Musings in Maoriland
Longfellow
Longfellow.
The minstrel's voice is songless now,
Death's stamp is on that honour'd brow;
No dirge for him, no sigh nor tear:
We'll shout above the poet's bier—
Excelsior!
He swept his harp-strings clear and strong
Till trees became alive with song,
And every trembling leaflet stirred
To music at his magic word—
Excelsior!
He touched a chord, and on the scene
Appeared the fair Evangeline
In Norman cap and girtle blue,
Acadie's virgin pure and true—
Excelsior!
He peopled Strasburg's lofty spire
With spirits from the realms of fire,
Then put a soul in every bell
To triumph o'er the powers of hell—
Excelsior!
Across the harp his fingers ran,
And Plymouth's martial Puritan
Stepp'd into life, and madly strove
With Alden in the game of love—
Excelsior!
He struck out, as he passed along,
From sledge and anvil sparks of song,
Until the forge 'neath chestnut-tree
Was filled with manly minstrelsy—
Excelsior!
He gathered from the Northland plains
Old echoes wild of Indian strains;
He beautified the songs of yore,
Then gave them to the woods once more—
Excelsior!
He gave new music to each rill,
He clothed the prairie and the hill
With rich romance; each forest pine
Shook with new melody divine—
Excelsior!
A grand old bard, with spotless page
An honour to his land and age,
Full ripe for Heav'n, has passed away;
And Nature sings above his clay—
Excelsior!