Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the sweetest, Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden; 'Come, you must not be idle; if I am a pattern for housewives, Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for knitting; Then who knows but hereafter, when fash ions have changed and the manners, Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden!' Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, 70 Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror; But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered Once and forever the bonds that held him bound as a captive, Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom, Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, 90 Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla, Pressing her close to his heart, as forever his own, and exclaiming: 'Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put them asunder!' Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love, through its bosom, Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses. Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol. Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, 90 Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR1 BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, 1 The ideal commentary on this poem is found in a letter of Longfellow's To Emily A-,' August 18, 1859: 'Your letter followed me down here by the seaside, where I am passing the summer with my three little girls. The oldest is about your age; but as little girls' ages keep changing every year, I can never remember exactly how old she is, and have to ask her mamma, who has a better memory than I have. Her name is Alice; I never forget that. She is a nice girl, and loves poetry almost as much as you do. The second is Edith, with blue eyes and beautiful Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. A whisper, and then a silence: A sudden rush from the stairway, They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, And there will I keep you forever, Till the walls shail crumble to ruin, 1859. PAUL REVERE'S RIDE1 20 30 40 1860. LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear 1 It is possible that Mr. Longfellow derived the story from Paul Revere's account of the incident in a letter to Dr. Jeremy Belknap, printed in Mass. Hist. Coll. V. Mr. Frothingham, in his Siege of Boston, pp. 57-59, gives the story mainly according to a memorandum of Richard Devens, Revere's friend and associate. The publication of Mr. Longfellow's poem called out a protracted discussion both as to the church from which On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive 6 Who remembers that famous day and year. One, if by land, and two, if by sea; Then he said, 'Good-night!' and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, the signals were hung, and as to the friend who hung the lanterns. The subject is discussed and authorities cited in Memorial History of Boston, iii, 101. (Cambridge Edition, p. 668.) 'Paul Revere's Ride' is the first story in the Tales of a Wayside Inn, a series of tales in verse set in a frame-work something like that of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and supposed to be told by a group of friends gathered at the Red-Horse Inn at Sudbury, about twenty miles from Cambridge. The story of Paul Revere is told by the landlord, whose portrait is thus drawn in the Prelude : ' — But first the Landlord will I trace; A man of ancient pedigree, A Justice of the Peace was he, Known in all dbury as The Squire.' Proud was he of his name and race, Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, And in the parlor, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, Upon the wall in colors blazed; He beareth gules upon his shield, A chevron argent in the field, With three wolf's-heads, and for the crest The scroll reads, By the name of Howe. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 50 60 Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 70 But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 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. 80 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. |