A Wraith In The Mist

"Sir, I should build me a fortification, if I
came to live here." --BOSWELL'S Johnson.

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,
    Who is it that walks by the shore,
So gay with his Highland blue bonnet,
    So brave with his targe and claymore?

His form is the form of a giant,
    But his face wears an aspect of pain;
Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth?
    Can this be Sir Allan McLean?

Ah, no!    It is only the Rambler,
    The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court,
And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth,
    He would wall himself round with a fort.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was an American poet and educator. He wrote many lyric poems known for their musicality and often presenting stories of mythology and legend. Some of his famous works include "Paul Revere's Ride" and "The Song of Hiawatha." Longfellow was one of the most popular American poets of his time and remains a significant figure in the canon of American literature.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

To A Child

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

The City And The Sea

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

The Windmill

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

The Wind Over The Chimney

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

English

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The Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich

A Long-Vacation Pastoral

Nunc formosissimus annus
Ite meæ felix quondam pecus, ite camenæ.


I

Socii cratera coronant.

It was the afternoon; and the sports were now at the ending.
Long had the stone been put, tree cast, and thrown the hammer;
Up the perpendicular hill, Sir Hector so called it,
Eight stout gillies had run, with speed and agility wondrous;
Run too the course on the level had been; the leaping was over:
Last in the show of dress, a novelty recently added,
Noble ladies their prizes adjudged for costume that was perfect,
Turning the clansmen about, as they stood with upraised elbows;
Bowing their eye-glassed brows, and fingering kilt and sporran.
It was four of the clock, and the sports were come to the ending,
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Robert Burns

I see amid the fields of Ayr
A ploughman, who, in foul and fair,
        Sings at his task
So clear, we know not if it is
The laverock's song we hear, or his,
        Nor care to ask.

For him the ploughing of those fields
A more ethereal harvest yields
        Than sheaves of grain;
Songs flush with Purple bloom the rye,
The plover's call, the curlew's cry,
        Sing in his brain.

Touched by his hand, the wayside weed
Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed
        Beside the stream
Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass
And heather, where his footsteps pass,
        The brighter seem.

He sings of love, whose flame illumes
The darkness of lone cottage rooms;
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Musician's Tale - The Wayside Inn - Part Third

THE MOTHER'S GHOST

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade;
    I myself was young!
There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid;
    Fair words gladden so many a heart.

Together were they for seven years,
And together children six were theirs.

Then came Death abroad through the land,
And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade,
And again hath he wooed him another maid,

He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride,
But she was bitter and full of pride.

When she came driving into the yard,
There stood the six children weeping so hard.

There stood the small children with sorrowful heart;
From before her feet she thrust them apart.

She gave to them neither ale nor bread;
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Warden Of The Cinque Ports

A mist was driving down the British Channel,
        The day was just begun,
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
        Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
        And the white sails of ships;
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
        Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover
        Were all alert that day,
To see the French war-steamers speeding over,
        When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
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Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance,
        The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations
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Inverawe.

Does death cleanse the stains of the spirit
When sundered at last from the clay,
Or keep we thereafter till judgment,
Desires that on earth had their way?
Bereft of the strength which was given
To use for our good or our bane,
Shall yearnings vain, impotent, endless,
Be ours with their burden of pain?

Though flesh does not clothe them, what anguish
Must be known in the world of the dead,
If the future lies open before them,
And fate has no secret unread.
And yet, oh how rarely our vision
May know the lost presence is nigh;
How seldom its purpose be gathered,
Be it comfort, or warning to die!

With mute or half breathed supplication
Permitted to utter their prayer,
Demanding earth's justice, but ever
Poor phantoms of mist and of air;

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Glenfinlas; Or, Lord Ronald's Coronach

"O hone a rie'! O hone a rie!"
The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!"

O, sprung from great Macgillianore,
The chief that never fear'd a foe,
How matchless was thy broad claymore,
How deadly thine unerring bow!

Well can the Saxon widows tell,
How, on the Teith's resounding shore,
The boldest Lowland warriors fell,
As down from Lenny's pass you bore.

But o'er his hills, in festal day,
How blazed Lord Ronald's beltrane tree,
While youths and maids in light strathspey,
So nimbly danced with Highland glee!

Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell,
E'en age forgot his tresses hoar;
But now the loud lament we swell,
O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!
...

Walter Scott