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The Tide Rises, The Tide FallsHenry Wadsworth Longfellow

The tide rises, the tide falls,The twilight darkens, the curlewcalls;Along the sea-sands damp and brownThe traveller hastens toward the town,

5 And the tide rises, the tide falls.Darkness settles on roofs and walls,But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;The little waves, with their soft, white hands,Efface the footprints in the sands,

10 And the tide rises, the tide falls.The morning breaks; the steeds in their stallsStamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;The day returns, but nevermoreReturns the traveller to the shore,

15 And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Making MeaningsThe Tide Rises, The Tide Falls

1. “Footprints on the sands of time” is a common expression referring to mortality and the passing of time. In the second stanza, what do you think is implied about the fate of the traveler when his footprints are washed away? 2. How does the division into stanzas reflect the passage of time in the poem? 3. What feeling is suggested by the stamping and neighing of the horses when morning comes? What contrasting feeling is suggested by what we are told about the traveler in this stanza? 4. Onomatopoeia is a poetic technique in which the sounds of words are used to echo their sense. If you have ever heard the call of a curlew, you know that the words “curlew calls” in line 2 echo the sound this shore bird itself makes. (Its cry is particularly mournful at dusk.) What sound do you think dominates this poem? What atmosphere does it suggest? 5. How does the meter of the poem reflect the movement of the tides? 6. Do you think this is a poem about one specific traveler? Or could it be seen as a “drama” about everyone’s life? What do you think is suggested by the tide’s continuing to rise and fall, despite the fact that the human traveler is gone? 7. The waves are personified in stanza 2 as having “soft, white hands.” This is an example of Longfellow’s poetic style, which some readers think is too cute, or too sentimental, to be effective. Do you think the personification is justified here? Why or why not?

The Fireside Poets – Longfellow – Holmes – Whittier 1

The Cross of SnowHenry Wadsworth Longfellow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,A gentle face—the face of one long dead—Looks at me from the wall, where round its headThe night lamp casts a halo of pale light.

5 Here in this room she died; and soul more whiteNever through martyrdom of fire was ledTo its repose; nor can in books be readThe legend of a life more benedight.°

There is a mountain in the distant West10 That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines

Displays a cross of snow upon its side.Such is the cross I wear upon my breast

These eighteen years, through all the changing scenesAnd seasons, changeless since the day she died.

The Cross of Snow

1. How did you respond to the strong personal emotion expressed in the poem? 2. The phrase “martyrdom of fire” in line 6 might confuse readers who did not know that Longfellow’s wife had died in a fire. What is Longfellow suggesting about his wife’s character when he uses such a powerful word to describe her death? 3. The phrase “watches of the night” usually refers to the rounds made by a watchman as he guards a house or a neighborhood. At certain hours the watch would call “All is well.” What are Longfellow’s figurative “watches of the night” (line 1)? 4. Explain how the phrase “sun-defying” (line 10) suggests conditions of weather and geology that might actually produce a permanent cross of snow on the side of a mountain. How does the poet relate the idea of a “sun-defying” formation of snow to his own feelings? 5. What do you think about public expressions of personal grief? (Remember that Longfellow did not show “The Cross of Snow” to anyone during his lifetime.) How does the mass media—TV, radio, magazines, newspapers—affect our views of what’s private and what’s not? (Think of examples from news programs, talk shows, magazines, and documentaries.


Paul Reveres Rideby Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal-light, One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said, Good-night! and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the Old North Church


By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely, and spectral, and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height


A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock, When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees,


And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled, How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.


The Wreck of the HesperusHenry Wadsworth Longfellow

It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr, 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 ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailòr, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, "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 amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr,


And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say, what may it be?" "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"And he steered for the open sea.

"O 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!"

"O 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 savèd 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 Tow'rds 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 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 sea-weed, 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!

