THE POET AND THE POEM.

Upon the city called the Friends’

The light of waking spring

Fell vivid as the shadow thrown

Far from the gleaming wing

Of a great golden bird, that fled

Before us loitering.

In hours before the spring, how light

The pulse of heaviest feet!

And quick the slowest hopes to stir

To measures fine and fleet.

And warm will grow the bitterest heart

To shelter fancies sweet.

Securely looks the city down

On her own fret and toil;

She hides a heart of perfect peace

Behind her veins’ turmoil —

A breathing-space removed apart

From out their stir and soil.

Our reverent feet that golden day

Stood in a quiet place,

That held repressed — I know not what

Of such a poignant grace

As falls, if dumb with life untold,

Upon a human face.

To fashion silence into words

The softest, teach me how!

I know the place is Silence caught

A-dreaming, then and now.

I only know‘ t was blue above,

And it was green below.

And where the deepening sunshine found

And held a holy mood,

Lowly and old, of outline quaint,

In mingled brick and wood,

Clasped in the arms of ivy vines

A nestling cottage stood:

A thing so hidden and so fair,

So pure that it would seem

Hewn out of nothing earthlier

Than a young poet's dream,

Of nothing sadder than the lights

That through the ivies gleam.

“Tell me,” I said, while shrill the birds

Sang through the garden space,

To her who guided me — “tell me

The story of the place.”

She lifted, in her Quaker cap,

A peaceful, puzzled face,

Surveyed me with an aged, calm,

And unpoetic eye;

And peacefully, but puzzled half,

Half tolerant, made reply:

“The people come to see that house —

Indeed, I know not why,

“Except thee know the poem there —

‘ T was written long since, yet

His name who wrote it, now — in fact —

I cannot seem to get —

His name who wrote that poetry

I always do forget.

“Hers was Evangeline; and here

In sound of Christ Church bells

She found her lover in this house,

Or so I‘ ve heard folks tell.

But most I know is, that's her name,

And his was Gabriel.

“I‘ ve heard she found him dying, in

The room behind that door,

( One of the Friends’ old almshouses,

Perhaps thee‘ ve heard before;)

Perhaps thee‘ ve heard about her all

That I can tell, and more.

“Thee can believe she found him here,

If thee do so incline.

Folks have their fashions in belief —

That may be one of thine.

I‘ m sure his name was Gabriel,

And hers Evangeline.”

She turned her to her common work

And unpoetic ways,

Nor knew the rare, sweet note she struck

Resounding to your praise,

O Poet of our common nights,

And of our care-worn days!

Translator of our golden mood,

And of our leaden hour!

Immortal thus shall poet gauge

The horizon of his power.

Wear in your crown of laurel leaves,

The little ivy flower!

And happy be the singer called

To such a lofty lot!

And ever blessed be the heart

Hid in the simple spot

Where Evangeline was loved and wept,

And Longfellow forgot.

O striving soul! strive quietly,

Whate'er thou art or dost,

Sweetest the strain, when in the song

The singer has been lost;

Truest the work, when‘ t is the deed,

Not doer, counts for most!

The shadow of the golden wing

Grew deep where'er it fell.

The heart it brooded over will

Remember long and well

Full many a subtle thing, too sweet

Or else too sad to tell.

Forever fall the light of spring

Fair as that day it fell,

Where Evangeline, led by your voice,

O solemn Christ Church bell!

For lovers of all springs, all climes,

At last found Gabriel.