bent like a reed each mast yet we were gaining fast when the wind failed us and with a sudden flaw came round the gusty scar so that our foe we saw laugh as he hailed us and as to catch the gale round veered the flapping sail death was the helmsman's hail death without a quarter midships with iron keels struck we her ribs of steel down her black hull did reel through the black water as with his wings a slant sails the fierce cormorant seeking some rocky haunt with his prey laden so toward the open main beating to sea again through the wild hurricane bore I the maiden three weeks we westward bore and when the storm was o'er cloud like we saw the shore stretching to leeward there for my ladies bower built I a lofty tower which to this very hour stands looking seaward there lived we many years time dried the maiden's tears she had forgot her feet she was the mother death closed her mild blue eyes under that tower she lies there shall the sun arise on such another still grew my bosom then still as a stagnant fin hateful to me were men the sunlight hateful in the vast forest here clad in my war like year fell I upon my feet and I fell I upon my feet here clad in my war like year fell I upon my spear oh death was grateful thus seemed with many scars bursting these prison bars up to its native stars my soul ascended there from the flowing bowl deep drinks the warrior's soul skull to the north land skull thus the tale ended end of section 12 the skeleton in armor this labor box recording is in the public domain section 13 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth long fellow the wreck of the Hesperus it was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintery sea and the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company blue were her eyes as the fairy flecks her cheeks like the dawn of day and her bosom white as the Hawthorne buds that oped in the month of May the skipper had stood beside the helm with his pipe in his mouth and watched how the veering flaw did blow the smoke now west now south then up in Spakenold sailor had sailed the Spanish Maine I pray thee put in yonder port for near a hurricane last night the moon had a golden ring and tonight no moon we see the skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe and a scornful laugh left he colder and louder blew the wind a gale from the northeast the snow fell hissing in the brine and the billows frothed like yeast down came the storm and smote a mane in its strength she shuddered and paused like a frightened steed then leaped her cable's length come hither come hither my little daughter and do not tremble so for I can weather the roughest gale that ever wind did blow he wrapped her warm in his seamen's coat against the stinging blast he cut a rope from a broken spar and bound her to the mast oh father I hear the church bell's ring oh say what may it be it is a fog bell on the rock-bound coast and he steered for the open sea oh father I hear the sound of guns oh say what may it be some ship in distress that cannot live in such an angry sea oh father I see a gleaming light oh say what may it be but the father answered never a word a frozen corpse was he lashed to the helm all stiff and stark with his face to the skies the lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow on his fixed and glassy eyes then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed at saven she might be and she thought of Christ who stilled the wave on the lake of Galilee and fast through the midnight dark and drear through the whistling sleet and snow like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept towards the reef of Norman's woe and ever the fitful gusts between a sound came from the land it was the sound of the trampling surf on the rocks and the hard sea sand the breakers were right beneath her bows she drifted a dreary wreck and a whooping billow swept the crew like icicles from her deck she struck over the white and fleecy waves looked soft as carded wool but the cruel rocks they gored her side like the horns of an angry bull her rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice with the masts went by the board like a vessel of glass she strove and sank ho-ho the breakers roared at daybreak on the bleak sea beach a fisherman stood aghast in the form of a maiden fair lashed close to a drifting mast the salt sea was frozen on her breast the salt tears in her eyes and he saw her hair like the brown seaweed on the billows fall and rise such was the wreck of the hasperess in the midnight and the snow Christ save us all from a death like this on the reef of Norman's woe editor's note Norman's woe is a dangerous reef at the entrance to the harbor of Gloucester, Massachusetts a schooner called the Hesperess actually wenched to pieces on the rocks here in the winter of 1839 long fellow heard of it in a newspaper and composed the famous ballad in a single night this ends at section 13 the wreck of the Hesperess this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section 14 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth long fellow the luck of Eden Hall from the German of Uland editor's note the tradition upon which this ballad is founded and the shards of the luck of Eden Hall still exist in England the goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher the grave, baronet of Eden Hall Cumberland and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it of Eden Hall the youthful lord bids sound the festival trumpets call he rises at the banquet board and cries mid the drunken revelers all now bring me the luck of Eden Hall the butler hears the