Hiawatha's Departurefrom The Song of Hiawatha

By the shore of Gitchie Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam,


In the pleasant Summer morning, Hiawatha stood and waited. All the air was full of freshness, All the earth was bright and joyous, And before him through the sunshine, Westward toward the neighboring forest Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, Passed the bees, the honey-makers, Burning, singing in the sunshine. Bright above him shown the heavens, Level spread the lake before him; From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, Aparkling, flashing in the sunshine; On its margin the great forest Stood reflected in the water, Every tree-top had its shadow, Motionless beneath the water. From the brow of Hiawatha Gone was every trace of sorrow, As the fog from off the water, And the mist from off the meadow. With a smile of joy and triumph, With a look of exultation, As of one who in a vision Sees what is to be, but is not, Stood and waited Hiawatha.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Part III: Hiawatha's Childhood

Downward through the evening twilight, In the days that are forgotten, In the unremembered ages, From the full moon fell Nokomis, Fell the beautiful Nokomis, She a wife, but not a mother. She was sporting with her women, Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, When her rival the rejected, Full of jealousy and hatred, Cut the leafy swing asunder, Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, And Nokomis fell affrighted Downward through the evening twilight, On the Muskoday, the meadow, On the prairie full of blossoms. "See! a star falls!" said the people; "From the sky a star is falling!" There among the ferns and mosses, There among the prairie lilies, On the Muskoday, the meadow, In the moonlight and the starlight, Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. And she called her name Wenonah, As the first-born of her daughters. And the daughter of Nokomis Grew up like the prairie lilies, Grew a tall and slender maiden, With the beauty of the moonlight, With the beauty of the starlight. And Nokomis warned her often, Saying oft, and oft repeating, "Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis, Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis; Listen not to what he tells you; Lie not down upon the meadow, Stoop not down among the lilies, Lest the West-Wind come and harm you!" But she heeded not the warning, Heeded not those words of wisdom, And the West-Wind came at evening, Walking lightly o'er the prairie, Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, Bending low the flowers and grasses, Found the beautiful Wenonah, Lying there among the lilies, Wooed her with his words of sweetness, Wooed her with his soft caresses, Till she bore a son in sorrow, Bore a son of love and sorrow. Thus was born my Hiawatha, Thus was born the child of wonder; But the daughter of Nokomis, Hiawatha's gentle mother,

In her anguish died deserted By the West-Wind, false and faithless, By the heartless Mudjekeewis. For her daughter long and loudly Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis; "Oh that I were dead!" she murmured, "Oh that I were dead, as thou art! No more work, and no more weeping, Wahonowin! Wahonowin!" By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, "Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" Lulled him into slumber, singing, "Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Who is this, that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!" Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, Flaring far away to northward In the frosty nights of Winter; Showed the broad white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard the lapping of the waters, Sounds of music, words of wonder; 'Minne-wawa!" said the Pine-trees, Mudway-aushka!" said the water. Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes,


And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: "Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!" Saw the moon rise from the water Rippling, rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "Once a warrior, very angry, Seized his grandmother, and threw her Up into the sky at midnight; Right against the moon he threw her; 'T is her body that you see there." Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "'T is the heaven of flowers you see there; All the wild-flowers of the forest, All the lilies of the prairie, When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us." When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, 'What is that?" he cried in terror, "What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other." Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the traveller and the talker, He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha; From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak-bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,

And the cord he made of deer-skin. Then he said to Hiawatha: "Go, my son, into the forest, Where the red deer herd together, Kill for us a famous roebuck, Kill for us a deer with antlers!" Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows; And the birds sang round him, o'er him, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" Sang the robin, the Opechee, Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" Up the oak-tree, close beside him, Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, In and out among the branches, Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, Laughed, and said between his laughing, "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" And the rabbit from his pathway Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches, Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter, "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer; On their tracks his eyes were fastened, Leading downward to the river, To the ford across the river, And as one in slumber walked he. Hidden in the alder-bushes, There he waited till the deer came, Till he saw two antlers lifted, Saw two eyes look from the thicket, Saw two nostrils point to windward, And a deer came down the pathway, Flecked with leafy light and shadow. And his heart within him fluttered, Trembled like the leaves above him, Like the birch-leaf palpitated, As the deer came down the pathway. Then, upon one knee uprising, Hiawatha aimed an arrow; Scarce a twig moved with his motion, Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, But the wary roebuck started, Stamped with all his hoofs together, Listened with one foot uplifted, Leaped as if to meet the arrow; Ah! the singing, fatal arrow, Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him! Dead he lay there in the forest, By the ford across the river; Beat his timid heart no longer, But the heart of Hiawatha Throbbed and shouted and exulted,


As he bore the red deer homeward, And Iagoo and Nokomis Hailed his coming with applauses. From the red deer's hide Nokomis Made a cloak for Hiawatha, From the red deer's flesh Nokomis

Made a banquet to his honor. All the village came and feasted, All the guests praised Hiawatha, Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha! Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!


Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)

The Last Leaf

1 I saw him once before, 2As he passed by the door, 3 And again 4The pavement stones resound, 5As he totters o'er the ground 6 With his cane.

7They say that in his prime, 8Ere the pruning-knife of Time 9 Cut him down, 10Not a better man was found 11By the Crier on his round 12 Through the town.

13But now he walks the streets, 14And looks at all he meets 15 Sad and wan, 16And he shakes his feeble head, 17That it seems as if he said, 18 "They are gone."

19The mossy marbles rest 20On the lips that he has prest 21 In their bloom, 22And the names he loved to hear 23Have been carved for many a year 24 On the tomb.

25My grandmamma has said -- 26Poor old lady, she is dead 27 Long ago -- 28That he had a Roman nose, 29And his cheek was like a rose 30 In the snow;

31But now his nose is thin, 32And it rests upon his chin 33 Like a staff, 34And a crook is in his back,


http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/1030.html#1

35And a melancholy crack 36 In his laugh.

37I know it is a sin 38For me to sit and grin 39 At him here; 40But the old three-cornered hat, 41And the breeches, and all that, 42 Are so queer!

43And if I should live to be 44The last leaf upon the tree 45 In the spring, 46Let them smile, as I do now, 47At the old forsaken bough 48 Where I cling.

Notes

1] The old man is the grandfather of Herman Melville, Major Thomas Melville (1759-1832).

Holmes writes the following prefatory note:

This poem was suggested by the sight of a figure well known to Bostonians [in 1831 or 1832], that of Major Thomas Melville, "the last of the cocked hats," as he was sometimes called. The Major had been a personable young man, very evidently, and retained evidence of it in

"the monmental pomp of age," --

which had something imposing and something odd about it for youthful eyes like mine. He was often pointed at as one of the "Indians" of the famous "Boston Tea-Party" of 1774. His aspect among the crowds of a later generation reminded me of a withered leaf which has held to its bough while the new growths of spring are bursting their buds and spreading their foliage all around it. I make this explanation for the benefit of those who have been puzzled by the lines,

"The last leaf upon the treeIn the spring."

The way in which it came to be written in a somewhat singular measure was this. I had become a little known as a versifier, and I thought that one or two other writers were following my efforts with imitations, not meant as parodies and hardly to be considered improvements on their models. I determined to write in a measure which would at once betray any copyist. So far as it was suggested by any previous poem, the echo must have come from Campbell's "Battle of the Baltic," with its short terminal lines, such as the last of these two,


"By thy wild and stormy deep,Elsinore."

But I do not remember any poem in the same measure, except such as have been written since its publication.

The poem as first written had one of those false rhymes which produce a shudder in all educated persons, even in the poems of Keats and others who ought to have known better than to admit them.

The guilty verse ran thus: --

"But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meets So forlorn,And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said, `They are gone'!"

A little more experience, to say nothing of the sneer of an American critic in an English periodical, showed me that this would never do. Here was what is called a "cockney rhyme," -- one in which the sound of the letter r is neglected -- maltreated as the letter h is insulted by the average Briton by leaving it out everywhere except where it should be silent. Such an ill-mated pair as "forlorn" and "gone" could not possibly pass current in good rhyming society. But what to do about it was the question. I would keep

"They are gone!"

and I could not think of any rhyme which I could work in satisfactorily. In this perplexity my friend, Mrs. Folsom, wife of that excellent scholar, Mr. Charles Folsom, then and for a long time the unsparing and infallible corrector of the press at Cambridge, suggested the line,

"Sad and wan,"

which I thankfully adopted and have always retained.

Good Abraham Lincoln had a great liking for the poem, and repeated it from memory to Governor Andrew, as the Governor himself told me. I have a copy of it made by the hand of Edgar Allen Poe.

The editor adds the following comment:

[When this poem was issued with an accompaniment of illustration and decoration in 1894, Dr. Holmes wrote to his publishers: --


"I have read the proof you sent me and find nothing in it which I feel called upon to alter or explain.

"I have lasted long enough to serve as an illustration of my own poem. I am one of the very last of the leaves which still cling to the bough of life that budded in the spring of the nineteenth century. The days of my years are threescore and twenty, and I am almost half way up the steep incline which leads me toward the base of the new century so near to which I have already climbed.

"I am pleased to find that this poem, carrying with it the marks of having been written in the jocund morning of life, is still read and cared for. It was with a smile on my lips that I wrote it; I cannot read it without a sigh of tender remembrance. I hope it will not sadden my older readers, while it may amuse some of the younger ones to whom its experiences are as yet only floating fancies."]

Online text copyright © 2009, Ian Lancashire (the Department of English) and the University of Toronto.Published by the Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries.

Original text: The Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, ed. H. E. S. (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, 1895): 4-5. PS 1955 A1 1895 Robarts Library.First publication date: 1831 RPO poem editor: Ian LancashireRP edition: RPO 1998.Recent editing: 2:2002/4/18

Rhyme: aabccb



Old Ironsides

1 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 2 Long has it waved on high, 3And many an eye has danced to see 4 That banner in the sky; 5Beneath it rung the battle shout, 6 And burst the cannon's roar; -- 7The meteor of the ocean air 8 Shall sweep the clouds no more.

9Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 10 Where knelt the vanquished foe, 11When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 12 And waves were white below, 13No more shall feel the victor's tread, 14 Or know the conquered knee; -- 15 The harpies of the shore shall pluck 16 The eagle of the sea!

17Oh, better that her shattered hulk 18 Should sink beneath the wave; 19Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 20 And there should be her grave; 21Nail to the mast her holy flag, 22 Set every threadbare sail, 23And give her to the god of storms, 24 The lightning and the gale!

Notes

1] "This was the popular name by which the frigate Constitution was known. The poem was first printed in the Boston Daily Advertiser, at the time when it was proposed to break up the old ship as unfit for service. I subjoin the paragraph which led to the writing of the poem. It is from the Advertiser of Tuesday, September 14, 1830: --

`Old Ironsides. -- It has been affirmed upon good authority that the Secretary of the Navy has recommended to the Board of Navy Commissioners to dispose of the frigate Constitution. Since it has been understood that such a step was in contemplation we have heard but one opinion expressed, and that in decided disapprobation of the measure. Such a national object of interest, so endeared to our national pride as Old Ironsides is, should




never by any act of our government cease to belong to the Navy, so long as our country is to be found upon the map of nations. In England it was lately determined by the Admiralty to cut the Victory, a one-hundred gunship (which it will be recollected bore the flag of Lord Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar), down to a seventy-four, but so loud were the lamentations of the people upon the proposed measure that the intention was abandoned. We confidently anticipate that the Secretary of the Navy will in like manner consult the general wish in regard to the Constitution, and either let her remain in ordinary or rebuild her whenever the public service may require.' -- New York Journal of Commerce.The poem was an impromptu outburst of feeling and was published on the next day but one after reading the above paragraph. [When Poetry: a Metrical Essay was published this poem was introduced as an interlude at the close of the second section.]" (3-4)

Old Ironsides was famous for having defeated the British ship Guerriere in the War of 1812. Thanks to Holmes' poem, Old Ironsides was saved.

15] harpies: half-woman, half-bird predators of classical mythology.


