 A Malfi by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, red for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley. Sweet the memory is to me of a land beyond the sea, where the waves and mountains meet, where amid her mulberry trees sits a Malfi in the heat, bathing ever her white feet in the tideless summer seas. In the middle of the town, from its fountains in the hills, tumbling through the narrow gorge, the canetto rushes down, turns the great wheels of the mills, lifts the hammers of the forge, tis a stairway, not a street, that ascends the deep ravine where the torrent leaps between rocky walls that almost meet. Toiling up from stair to stair, peasant girls their burdens bear, sunburnt daughters of the soil, stately figures tall and straight, what inexorable fate dooms them to this life of toil. Lord of vineyards and of lands, far above the convent stands, on its terraced walk aloof leans a monk with folded hands, placid, satisfied serene, looking down upon the scene, over wall and red-tiled roof, wondering unto what good end all this toil and traffic tend, and why all men cannot be free from care, and free from pain, and the sordid love again, and as indolent as he. Where are now the freighted barks from the marts of east and west, where the nights in iron sarks journeying to the holy land, glove of steel upon the hand, cross of crimson on the breast, where the pomp of camp and court, where the pilgrims with their prayers, where the merchants with their wares and their gallant brigantines sailing safely into port, chased by Corsair Algerines. Like a fleet of cloud, like a passing trumpet-blast, are those splendours of the past, and the commerce, and the crowd, fathoms deep beneath the seas lie the ancient wharves and keys, swallowed by the engulfing waves, silent streets and vacant halls, ruined roofs and towers and walls, hidden from all mortal eyes, deep the sunken city-lies, even cities have their graves. This is an enchanted land, round the headlands far away, sweeps the blue Selenian bay with its sickle of white sand, further still and further most on the dim-discovered coast, epistem with its ruins-liers, and its roses all in bloom seem to tinge the fatal skies of that lonely land of doom. On his terrace high in air, nothing doth the good-monk care for such worldly themes as these. From the garden just below, little puffs of perfume blow, and a sound as in his ears of the murmur of the bees in the shining chestnut trees, nothing else he heeds or hears. All the landscape seems to swoon in the happy afternoon, slowly, o'er his senses creeps the encroaching waves of sleep, and he sinks as sank the town, unresisting fathoms down into caverns cool and deep. What about with drifts of snow, hearing the fierce north wind blow, seeing all the landscape white and the river cased in ice? Comes this memory of delight, comes this vision unto me of a long-lost paradise in the land beyond the sea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE BRIDGE I stood on the bridge at midnight as the clocks were striking the hour, and the moon rose o'er the city behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection in the waters under me, like a golden goblet falling and sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance of that lovely night in June, the blaze of the flaming furnace gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long black rafters the wavering shadows lay, and the current that came from the ocean seemed to lift and bear them away. As sweeping and eddying through them rose the belated tide, and streaming into the moonlight the seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing among the wooden piers, a flood of thoughts came o'er me that filled my eyes with tears. How often, oh how often, in the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight engaged on that wave and sky. How often, oh how often, I had wished that ebbing tide would bear me away on its bosom or the ocean wild and wide, for my heart was hot and restless, and my life was full of care, and the burden laid upon me seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me and is buried in the sea, and only the sorrow of others throw its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river on its bridge with wooden piers, like the odor of brine from the ocean comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands of caring, combered men, each bearing his burden of sorrow have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession still passing to and fro, the young heart hot and restless and the old subdued and slow, and forever and forever as long as the river flows, as long as the heart has passions, as long as life has woes. The moon and its broken reflection and its shadow shall appear as the symbol of love in heaven and its wavering image here. This recording is in the public domain. The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth. The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Read for Libbervox.org by Joanne M. Smallhair. February 21, 2007. The Day is Done. The Day is Done and the darkness falls from the wings of night, as a feather is wafted downward from an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village gleam through the rain and the mist, and a feeling of sadness comes o'er me that my soul cannot resist. A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, some simple and heartfelt lay, that shall soothe this restless feeling and vanish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, not from the bard's sublime, whose distant footsteps echo through the corridors of time. For like strains of martial music, their mighty thoughts suggest, life's endless toil and endeavour, and to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, whose songs gushed from his heart, as showers from the clouds of summer or tears from the islets start, who, through long days of labour and nights devoid of ease, still heard in his soul the music of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet the restless pulse of care, and come like the benediction that follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, and the cares that infest the day shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and as silently steal away. This recording is in the public domain. Off the noises of the world retreat. The loud vociferations of the street become an indistinguishable roar. So as I enter here from day to day, and leave my burden at this minster gate, kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, the tumult of the time, disconsolate to articulate murmurs, dies away. While the eternal ages watch and wait. Read of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Andimian by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVarx.org by Kristen Hughes The rising moon has hid the stars, who 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 Dimian with a kiss when sleeping in the grove he dreamed not of her love. Like Diane's kiss unmasked unsought, love gives itself, but is not bought. No 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 boughs, whose shadows deep are life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, and kisses the closed eyes of him whose slumbering lies. O weary hearts, o slumbering eyes, o 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. As if with unseen wings an angel touched its quivering strings, and whispers in its song, where hast thou stayed so long? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Evangeline A Tale of Arcady by Henry Wasworth Longfellow Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake The Intro This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss and in garment screen, indistinct in the twilight, stand like druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, stand like harpers' whore, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Road from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean speaks, and in accents, this consulate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval. But where are the hearts that beneath it leaped like the row, when he hears in the woodland the voice of huntsman? Where is the thatched-roofed village, the home of the Acadian farmers? Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, darkened by shadows of earth but reflecting an image of heaven. Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever departed, scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far over the ocean. Not but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand Prix. Ye who believe in affection that hopes and endures and is patient, ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, list to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest, list to a tale of love and Arcady, home of the happy. This recording is in the public domain. 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, by the roadside fell and perished, weary with the march of life. They the holy ones and weakly, who for the cross of suffering bore, folded their pale hands so meekly, spake with us on earth no more. And with them the being-beautious, whom 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 footsteps 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 saintlike, looking downward from the skies. But what not yet comprehended is the spirit's voiceless prayer, soft rebukes and blessings ended, breathing from her lips of air. O, though oft depressed and lonely, all my fears are laid aside. If I but remember only, such as these, have lived and died. This recording is in the public domain. The Grave From the Anglo-Saxon by Henry Wordsworth Longfellow Recorded for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley For thee was a house built, ere thou wasst born, for thee was a mould meant, ere thou of mother camest. But it is not made ready, nor its depth measured, nor is it seen how long it shall be. Now I bring thee, where thou shalt be, now I shall measure thee, and the mould afterwards. Thy house is not highly timbered, it is unhigh and low. When thou art therein the heelways are low, the sideways unhigh. The roof is built thy breast full nigh, so thou shalt, in mould, dwell full cold, dimly and dark. Doorless is that house, and dark it is within. There thou art fast, detained, and death hath the key. Loathsome is that earth-house, and grim within to dwell. Where thou shalt dwell, and worms shall divide thee, thus thou art laid. And leavest thy friends, thou hast no friend who will come to thee, who will ever see how that house pleases thee, who will ever open the door for thee, and descend after thee, for soon thou art loathsome, and hateful to see. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Haunted Chamber by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes Each heart has its haunted chamber, where the silent moonlight falls. On the floor are mysterious footsteps. There are whispers along the walls. And mine at times is haunted by phantoms of the past, as motionless as shadows by the silent moonlight cast. A form sits by the window, that is not seen by day, for as soon as the dawn approaches it vanishes away. It sits there in the moonlight itself, as pale and still, and points with its airy finger across the windowsill. Without before the window there stands a gloomy pine, whose boughs wave upward and downward, as wave these thoughts of mine. And underneath its branches is the grave of a little child, who died upon life's threshold, and never wept, nor smiled. What are ye, oh pallid phantoms, that haunt my troubled brain, that vanish when day approaches, and at night return again? What are ye, oh pallid phantoms, but the statues without breath, that stand on the bridge overarching the silent river of death? The Jewish Cemetery at Newport by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVox.org by ML Cohen, February 2007, Cleveland, Ohio. The Jewish Cemetery at Newport. How strange it seems, these Hebrews and their graves, close by the street of this faresy port town, silent beside the never-silent waves, at rest in all this moving up and down. The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep wave their broad curtains in the south wind's breath, while underneath these leafy tents they keep, the long, mysterious exodus of death, and these sapocal stones, so old and brown, that pave with level flags their burial place. Seem like the tablets of the law thrown down and broken by Moses at the mountain's base. The very names recorded here are strange, a foreign accent, and of different climes. Alvarez and Riviera interchange with Abraham and Jacob of old times. Blessed be God, for he created death, the mourner said, and death is rest and peace. Then added, in the certainty of faith, and giveth life that nevermore shall cease. Closed are the portals of their synagogue. No Psalms of David now the silence break. No Rabbi reads the ancient decalogue, and the grand dialect the prophets spake. Gone are the living, but the dead remain. And not neglected, for a hand unseen scattering its bounty like a summer rain, still keeps their graves in the remembrances green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, what persecution, merciless and blind, drove o'er the sea, that desert desolate, these ishmaels and haggars of mankind? They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, ghetto in Judenstraus, in Merkin-Meyer, taught in the school of patience to endure the life of anguish and the death of fire. All their lives long, with the unleavened bread and bitter herbs of exile and its fears, the wasting famine of the heart they fed, enslaved as thirst with mara of their tears. Anathema maratha was the cry that rang from town to town from street to street, and every gate the accursed mordecai was mocked and jeered and spurned by Christian feet. Hate and humiliation, hand in hand, walk with them through the world where they went, trampled and beaten were they as the sand, and yet unshaken as the continent. For in the background figures vague and vast of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, and all the great traditions of the past they saw reflected in the coming time. And thus forever with reverted look the mystic volume of the world they read, spelling it backwards like a Hebrew book, till life became a legend of the dead. But ah, what once has been shall be no more. The groaning earth, intraviolin and pain brings forth its races, but does not restore, and the dead nations never rise again. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. My Lost Youth by Henry Wasworth Longfellow, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Often I think of the beautiful town that is seated by the sea. Often in thought go up and down the pleasant streets of that dear old town, and my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song is haunting my memory still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I can see the shadowy lines of its trees and catch in sudden gleams the sheen of the far surrounding seas and islands that were the Hesperides of all my boyish dreams, and the burden of that old song it murmurs and whispers still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I remember the black wharves and the slips, and the sea tides tossing free, and the Spanish sailors with bearded lips, and the beauty and mystery of the ships, and the magic of the sea, and the voice of that wayward song is singing and saying still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I remember the bulwarks by the shore, and the fort upon the hill, the sunrise gun with its hollow roar, the drumbeat repeated oar and oar, and the bugle wild and shrill, and the music of that old song throbs in my memory still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I remember the sea fight far away, how it thundered o'er the tide, and the dead captains as they lay in their graves, or looking the tranquil bay, where they in battle died, and the sound of that mournful song goes through me with a thrill. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I can see the breezy dome of groves, the shadow of Deering's wood, and the friendships old and the early loves come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves in quiet neighbourhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, it flutters and murmurs still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the schoolboy's brain, the song and the silence in the heart, that in part are prophecies, and in part are longing, wild, in vain, and the voice of that fitful song sings on, and is never still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. There are things of which I may not speak. There are dreams that cannot die. There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, and bring a pallor into the cheek, and a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song come over me like a chill. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. Strange to me now are the forms I meet when I visit the dear old town. But the native air is pure and sweet, and the trees that or shadow each well-known street as they balance up and down are sighing and whispering still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. And dearing's woods are fresh and fair, and with joy that is almost pain my heart goes back to wander there, and among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again, and the strange and beautiful song the groves are repeating it still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. Priscilla from the Courtship of Miles Standish by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, read for LibriVox.org by Betsy Bush in Marquette, MI February 21, 2007. Priscilla. Thus for a while he stood and mused by the shore of the ocean, thinking of many things and most of all of Priscilla, and as if thought had the power to draw to itself like the lodestone whatsoever it touches by subtle laws of its nature, lo, as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. Are you so much offended? You will not speak to me, said she. Am I so much to blame that yesterday, when you were pleading warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward, pleaded your own and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum? Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying what I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it, for there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion, that if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, split on the ground like water, can never be gathered together. Today I was shocked when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, praising his virtues, transforming his varied defects into virtues, praising his courage and strength and even his fighting in Flanders, as if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, quite overlooking yourself and the rest in exalting your hero. Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse. You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us, which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken. Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish, I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping. No! interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive. No! You were angry with me for speaking so frankly and freely. It was wrong, I acknowledge, for it is the fate of a woman, long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women, sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers, running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful, chafing their channels of stone with endless and profitless murmurs. Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women, heaven forbid it, Priscilla, and truly they seem to me always, more like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden, more like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing, filling the land with delight and memories sweet of the garden. Ah, by these words I can see, again interrupted the maiden, how very little you prize me or care for what I am saying, when from the depths of my heart, in pain, and with secret misgiving, frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness. Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest. Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases. This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you. For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble, lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. Or I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenly, if you say ought that implies I am only as one among many. If you make use of those common and complementary phrases, most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, but which women reject as insipid if not as insulting. Mute and amazed was Alden, and listened and looked at Priscilla, thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly, the cause of another, stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer. So the maiden went on, and little, divine, or imagined, what was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless? Let us then be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all things keep ourselves loyal to truth and the sacred professions of friendship. It is no secret, I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it. I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Myles Dandish. For I must tell you the truth, much more to me is your friendship than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him. Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it, felt all the wounds in his heart that were aching and bleeding so sorely, healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling, Yes, we must ever be friends, and of all who offer you friendship, let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest. Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the Mayflower, distant but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon, homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling, that all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert. But as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the sunshine, lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly, Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians, where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household, you may speak boldly, and tell me all that happened between you, when you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me. Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story, told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish, whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest, He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment. But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had suffered, how he had even determined to sail that day in the Mayflower, and had remained for her sake on hearing the dangers that threatened, all her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, Slowly I thank you for this, how good you have been to me always. Thus as a pilgrim devout, who toured Jerusalem journeys, taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition, slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, journeyed this puritan youth to the holy land of his longings, urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings. End of Priscilla, from the courtship of Miles Standish, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. This recording is in the public domain. A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, read for LibriVox.org by Ed Good. 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. Thus thou art, to dust returnest, was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, is our destined end our way, but to act that each tomorrow finds us farther than to-day. Art is long, and time is fleeting, and our heart, though stout and grave, still like muffled drums or beating, funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, in the bivouac of life, be not like dumb and driven cattle, be a hero in this strife. Trust no future, however pleasant, let 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. End a parting, leave behind us footprints on the sand of time. Footprints that perhaps another, sailing over life's solemn main, 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Rainy Day by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes The day is cold and dark and dreary. It rains and the wind is never weary. The vine still clings to the mouldering 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 mouldering 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 poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Revenge of Rain in the Face by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Recorded for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley In that desolate land and loan, where the big horn and yellow stone roar down their mountain path, by their fires the Sioux chiefs muttered their woes and griefs, and the menace of their wroth. Revenge! cried Rain in the face. Revenge upon all the race of the white chief with yellow hair, and the mountains dark and high from their crags re-echoed the cry of his anger and despair. In the meadow, spreading wide by woodland and riverside, the Indian village stood. All was silent as a dream, saved the rushing of the stream and the blue-jay in the wood. In his war-paint and his beads, like a bison among the reeds, in ambush the sitting bull lay with three thousand braves, crouched in the clefts and caves, savage, unmerciful. Into the fatal snare the white chief with the yellow hair and his three hundred men dashed headlong sword in hand, but of that gallant band not one returned again. The sudden darkness of death overwhelmed them like the breath and smoke of a furnace fire. By the river's bank and between the rocks of the ravine they lay in their bloody attire. But the foeman fled in the night, and rain in the face in his flight uplifted high in air as a ghastly trophy bore the brave heart that beat no more of the white chief with yellow hair. Whose was the riot and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song, with a voice that is full of tears, and say that our broken faith wrought all this ruin and scathe in the year of a hundred years. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Siege of Kazan by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, recorded for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley. Black are the moors before Kazan, and their stagnant waters smell of blood. I said in my heart, with horse and man I will swim across this shallow flood. Under the feet of Argamac, like new moons were the shoes he bare, silken trappings hung on his back, in a talisman on his neck, a prayer. My warriors thought I are following me, but when I looked behind, alas, not one of all the band could I see, all had sunk in the black morass. Where are our shallow fords, and where the power of Kazan with its fourfold gates, from the prison windows our maidens fair talk of us still through the iron grates. We cannot hear them, for horse and man lie buried deep in the dark abyss. Ah, the black day hath come down on Kazan! Ah, was ever a grief like this. End of poem. Record. This poem is in the public domain. The Sound of the Sea by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, and round the pebbly beaches, far and wide, I heard the first wave of the rising tide rush onward with uninterrupted sweep. A voice, out of the silence of the deep, a sound mysteriously multiplied as of a cataract from the mountain side, or roar of winds upon a wooded steep, so comes to us at times from the unknown and inaccessible solitudes of being, the rustling of the sea tides of the soul. And inspirations that we deem our own are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing of things beyond our reason or control. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVox.org by M. L. Cohen, Cleveland, Ohio, February 2007 The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls The Twilight Darkens, The Curlew Calls Along the sea sands damp and brown, the traveler hastens towards the town. And the tide rises, the tide falls. Darkness settles on the roofs and walls, but the sea, the sea, and darkness calls. The little waves with their soft white hands efface the footprints in the sands. And the tide rises, the tide falls. The morning breaks, the steeds in their stalls stamp and nay as the hustler calls. The day returns, but nevermore returns the traveler to the shore. And the tide rises, the tide falls. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Courtship of Miles Standish, Part 9, The Wedding Day by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVox.org by Julian Jamison Fourth from the current of clouds, from the tent of purple and scarlet, issued the sun, the great high priest, in his garments resplendent, holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light on his forehead, round the hem of his robe, the golden bells and pomegranates, blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor beneath him gleamed like a great of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver. This was the wedding-mourn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. Friends were assembled together, the elder and magistrate also graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the law and the gospel, one with the sanction of earth, and one with the blessing of heaven. Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz, softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal, taking each other for husband and wife in the magistrate's presence, after the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent elder of Plymouth prayed for the hearth and the home that were founded that day in affection, speaking of life and of death, and imploring divine benedictions. Lo, when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, clad in armor of steel, a somber and sorrowful figure. Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition? Why does the bride turn pale and hide her face on his shoulder? Is it a phantom of air, a bodyless, spectral illusion? Is it a ghost from the grave that has come to forbid the betrothal? Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed. For its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression softening the gloom, and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, as when across the sky the driving rack of the rain cloud grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. Once it had lifted its hand and moved its lips, but was silent, as if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. But when were ended the troth, and the prayer, and the last benediction, into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement bodily there in his armor miles standish, the captain of Plymouth. Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with emotion, Forgive me, I have been angry and hurt, too long have I cherished the feeling. I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God, it has ended. Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. Never so much as now was my old Standish the friend of John Alden. Thereupon answered the bridegroom, Let all be forgotten between us. All save the dear old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer. Then the captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, something of camp and of court, of town and of country commingled, wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband. Then he said with a smile, I should have remembered the adage, If you would be well served, you must serve yourself, and, moreover, no man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas. Great was the people's amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, thus to behold once more the sun-burned face of their captain, whom they had mourned as dead, and they gathered and crowded about him, eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, till the good captain declared being quite overpowered and bewildered, he had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. Meanwhile, the bridegroom went forth, and stood with the bride at the doorway, witnessing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. Touched with a tumultence, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, they extended before them the land of toil and privation. There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the seashore, there the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows. But to their eyes transfigured it seemed as the garden of Eden, filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean. Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure, friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying, each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncompleted. Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand of its master, led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday. Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, gaily, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfry. Nothing is wanting now, he said, with a smile, but the distaff. Then you would be in truth, my queen, my beautiful Bertha. Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom, tremulous, floating in air, or the depths of the azure abysses. Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, gleaming on purple grapes that, from branches above them suspended, mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir tree, wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eschel. Like a picture it seemed of the primitive pastoral ages, fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers, so through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. This recording is in the public domain. Will ever the dear days come back again, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, recorded for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley? Will ever the dear days come back again, those days of June when lilacs were in bloom, and bluebirds sang their sonnets in the gloom of leaves that roofed them in from sun or rain? I know not, but a presence will remain, forever and forever in this room, formless, diffused in air like a perfume, a phantom of the heart and not the brain. Delicious days, when every spoken word was like a footfall nearer and more near, and a mysterious knocking at the gate of the heart's secret places, and we heard in the sweet tumult of delight and fear, a voice that whispered, Open, I cannot wait. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Wreck of the Hespress by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVox.org by Christian Hughes. It was the schooner Hespress that sailed the Wintry Sea, and the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, her cheeks like the dawn of day, and her bosom white as the hawthorn buds that open the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, his pipe was in his mouth, and he watched how the veering floor did below the smoke now west, now south. Then up in spake an old sailor had sailed to the Spanish Maine. I pray thee put into yonder port, for I fear a hurricane. Last night the moon had a golden ring, and to-night no moon we see. The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, and a scornful laugh laughed 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 Maine the vessel 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 toughest 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 turned to the skies. The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow, on his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed that savaged she might be. And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave on the lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight darkened rear, 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 boughs. She drifted a dreary wreck. And a whooping billow swept the crew like icicles from her deck. She struck where 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 stove and sank. Ho-ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, a fisherman stood aghast. To see 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 Hesperus in the midnight and the snow. Christ save us all from a death like this on the reef of Norman's woe. End of poem.