words with pain the house's oldest seneschal takes slow from its broken cloth again the drinking glass of crystal tall they call it the luck of Eden Hall then said the lord this glass to praise fill with red wine from Portugal the gray beard with trembling hand obeys a purple light shines over all it beams from the luck of Eden Hall then speaks the lord and waves at light this glass of flashing crystal tall gave to my sire's the fountain sprite she wrote in it if this glass doth fall farewell then, oh luck of Eden Hall to us write a goblet the fate should be of the joyous race of Eden Hall deep draughts drink we write willingly and willingly ring with merry call cling cling to the luck of Eden Hall first rings it deep and full and mild like to the song of a nightingale then like the roar of a torrent wind then mutters at last like the thunders fall the glorious luck of Eden Hall for its keeper takes a race of might the fragile goblet of crystal tall it has lasted longer than is right cling cling with a harder blow than all will I try the luck of Eden Hall as the goblet ringing flies apart suddenly cracks the vaulted hall and through the rift the wild flames start the guests in dust are scattered all with the breaking luck of Eden Hall in storms the foe with fire and sword he and the knight has scaled the wall slain by the sword lies the youthful lord but holds in his hand the crystal tall the shattered luck of Eden Hall on the morrow the butler gropes alone the grey beard in the desert hall he seeks his lord's burnt skeleton he seeks in the dismal ruins fall the shards of the luck of Eden Hall the stone wall saith he that fall aside down must the stately columns fall glass is this earth's luck and pride in atoms shall fall this earthly ball one day like the luck of Eden Hall end of section 14 the luck of Eden Hall this labor box recording is in the public domain section 15 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow the elected knight translated from the Danish the following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nairop and Rebek's Dansk Vizar of the Middle Ages it seems to refer to the first preaching of Christianity in the north and to the institution of night errantry the three maidens I suppose to be faith, hope and charity the irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the translation Sir Ulof he writeeth over the plain full seven miles broad and seven miles wide but never I never can meet with the man a tilt with him dare ride he saw under the hillside a night full well equipped his steed was black his helm was barred he was riding at full speed he wore upon his spurs twelve little golden birds a non he spurred his steed with a clay and there sat all the birds and sang upon his mail twelve little golden wheels a non in eddies the wild wind blew and round and round the wheels they flew he wore before his breast a lance that was poised in rest and it was sharper than diamond stone it made Sir Ulof's heart to groan he wore upon his helm a wreath of ruddy gold and that gave him the maidens three the youngest was fair to behold Sir Ulof questioned the night eff soon if he were come from heaven down art thou Christ of heaven quote he so will I yield me unto thee I am not Christ the great thou shalt not yield thee yet I am an unknown knight three modest maidens have me bedight art thou a knight elected and have three maidens be bedight so shalt thou ride a tilt this day for all the maidens honor the first tilt they together rode they put their steeds to the test the second tilt they together rode they proved their manhood best the third tilt they together rode neither of them would yield the fourth tilt they together rode they both fell on the field now lie the lords upon the plane and their blood runs unto death now sit the maidens in the high tower the youngest sorrows till death end of section 15 the elected knight this labor box recording is in the public domain section 16 of voices of the night and other forms by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow the village blacksmith under a spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands the smith the mighty man is he with sinewy hands and the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands his hair is crisp and black and long his face is like the tan his brow is wet with honest sweat he earns whatever he can and looks the whole world in the face for he owes not any man week in week out from morning till night you can hear his bellows blow you can hear him swing his heavy brush with measured beat and slow like a sexton ringing the village bell when the evening sun is low and children coming home from school look in at the open door they love to see the flaming forge and to hear the bellows roar and catch the burning sparks that fly like chaff from a threshing floor he goes on Sunday to the church and sits among his boys he hears the parson pray and preach his daughter's voice singing in the village choir and it makes his heart rejoice it sounds to him like her mother's voice singing in paradise he needs must think of her once more how in the grave she lies and with his hard rough hand he wipes a tear out of his eyes toiling rejoicing sorrowing onward through life he goes each morning sees some task begin each evening sees it close something attempted something done has earned a night's repose thanks thanks to thee my worthy friend for the lesson thou has taught thus at the flaming forge of life our fortunes must be wrought thus on its sounding anvil shaped each burning deed and thought end of section 16 the village blacksmith