Part 4 (2/2)
AN ARIETTE FOR MUSIC.
_To a lady singing to her accompaniment on the guitar._
As the moon's soft splendor O'er the faint, cold starlight of heaven Is thrown, So thy voice most tender To the strings without soul has given.
Its own.
The stars will awaken, Though the moon sleep a full hour later To-night; No leaf will be shaken, Whilst the dews of thy melody scatter Delight.
Though the sound overpowers, Sing again, with thy sweet voice revealing A tone Of some world far from ours, Where music and moonlight and feeling Are one.
He added:--
”I find the song in my sc.r.a.pbook, and send it to save you the trouble of hunting for it.
”H. W. L.”
It was first reprinted in ”The Waif,” a thin volume of selections published by Longfellow many years ago. ”The Waif” and ”The Estray”
preserved many a lovely poem from oblivion, till it should find its place at length among its fellows.
Already in 1875 we find Longfellow at work upon his latest collection of poems, which he called ”Poems of Places.” It was a much more laborious and unrewarding occupation than he had intended, and he was sometimes weary of his self-imposed task. He wrote at this period:-- No politician ever sought for Places with half the zeal that I do.
Friend and Foe alike have to give Place to
Yours truly, H. W. L.
Again he says:--
”What evil demon moved me to make this collection of 'Poems of Places'? Could I have foreseen the time it would take, and the worry and annoyance it would bring with it, I never would have undertaken it. The worst of it is, I have to write pieces now and then to fill up gaps.”
More and more his old friends grew dear to him as the years pa.s.sed and ”the G.o.ddess Neuralgia,” as he called his malady, kept him chiefly at home. He wrote in 1877:--
”When are you coming back from your Cottage on the Cliffs? The trees on the Common and the fountains are calling for you.
”'Thee, t.i.tyrus, even the pine-trees, The very fountains, the very Copses are calling.'
Perhaps also your creditors. At all events I am, who am your debtor.”
The days were fast approaching when the old things must pa.s.s away. He wrote tenderly:--
”I am sorry to hear that you are not quite yourself. I sympathize with you, for I am somebody else. It is the two W's, Work and Weather, that are playing the mischief with us.... You must not open a book; you must not even look at an inkstand. These are both contraband articles, upon which we have to pay heavy duties. We cannot smuggle them in.
Nature's custom-house officers are too much on the alert.”
In 1880 he again wrote, describing the wedding of the daughter of an old friend:--
”A beautiful wedding it was; an ideal village wedding, in a pretty church, and the Windmill Cottage of our friend resplendent with autumnal flowers. In one of the rooms there was a tea-kettle hanging on a crane in the fireplace.
”So begins a new household. But Miss Neilson's death has saddened me, and yesterday Mrs. Horsford came with letters from Norway, giving particulars of Ole Bull's last days, his death and burial. The account was very touching. All Bergen's flags at half-mast; telegrams from the King; funeral oration by Bjoernson. The dear old musician was carried from his island to the mainland in a steamer, followed by a long line of other steamers. No Viking ever had such a funeral.”
And here the extracts from letters and journals must cease. It was a golden sunset, in spite of the increasing infirmities which beset him; for he could never lose his pleasure in making others happy, and only during the few last days did he lose his own happiness among his books and at his desk. The influence his presence gave out to others, of calm good cheer and tenderness, made those who knew him feel that he possessed, in larger measure than others, what Jean Paul Richter calls ”a heavenly unfathomableness which makes man G.o.dlike, and love toward him infinite.” Indeed, this ”heavenly unfathomableness” was a strong characteristic of his nature, and the gracious silence in which he often dwelt gave a rare sense of song without words. Therefore, perhaps on that day when we gathered around the form through which his voice was never again to utter itself, and heard his own words repeated upon the air saying, ”Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me. I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone, and you shall have another friend in heaven,” it was impossible not to believe that he was with us still, the central spirit, comforting and uplifting the circle of those who were most dear to him.
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