Original text: The Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, ed. H. E. S. (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, 1895): 3-4. PS 1955 A1 1895 Robarts Library.First publication date: 16 September 1830 Publication date note: Boston Daily Advertiser (Sept. 16, 1830), by "H."; also in Poems (1836)RPO poem editor: Ian LancashireRP edition: RPO 1998.Recent editing: 2:2002/3/8

Composition date: 1830 Rhyme: ababcdcd



The Chambered Nautilus

1 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 2 Sails the unshadowed main, -- 3 The venturous bark that flings 4On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 5In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 6 And coral reefs lie bare, 7Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

8Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 9 Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 10 And every chambered cell, 11Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 12As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 13 Before thee lies revealed, -- 14 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

15Year after year beheld the silent toil 16 That spread his lustrous coil; 17 Still, as the spiral grew, 18He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 19Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 20 Built up its idle door, 21Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

22Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 23 Child of the wandering sea, 24 Cast from her lap, forlorn! 25 From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 26Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn! 27 While on mine ear it rings, 28Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: --

29 Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 30 As the swift seasons roll! 31 Leave thy low-vaulted past! 32Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 33Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 34 Till thou at length art free, 35Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!






Notes

1] The nautilus is a spiral-shelled mollusk whose web-like membranes were imagined to act as sails."We need not trouble ourselves about the distinction between this [the pearly Nautilus] and the Paper Nautilus, the Argonauta of the ancients. The name applied to both shows that each has long been compared to a ship, as you may see more fully in Webster's Dictionary or the Encyclopedia, to which he refers. If you will look into Roget's Bridgewater Treatise you will find a figure of one of these shells and a section of it. The last will show you the series of enlarging compartments successively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits the shell, which is built in a widening spiral. [This poem seemed to share with Dorothy Q. Dr. Holmes's interest, if one may judge by the frequency with which he chose it for reading or for autograph albums. He says on receipt of an album from the Princess of Wales, `I copied into it the last verse of a poem of mine called The Chambered Nautilus, as I have often done for plain republican albums.']" (p. 149)

"I have now and then found a naturalist who still worried over the distinction between the Pearly Nautilus and the Paper Nautilus, or Argonauta. As the stories about both are mere fables, attaching to the Physalia, or Portuguese man-of-war, as well as to these two molluscs, it seems over-nice to quarrel with the poetical handling of a fiction sufficiently justified by the name commonly applied to the ship of pearl as well as the ship of paper." (p. 341)

14] irised: iridescent, like a rainbow.

25-26] Perhaps an allusion to Wordsworth's "The World is too much with us": "Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; /Or hear old Triton [the son of Poseidon, god of the sea] blow his wreathèd horn."

29] Cf. John 14:2: "In my Father's house are many mansions."


Original text: The Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, ed. H. E. S. (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, 1895): 149-50. PS 1955 A1 1895 Robarts Library.First publication date: 1858 Publication date note: The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table (1858)RPO poem editor: Ian LancashireRP edition: RPO 1998.Recent editing: 2:2002/3/8

Rhyme: aabbbcc


John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

Ichabod

1 So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn 2 Which once he wore! 3The glory from his gray hairs gone 4 Forevermore!

5Revile him not, the Tempter hath 6 A snare for all; 7And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 8 Befit his fall!

9Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, 10 When he who might 11Have lighted up and led his age, 12 Falls back in night.

13Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark 14 A bright soul driven, 15Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 16 From hope and heaven!

17Let not the land once proud of him 18 Insult him now, 19Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 20 Dishonored brow.

21But let its humbled sons, instead, 22 From sea to lake, 23A long lament, as for the dead, 24 In sadness make.

25Of all we loved and honored, naught 26 Save power remains; 27A fallen angel's pride of thought, 28 Still strong in chains.

29All else is gone; from those great eyes 30 The soul has fled: 31When faith is lost, when honor dies, 32 The man is dead!



33Then, pay the reverence of old days 34 To his dead fame; 35Walk backward, with averted gaze, 36 And hide the shame!

