File:Poems of America (1882) (14596477437).jpg

Identifier: poemsofamerica00long (find matches)
Title: Poems of America
Year: 1882 (1880s)
Authors: Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 1807-1882, ed
Subjects: American poetry
Publisher: Boston, New York, Houghton, Mifflin and company
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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irit-tokens brightenEvery link of sympathy. We mid storms of war were cradledMid the shock of angry foes; Thou, with sudden, dreamlike splendor,Pallas-born, — in vigor rose. 36 POEMS OF PLACES. Cliildren of one common country.Strong in friendsliip let us stand. With united ardor eariiinsrGlory for our Motlier Land. Tliey of gold and they of iron,They who reap the bearded wheat. They who rear the snowy cotton,Pour their treasures at her feet; While with smiling exultation.She, who marks their filial part, Like the mother of the Gracclii,Folds her jewels to her heart. Lydia Huntley Sigourney. THE CANON. I STAND upon a stony rim.Stone-paved and patterned as a streetA rock-lipped canon plunging south,As if it were earths opened mouth.Yawns deep and darkling at my feet;So deep, so distant, and so dimIts waters wind, a yellow thread,And call so faintly and so far,I turn aside my swooning head.I feel a fierce impulse to leapAdown the beetling precipice,Like some lone, lost, uncertain star;
Text Appearing After Image:
From towers undefiled by man. See page 37. INTRODUCTORY. 37 To plunge into a place unknown,And win a world all, all my own;Or if I might not meet tliat bliss,At least eseape the eurse of this. I gaze again. A gleaming starShines back as from some mossy wellRefleeted from blue fields afar.Brown hawks are wheeling here and there,And up and down the broken wallCling clumps of dark green chaparral,While from the rent rocks, gray and bare.Blue junipers hang in the air. Here, cedars sweep the stream, and here.Among the boulders mossed and brownThat time and storms have toppled downFrom towers undefded by man.Low cabins nestle as in fear.And look no taller than a span.Erom low and shapeless chimneys riseSome tall straight columns of blue smoke.And weld them to the bluer skies;While sounding down the sombre gorgeI hear the steady pickaxe stroke.As if upon a flashing forge. Another scene, another sound ! —Sharp shots are fretting through the air.Red knives are flashing everywhere.And here an

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