this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section 17 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Demian the rising moon has hid the stars her level rays like golden bars lie on the landscape green with shadows brown between and silver white the river gleams as if Diana in her dreams had dropped her silver bow upon the meadows low on such a tranquil night as this she woke in Demian with a kiss when sleeping in the grove he dreamed not of her love like Diane's kiss unasked, unsaught love gives itself but is not bought nor voice nor sound betrays its deep impassioned gaze it comes the beautiful the free the crown of all humanity in silence and alone to seek the elected one it lifts the bows whose shadows deep are life's oblivion the soul's sleep and kisses the closed eyes of him whose slumbering lies oh weary hearts oh slumbering eyes oh drooping souls whose destinies are fraught with fear and pain ye shall be loved again no one is so accursed by fate no one so utterly desolate but some heart though unknown responds unto his own responds as if with unseen wings an angel touched its quivering strings and whispers in its song where has thou stayed so long end of section 17 in Demian the sleeper vox recording is in the public domain section 18 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in the category miscellaneous the two locks of hair from the German of Pfizer a youth light-hearted and content I wander through the world here Arab-like is pitched my tent and straight again is furrowed yet oft I dream that once a wife close in my heart was locked and in the sweet repose of life a blessed child I rocked I wake away that dream away too long did it remain so long that both by night and day it ever comes again the end lies ever in my thought to a grave so cold and deep the mother beautiful was brought then dropped the child asleep but now the dream is holy or I bathe my eyes and see and wander through the world once more a youth so life and free two locks and they are wondrous fair left me that vision mild the brown is from the mother's hair the blonde is from the child and when I see that lock of gold pale grows the evening red and when the dark lock I behold I wish that I were dead end of section 18 the two locks of hair this lever vox recording is in the public domain section 19 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth long fellow in the category miscellaneous it is not always may this begins with the Spanish proverb the translation is in the last line of the third stanza there are no birds in last year's nest the sun is bright the air is clear the darting swallows soar and sing and from the stately elms I hear the bluebird prophesying spring so blue yon winding river flows it seems an outlet from the sky where waiting till the west wind blows the freighted clouds at anchor lie all things are new the buds the leaves that gild the elm trees knotting crest and even the nest beneath the eaves there are no birds in last year's nest all things rejoice in youth and love the fullness of their first delight and learn from the soft heavens above the melting tenderness of night maiden that readest this simple rhyme enjoy thy youth it will not stay enjoy the fragments of thy prime for oh it is not always may enjoy the spring of love and youth to some good angel leave the rest for time will teach thee soon youth there are no birds in last year's nest end of section 19 it is not always may this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section 20 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in the category miscellaneous the rainy day the day is cold and dark and dreary it rains and the wind is never weary the vine still clings to the moldering wall but at every gust the dead leaves fall and the day is dark and dreary my life is cold and dark and dreary it rains and the wind is never weary my thoughts still cling to the molding past but the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast and the days are dark and dreary be still sad heart and cease repining behind the clouds is the sun still shining thy fate is the common fate of all into each life some rain must fall some days must be dark and dreary end of section 20 the rainy day this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section 21 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow God's Acre I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls the burial ground God's Acre it is just it consecrates each grave within its walls and breathes a venison or 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 at the great harvest when the archangels blast shall winnow like a fan the chaff and grain then shall the good stand in immortal bloom in the fair gardens of that second birth and each bright blossom mingle its perfume with that of flowers which never bloomed on earth with thy rude plowshare 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 end of section 21 God's Acre this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section 22 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to the river Charles editors note Craigie House, Longfellow's home in Cambridge overlooked the Charles river river that in silence windest through the meadows bright and free till at length thy rest thou findest in the bosom of the sea for long years of mingled feeling half in rest and half in strife I have seen thy water stealing onward like the stream of life thou hast taught me silent river many a lesson deep and long thou hast been a generous giver I can give thee but a song often sadness and in illness I have watched thy current glide till