Notes

1] Ichabod is in Hebrew "inglorious" (1 Samuel 4:21). Whittier's opening recalls John Milton's Paradise Lost, Book I, where Satan says to his fellow fallen angel Beelzebub:

If thou beest he -- but oh how fall'n! how chang'dFrom him who, in the happy realms of light,Cloth'd with transcendent brightness didst outshineMyriads though bright! (84-87)

"This poem was the outcome of the surprise and grief and forecast of evil consequences which I felt on reading the seventh of March speech of Daniel Webster in support of the `compromise,' and the Fugitive Slave Law. No partisan or personal enmity dictated it. On the contrary my admiration of the splendid personality and intellectual power of the great Senator was never stronger than when I laid down his speech, and, in one of the saddest moments of my life, penned my protest. I saw, as I wrote, with painful clearness its sure results, -- the Slave Power arrogant and defiant, strengthened and encouraged to carry out its scheme for the extension of its baleful system, or the dissolution of the Union, the guaranties of personal liberty in the free States broken down, and the whole country made the hunting-ground of slave-catchers. In the horror of such a vision, so soon fearfully fulfilled, if one spoke at all, he could only speak in tones of stern and sorrowful rebuke.

But death softens all resentments, and the consciousness of a common inheritance of frailty and weakness modifies the severity of judgment. Years after, in The Lost Occasion, I gave utterance to an almost universal regret that the great statesman did not live to see the flag which he loved trampled under the feet of Slavery, and, in view of this desecration, make his last days glorious in defence of "Liberty and Union, one and inseparable." [Whittier's note, p. 186.]


Original text: The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier, Cambridge edition, ed. H. E. S. (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1894): 186-87. PS 3250 E94 1894 Robarts Library.First publication date: 1850 RPO poem editor: Ian Lancashire


RP edition: RPO 1998.Recent editing: 2:2002/2/20

Rhyme: abab


John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

The Barefoot Boy

1Blessings on thee, little man, 2Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 3 With thy turned-up pantaloons, 4And thy merry whistled tunes; 5With thy red lip, redder still 6Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 7With the sunshine on thy face, 8Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; 9From my heart I give thee joy, -- 10I was once a barefoot boy! 11Prince thou art, -- the grown-up man 12Only is republican. 13Let the million-dollared ride! 14Barefoot, trudging at his side, 15Thou hast more than he can buy 16In the reach of ear and eye, -- 17Outward sunshine, inward joy: 18Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

19Oh for boyhood's painless play, 20Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 21Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 22Knowledge never learned of schools, 23Of the wild bee's morning chase, 24Of the wild-flower's time and place, 25Flight of fowl and habitude 26Of the tenants of the wood; 27How the tortoise bears his shell, 28How the woodchuck digs his cell, 29And the ground-mole sinks his well; 30How the robin feeds her young, 31How the oriole's nest is hung; 32Where the whitest lilies blow, 33Where the freshest berries grow, 34Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 35Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; 36Of the black wasp's cunning way, 37Mason of his walls of clay, 38And the architectural plans



39Of gray hornet artisans! 40For, eschewing books and tasks, 41Nature answers all he asks; 42Hand in hand with her he walks, 43Face to face with her he talks, 44Part and parcel of her joy, -- 45Blessings on the barefoot boy!

46Oh for boyhood's time of June, 47Crowding years in one brief moon, 48When all things I heard or saw, 49Me, their master, waited for. 50I was rich in flowers and trees, 51Humming-birds and honey-bees; 52For my sport the squirrel played, 53Plied the snouted mole his spade; 54For my taste the blackberry cone 55Purpled over hedge and stone; 56Laughed the brook for my delight 57Through the day and through the night, 58Whispering at the garden wall, 59Talked with me from fall to fall; 60Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 61Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 62Mine, on bending orchard trees, 63 Apples of Hesperides! 64Still as my horizon grew, 65Larger grew my riches too; 66All the world I saw or knew 67Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 68Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

69Oh for festal dainties spread, 70Like my bowl of milk and bread; 71Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 72On the door-stone, gray and rude! 73O'er me, like a regal tent, 74Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 75Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 76Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 77While for music came the play 78Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 79And, to light the noisy choir, 80Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 81I was monarch: pomp and joy 82Waited on the barefoot boy!



83Cheerily, then, my little man, 84Live and laugh, as boyhood can! 85Though the flinty slopes be hard, 86Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 87Every morn shall lead thee through 88Fresh baptisms of the dew; 89Every evening from thy feet 90Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 91All too soon these feet must hide 92In the prison cells of pride, 93Lose the freedom of the sod, 94Like a colt's for work be shod, 95Made to tread the mills of toil, 96Up and down in ceaseless moil: 97Happy if their track be found 98Never on forbidden ground; 99Happy if they sink not in 100Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 101Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, 102Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

Notes

3] pantaloons: long trousers with wide legs at the ankle.

