{"id":356,"date":"2011-07-11T15:46:10","date_gmt":"2011-07-11T15:46:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/leeuwebpages.wpengine.com\/ajensen\/?page_id=356"},"modified":"2011-10-18T00:38:18","modified_gmt":"2011-10-18T00:38:18","slug":"additional-reading-longfellow","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/webpages.leeu.edu\/ajensen\/courses\/engl-313\/additional-reading-longfellow\/","title":{"rendered":"Additional Reading: Longfellow"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Arsenal at Springfield<\/p>\n

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
\nLike a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
\nBut front their silent pipes no anthem pealing
\nStartles the villages with strange alarms.<\/p>\n

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
\nWhen the death-angel touches those swift keys
\nWhat loud lament and dismal Miserere
\nWill mingle with their awful symphonies<\/p>\n

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
\nThe cries of agony, the endless groan,
\nWhich, through the ages that have gone before us,
\nIn long reverberations reach our own.<\/p>\n

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
\nThrough Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song,
\nAnd loud, amid the universal clamor,
\nO’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.<\/p>\n

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
\nWheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
\nAnd Aztec priests upon their teocallis
\nBeat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin;<\/p>\n

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
\nThe shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
\nThe soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage;
\nThe wail of famine in beleaguered towns;<\/p>\n

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
\nThe rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
\nAnd ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
\nThe diapason of the cannonade.<\/p>\n

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
\nWith such accursed instruments as these,
\nThou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
\nAnd jarrest the celestial harmonies?<\/p>\n

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
\nWere half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
\nGiven to redeem the human mind from error,
\nThere were no need of arsenals or forts:<\/p>\n

The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred!
\nAnd every nation, that should lift again
\nIts hand against a brother, on its forehead
\nWould wear forevermore the curse of Cain!<\/p>\n

Down the dark future, through long generations,
\nThe echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
\nAnd like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
\nI hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!”<\/p>\n

There are two versions of how Longfellow’s wife died: 1. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s wife died tragically when an ember from the fireplace caught her dress on fire and burnt her so badly that she died a few days later. 2. Longfellow’s wife died of burns she received when packages of her children’s curls, which she was sealing with matches and wax, burst into flame. No matter which version is correct, Longfellow tried to put out the fire, and it is said that his face was so badly disfigured that he grew the familiar long beard to hide the scars.<\/p>\n

Eighteen years later he was looking at a book with pictures of the far west and the mountains when he came across a picture much like the one reproduced here. The poem that resulted is “The Cross of Snow,” one of his most poignant and touching sonnets.<\/p>\n

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Cross of Snow”<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
\nA gentle face–the face of one long dead–
\nLooks at me from the wall, where round its head
\nThe night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
\nHere in this room she died, and soul more white
\nNever through martyrdom of fire was led
\nTo its repose; nor can in books be read
\nThe legend of a life more benedight.
\nThere is a mountain in the distant West
\nThat, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
\nDisplays a cross of snow upon its side.
\nSuch is the cross I wear upon my breast
\nThese eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
\nAnd seasons, changeless since the day she died.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

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Aftermath<\/p>\n

When the summer fields are mown,
\nWhen the birds are fledged and flown,
\nAnd the dry leaves strew the path;
\nWith the falling of the snow,
\nWith the cawing of the crow,
\nOnce again the fields we mow
\nAnd gather in the aftermath.
\nNot the sweet, new grass with flowers
\nIs this harvesting of ours;
\nNot the upland clover bloom;
\nBut the rowen mixed with weeds,
\nTangled tufts from marsh and meads,
\nWhere the poppy drops its seeds
\nIn the silence and the gloom.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Arsenal at Springfield<\/p>\n

∼ Continue Reading ∼<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":9,"featured_media":0,"parent":40,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-356","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/webpages.leeu.edu\/ajensen\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/356","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/webpages.leeu.edu\/ajensen\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/webpages.leeu.edu\/ajensen\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/webpages.leeu.edu\/ajensen\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/9"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/webpages.leeu.edu\/ajensen\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=356"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/webpages.leeu.edu\/ajensen\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/356\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/webpages.leeu.edu\/ajensen\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/40"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/webpages.leeu.edu\/ajensen\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=356"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}