the beauty of its stillness overflowed me like a tide and in better hours and brighter when I saw thy waters gleam I have felt my heart beat lighter and leap onward with thy stream not for this alone I love thee nor because thy waves of blue from celestial seas above thee take their own celestial hue where yarn shadowy woodlands hide thee and thy waters disappear friends I love have dwelt beside thee and have made thy margin dear more than this thy name reminds me of three friends all true and tried and that name like magic binds me closer closer to thy side friends my soul with joy remembers how like quivering flames they start when I fan the living embers on the hearth stone of my heart tis for this thou silent river that my spirit leans to thee thou hast been a generous giver take this idle song for me editor's footnote the Lowell home Elmwood is situated farther up the river and the three friends were probably Charles Sumner Charles Ward and Charles Elliott Norton end of section 22 to the river Charles this lever vox recording is in the public domain section 23 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow blind Bartimus editor's note this is a story told in the 10th chapter of Mark verse 46 of the Christian Bible blind Bartimus at the gates of Jericho in darkness waits in the crowd he hears a breath say it is Christ of Nazareth and calls in tones of agony Jesus pity me the thronging multitudes increase blind Bartimus hold thy peace but still above the noisy crowd the beggars cry is shrill and loud until they say he calleth thee be of good comfort, rise then sayeth the Christ as silent stands the crowd what wilt thou at my hands and he replies oh give me light rabbi restore the blind man's sight and Jesus answers go thy way thy faith hath made thee whole ye that have eyes yet cannot see in darkness and in misery recall those mighty voices three Jesus pity me be of good comfort, rise he calleth thee thy faith hath made thee whole end of section 23 blind Bartimus this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section 24 of voices of the night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow maiden hood maiden maiden with the meek brown eyes in whose orbs a shadow lies like the dusk in evening skies thou whose locks outshine the sun golden tresses wreathed in one as the braided streamlets run standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet womanhood and childhood fleet gazing with a timid glance on the brooklets swift advance on the river's broad expanse deep and still that gliding stream beautiful to thee must seem as the river of a dream then why pause within decision when bright angels in thy vision beckon thee to fields Elysian seeest thou shadows sailing by as the dove with startle die sees the falcons shadow fly hearest thou voices on the shore that our ears perceive no more deafened by the cataracts roar oh thou child of many prayers life hath quicksands life hath snares care and age come unawares like the swell of some sweet tune morning rises into noon may glides onward into June childhood is the bow where slumbered birds and blossoms many numbered age that bow with snows encumbered gather then each flower that grows when the young heart overflows to embalm that tent of snows bear a lily in thy hand gates of brass cannot withstand one touch of that magic wand bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth in thy heart the dew of youth on thy lips the smile of truth oh that dew like balm shall steal into wounds that cannot heal even asleep our eyes doth seal and that smile like sunshine dart into many a sunless heart for a smile of God thou art footnote In Greek mythology Elysian fields are the abode of the blessed after death. End of section 24 Maidenhood This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section 25 of Voices of the Night and Other Forms by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Excelsior Editors note this poem was suggested to Longfellow by the arms of New York State with the motto Excelsior. The shades of night were falling fast as through an alpine village passed a youth who bore mid-snow and ice a banner with the strange device Excelsior. His brow was sad his eye beneath flashed like a felsion from its sheath and like a silver clarion rung the accents of that unknown Excelsior. In happy homes he saw the light of household fires gleam warm and bright above the spectral glaciers shown and from his lips escaped a groan Excelsior. Try not the past the old man said dark lowers the tempest overhead the roaring torrent is deep and wide and loud that clarion voice replied Excelsior. Oh, stay the maiden said and rest thy weary head upon this breast. A tear stood in his bright blue eye but still he answered with a sigh Excelsior. Beware the pine trees with their branch beware the awful avalanche this was the peasant's last good night a voice replied far up the height Excelsior. At a break of day as heaven word the pious monks of St. Bernard uttered the oft-repeated prayer a voice cried through the startled air Excelsior. A traveler by the faithful hound half buried in the snow was found still grasping in his hand of ice that banner with the strange device Excelsior. There in the twilight cold and gray lifeless but beautiful he lay and from the sky serene and far a voice fell like a falling star Excelsior. End of section 25 Excelsior and end of Voices of the Night and other poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow This LibriVox recording is in the public domain read for you with pleasure for a while fry Baton Rouge Louisiana in February and March 2019