63] Apples of Hesperides: in classical mythology, golden apples given to Hera on her marriage to Zeus, and retrieved by Hercules, who killed the dragon guarding them.


Original text: The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier, Cambridge edition, ed. H. E. S. (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1894): 396-97. PS 3250 E94 1894 Robarts Library.First publication date: 1855 RPO poem editor: Ian LancashireRP edition: RPO 1998.Recent editing: 2:2002/2/20

Form: couplets


from Snowbound: A Winter IdyllJohn Greenleaf Whittier

To the memory of the household it describes, this poem is dedicated by the author

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The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon. Slow tracing down the thickening sky Its mute and ominous prophecy, A portent seeming less than threat, It sank from sight before it set. A chill no coat, however stout, 10 Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, A hard, dull bitterness of cold, That checked, mid-vein, the circling race Of lifeblood in the sharpened face, The coming of the snowstorm told. The wind blew east; we heard the roar Of Ocean on his wintry shore, And felt the strong pulse throbbing there Beat with low rhythm our inland air. Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,— Brought in the wood from out of doors, Littered° the stalls, and from the mows° Raked down the herd’s-grass for the cows: Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; And, sharply clashing horn on horn, Impatient down the stanchion° rows The cattle shake their walnut bows;° While, peering from his early perch Upon the scaffold’s pole° of birch, The cock his crested helmet bent And down his querulous challenge sent.

Unwarmed by any sunset light The gray day darkened into night, A night made hoary° with the swarm And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, As zigzag, wavering to and fro, Crossed and recrossed the wingëd snow:


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And ere the early bedtime came The white drift piled the window frame, And through the glass the clothesline posts Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. So all night long the storm roared on: The morning broke without a sun; In tiny spherule° traced with lines Of Nature’s geometric signs, In starry flake, and pellicle,° All day the hoary meteor fell; And, when the second morning shone, We looked upon a world unknown, On nothing we could call our own. Around the glistening wonder bent The blue walls of the firmament, No cloud above, no earth below,— A universe of sky and snow! The old familiar sights of ours Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corncrib stood, Or garden wall, or belt of wood; A smooth white mound the brush pile showed, A fenceless drift what once was road; The bridle post an old man sat With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; The well curb° had a Chinese roof; And even the long sweep,° high aloof, In its slant splendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa’s leaning miracle.°

A prompt, decisive man, no breath Our father wasted: “Boys, a path!” Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy Count such a summons less than joy?) Our buskins° on our feet we drew; With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, To guard our necks and ears from snow, We cut the solid whiteness through. And, where the drift was deepest, made A tunnel walled and overlaid With dazzling crystal: We had read Of rare Aladdin’s° wondrous cave, And to our own his name we gave, With many a wish the luck were ours To test his lamp’s supernal powers. We reached the barn with merry din,


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And roused the prisoned brutes within. The old horse thrust his long head out, And grave with wonder gazed about; The cock his lusty greeting said, And forth his speckled harem led; The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, And mild reproach of hunger looked; The hornëd patriarch of the sheep, Like Egypt’s Amun° roused from sleep, Shook his sage head with gesture mute, And emphasized with stamp of foot. All day the gusty north wind bore The loosening drift its breath before; Low circling round its southern zone, The sun through dazzling snow mist shone. No church bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air, no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. A solitude made more intense By dreary-voicëd elements, The shrieking of the mindless wind, The moaning tree boughs swaying blind, And on the glass the unmeaning beat Of ghostly fingertips of sleet. Beyond the circle of our hearth No welcome sound of toil or mirth Unbound the spell, and testified Of human life and thought outside. We minded° that the sharpest ear The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship, And, in our lonely life, had grown To have an almost human tone. As night drew on, and, from the crest Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, The sun, a snow-blown traveler, sank From sight beneath the smothering bank,

We piled, with care, our nightly stack Of wood against the chimney back,— The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, And on its top the stout backstick; The knotty forestick laid apart, And filled between with curious art The ragged brush; then, hovering near,


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We watched the first red blaze appear, Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnished room Burst, flowerlike, into rosy bloom; While radiant with a mimic flame Outside the sparkling drift became, And through the bare-boughed lilac tree Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. The crane and pendent trammels° showed, The Turks’ heads° on the andirons° glowed; While childish fancy, prompt to tell The meaning of the miracle, Whispered the old rhyme: “Under the tree, When fire outdoors burns merrily, There the witches are making tea.” The moon above the eastern wood Shone at its full; the hill range stood Transfigured in the silver flood, Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, Dead white, save where some sharp ravine Took shadow, or the somber green Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black Against the whiteness at their back. For such a world and such a night Most fitting that unwarming light, Which only seemed where’er it fell To make the coldness visible. Shut in from all the world without, We sat the clean-winged° hearth about, Content to let the north wind roar In baffled rage at pane and door, While the red logs before us beat The frost line back with tropic heat; And ever, when a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed, The merrier up its roaring draft The great throat of the chimney laughed; The house dog on his paws outspread Laid to the fire his drowsy head, The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall A couchant° tiger’s seemed to fall; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons’ straddling feet, The mug of cider simmered slow, The apples sputtered in a row,


And, close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October’s wood.

Making Meaningsfrom Snowbound: A Winter Idyll

1. What did you see as you read this part of Snow-Bound? 2. The first eighteen lines of the poem create a mood of foreboding and expectation. List the images that help build this mood. 3. The poet emphasizes the fabulous nature of the snowbound world. What specific imagery helps us see his farmyard as if it’s an exotic sight from another world? 4. Another reference to folklore and the fabulous occurs in the lines describing the crystal cave. In line 80, what do the boys wish they could do? What other details in the poem connect the fabulous or the imaginary with the snowbound farmhouse? 5. A few days spent locked up with family or friends would have some effect on your mood. How do you think you would feel if you were snowbound or otherwise confined with other people? Refer to your Quickwrite notes for ideas.


The Chambered NautilusOliver Wendell Holmes

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings5 In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

10 And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

15 Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

20 Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!

25 From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!

While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

30 As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,35 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

Making MeaningsThe Chambered Nautilus


1. Review your Quickwrite notes. Compare your thoughts with what the speaker of the poem thinks as he looks at the nautilus. 2. Stanza 3 describes the ways the nautilus grows. The poet uses a metaphor comparing the nautilus to a person who changes homes. What details describe how this happens year after year? 3. Step by step, describe the extended metaphor. What are the “stately mansions” (line 29), the “low-vaulted past” (line 31), “each new temple” (line 32), the “outgrown shell” (line 35), and the “unresting sea” (line 35)? 4. “The Chambered Nautilus” is one of the most enduring poems in American literature. (Abraham Lincoln is said to have known it by heart.) Why do you think this poem has endured? Do you think it will still be read one hundred years from now? Be sure to give your reasons. 5. Did you find this poem more optimistic than Bryant’s “Thanatopsis”? Why or why not?


Old IronsidesOliver Wendell Holmes

Ay, tear her tattered ensign° down!Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;

5 Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon’s roar—

The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,10 Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor’s tread,Or know the conquered knee—

15 The harpies° of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,20 And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!

Making MeaningsOld Ironsides

1. Do you think that historical relics like Old Ironsides should be preserved? If, very soon, Old Ironsides were found to be in danger of sinking at its dock in Boston, do you think most Americans would let it go? Give reasons why or why not. 2. In simple terms, what message does the first stanza present? What is ironic about the way Holmes states his message? 3. When a ship is broken up in the dockyards, it is said to be scrapped—that is, stripped of everything valuable or reusable. Is Holmes comparing the directors of the scrapping business to harpies in stanza 2, or is his scorn directed at someone else? Explain. 4. What do you think the poet wants the ship to symbolize? 5. Why do you think this poem was successful in getting the public to save the ship? Point out specific words and phrases that you found particularly persuasive. 6. Think about specific issues in today’s world that have inspired public movements for


preservation. Do you think a poem like “Old Ironsides” would be able to sway public opinion today? Why or why not?


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