Greetings from Longfellow

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Title: Greetings from Longfellow
Author: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Release Date: November 4, 2007 [eBook #23332]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
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GREETINGS FROM LONGFELLOW***
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GREETINGS FROM LONGFELLOW
[Illustration]

Copyright 1907
Cupples & Leon Co.
New York

Sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!

Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is
hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast,
and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a
forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear
not each sudden sound and shock,
'T is of the wave and not the rock;

'T is but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!

In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
In spite of false lights on the
shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are
all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith
triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee--are all with thee!
[Illustration]
SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.
Labor with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.
By the bedside, on the stair,
At the threshold, near the gates,
With its menace or its prayer,
Like a mendicant it waits;
Waits, and will not go away;
Waits, and will not be gainsaid;
By the cares of yesterday

Each to-day is heavier made;
Till at length the burden seems
Greater than our strength can bear,
Heavy as the weight of dreams,
Pressing on us everywhere.
And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,
On their shoulders held the sky.
[Illustration]
THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE.
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
Beneath our feet each deed of shame!
All common things, each day's events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and
more,
The cloudy summits of our time.
The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions
slept,
Were toiling upwards in the night.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past,
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.
[Illustration]
EVANGELINE.
"Gabriel! O my beloved!"
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the
home of his childhood; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers
among them,
Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking
under their shadow, As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his
vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. Vainly
he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered Died on his
lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue
would have spoken.
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline,
kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her
bosom.
Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into
darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.
All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the
aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. All the dull, deep pain,
and constant anguish of patience! And, as she pressed once more the
lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured,
"Father, I thank thee!"
[Illustration]
O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and

fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn

Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!
O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,
Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen

Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your task.
O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient,