Morituri Salutamus - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[John]

Many of you have seen in my studio a favorite quotation from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow that we cherish as a family. It reads, "...The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books." We have been so captivated by the imagery, the beauty of Longfellow's language, and the tenderness of the sentiment, we have searched through our library to find the entire poem. None of our anthologies (we even have several volumes exclusively of Longfellow) contained a poem where we could find this particular passage. Finally, Ian located the source online, and we have all been pouring over this wonderful poem and have taken inspiration from it. It is titled, "Morituri Salutamus" ("We Who Are About To Die, Salute You) and I think it's worth some attention.

http://www.hwlongfellow.org/poems_poem.php?pid=275

I am aware that the current literary glitterati may tend to view Longfellow with some disdain, but as for me, I've fallen in love all over again with his humanity and encouragement.

Any responses?
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[Ian]

i think this is an incredible poem. it really blew me away.

[Steve]

Thanks for sharing this. I'm going to make a note of it and add it to my small (but growing) collection of favorites. If you haven't read this and you're debating whether or not to visit the link, do it.

[John]

"Honor and reverence, and the good repute
That follows faithful service as its fruit,
Be unto him, whom living we salute."

And later:

"What then? Shall we sit idly down and say
The night hath come; it is no longer day?
The night hath not yet come; we are not quite
Cut off from labor by the failing light;
Something remains for us to do or dare;[/i]
Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear;
Not Oedipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode,
Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode
Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn,
But other something, would we but begin;
For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day."

I think that old trees that might still bear fruit could be old attempts at change, or old worthy ambitions, or old dreams, as well as old men.

Somethings indeed remain for us to do or dare.

[Ian]

this reminds me of mom's idea a few months ago to have a poetry thread. should we consider having a separate "poetry" forum, for threads like this? will enough people want to make poetry threads?

[Steve]

I say yes, new forum! I think a lot of us here would appreciate a chance to read some favorites we might not be familiar with. Ready, go!

[Tuly]

Golly, gee! one really has to know their Greek literature to fully understand this wonderful poem. Per example;
" Write on your doors the saying wise and old,
"Be bold! be bold!" and everywhere,--"Be bold:
Be not too bold!" Yet better the excess
Than the defect; better the more than the less;
Better like Hector in the field to die,
Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly."

Wow! I love Longfellow.

[John]

You're right, Tuly. At least some smattering of familiarity with the literary canon of the ancients greatly enhances the capacity to appreciate what followed in the subsequent centuries. It's regrettable that we have so little of the Greeks' legacy to draw on. Whoever started that darn fire at the Library of Alexandria ...

Long live Longfellow!

[Aunt Betsy]

Robert Frost admired Longfellow enormously and counted him as one of the major influences on his (Frost's) own poetry.

[Tuly]

Our ward's book club is studying this poem. Apparently Maine is celebrating Longfellow's 200th anniversary - so this poem is timely. Here is some info on Bowdoin College - the place he wrote the poem for:
The History of the CollegeBowdoinJune 24, 1794
Massachusetts Governor Samuel Adams signs an act to establish Bowdoin College.

1799-1802

Massachusetts Hall, Bowdoin's first building, is constructed. This painting also depicts Winthrop Hall, built in 1822, the original wooden chapel, which also served as the library, and Maine Hall, built in 1808.

1820
Maine ceases to be a part of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and becomes its own state. The Medical School of Maine is established as part of Bowdoin. The school awards more than 2000 degrees during its existence from 1820 to 1921.

1825

Nathaniel Hawthorne graduates from Bowdoin. His first novel, written in 1828 and titled Fanshawe, was set at a college similar to Bowdoin. Hawthorne went on to write The Scarlet Letter, The House of Seven Gables and the campaign biography for his friend Franklin Pierce, Bowdoin class of 1824 and 14th President of the U.S.

1827

"We wish to plead our own case. Too long have others spoken for us. Too long has the public been deceived by misrepresentations in things which concern us deeply." These words, appearing in the March 16, 1827 inaugural issue of Freedom's Journal, were written by John Brown Russwurm, Bowdoin's first black graduate, in 1826. The third black to graduate from an American college, he went on to become the co-founder and co-editor of the country's first black newspaper, Freedom's Journal.

1852

Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin is published. Stowe's husband, Calvin, class of 1824, was Collins Professor of Natural and Revealed Religion at the College, and Stowe wrote much of her book in his study in Appleton Hall.

1863

Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, class of 1852, takes command of the 20th Maine Infantry. He defends Little Round Top at the Battle of Gettysburg, later receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions.

1867

Oliver Otis Howard, Bowdoin Class of 1850 and also a Civil War hero, founds Howard University and serves as the school's first president from 1869 to 1874. Bowdoin's residence hall, Howard Hall, is named for him.

1875

"O ye familiar scenes, -- ye grove of pines, That once were mine and are no longer mine..." -- "Morituri Salutamus" Henry Wadsworth Longfellow celebrates the College and the fiftieth reunion of his famous class of 1825 with the reading of his poem "Morituri Salutamus". Longfellow taught modern languages at Bowdoin from 1829 to 1835 and was arguably the most popular literary figure in nineteenth century America.

[Tuly]

Here is another poem by Longfellow - The Ladder of St. Augustine - Saint Augustine was a philosopher and theologian who had a profound effect on both Protestant and Catholic theology. He was born Augustine Aurelius in A.D. 354, in Thagaste (in what is now Algeria), during the Roman occupation of that region.

The Ladder of St. Augustine
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things, each day's events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,
That makes another's virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things;
The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
The action of the nobler will; —

All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern — unseen before —
A path to higher destinies,

Nor deem the irrevocable Past
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.

[Steve]

I love these! Reviewing the poems already mentioned, I found another one I saved:

The Hanging of the Crane

The lights are out, and gone are all the guests
That thronging came with merriment and jests
To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane
In the new house,--into the night are gone;
But still the fire upon the hearth burns on,
And I alone remain.

O fortunate, O happy day,
When a new household finds its place
Among the myriad homes of earth,
Like a new star just sprung to birth,
And rolled on its harmonious way
Into the boundless realms of space!

So said the guests in speech and song,
As in the chimney, burning bright,
We hung the iron crane to-night,
And merry was the feast and long.


II

And now I sit and muse on what may be,
And in my vision see, or seem to see,
Through floating vapors interfused with light,
Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade,
As shadows passing into deeper shade
Sink and elude the sight.

For two alone, there in the hall,
Is spread the table round and small;
Upon the polished silver shine
The evening lamps, but, more divine,
The light of love shines over all;
Of love, that says not mine and thine,
But ours, for ours is thine and mine.

They want no guests, to come between
Their tender glances like a screen,
And tell them tales of land and sea,
And whatsoever may betide
The great, forgotten world outside;
They want no guests; they needs must be
Each other's own best company.


III

The picture fades; as at a village fair
A showman's views, dissolving into air,
Again appear transfigured on the screen,
So in my fancy this; and now once more,
In part transfigured, through the open door
Appears the selfsame scene.

Seated, I see the two again,
But not alone; they entertain
A little angel unaware,
With face as round as is the moon;
A royal guest with flaxen hair,
Who, throned upon his lofty chair,
Drums on the table with his spoon,
Then drops it careless on the floor,
To grasp at things unseen before.

Are these celestial manners? these
The ways that win, the arts that please?
Ah yes; consider well the guest,
And whatsoe'er he does seems best;
He ruleth by the right divine
Of helplessness, so lately born
In purple chambers of the morn,
As sovereign over thee and thine.
He speaketh not; and yet there lies
A conversation in his eyes;
The golden silence of the Greek,
The gravest wisdom of the wise,
Not spoken in language, but in looks
More legible than printed books,
As if he could but would not speak.
And now, O monarch absolute,
Thy power is put to proof; for, lo!
Resistless, fathomless, and slow,
The nurse comes rustling like the sea,
And pushes back thy chair and thee,
And so good night to King Canute.


IV

As one who walking in a forest sees
A lovely landscape through the parted trees,
Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene;
Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed
Through drifting clouds, and then again concealed,
So I behold the scene.

There are two guests at table now;
The king, deposed and older grown,
No longer occupies the throne,--
The crown is on his sister's brow;
A Princess from the Fairy Isles,
The very pattern girl of girls.
All covered and embowered in curls,
Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers,
And sailing with soft, silken sails
From far-off Dreamland into ours.
Above their bowls with rims of blue
Four azure eyes of deeper hue
Are looking, dreamy with delight;
Limpid as planets that emerge
Above the ocean's rounded verge,
Soft-shining through the summer night.
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see
Beyond the horizon of their bowls;
Nor care they for the world that rolls
With all its freight of troubled souls
Into the days that are to be.


V

Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene,
Again the drifting vapors intervene,
And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite;
And now I see the table wider grown,
As round a pebble into water thrown
Dilates a ring of light.

I see the table wider grown,
I see it garlanded with guests,
As if fair Ariadne's Crown
Out of the sky had fallen down;
Maidens within whose tender breasts
A thousand restless hopes and fears,
Forth reaching to the coming years,
Flutter awhile, then quiet lie,
Like timid birds that fain would fly,
But do not dare to leave their nests;--
And youths, who in their strength elate
Challenge the van and front of fate,
Eager as champions to be
In the divine knight-errantry
Of youth, that travels sea and land
Seeking adventures, or pursues,
Through cities, and through solitudes
Frequented by the lyric Muse,
The phantom with the beckoning hand,
That still allures and still eludes.
O sweet illusions of the brain!
O sudden thrills of fire and frost!
The world is bright while ye remain,
And dark and dead when ye are lost!


VI

The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still,
Quickens its current as it nears the mill;
And so the stream of Time that lingereth
In level places, and so dull appears,
Runs with a swifter current as it nears
The gloomy mills of Death.

And now, like the magician's scroll,
That in the owner's keeping shrinks
With every wish he speaks or thinks,
Till the last wish consumes the whole,
The table dwindles, and again
I see the two alone remain.
The crown of stars is broken in parts;
Its jewels, brighter than the day,
Have one by one been stolen away
To shine in other homes and hearts.
One is a wanderer now afar
In Ceylon or in Zanzibar,
Or sunny regions of Cathay;
And one is in the boisterous camp
Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp,
And battle's terrible array.
I see the patient mother read,
With aching heart, of wrecks that float
Disabled on those seas remote,
Or of some great heroic deed
On battle-fields, where thousands bleed
To lift one hero into fame.
Anxious she bends her graceful head
Above these chronicles of pain,
And trembles with a secret dread
Lest there among the drowned or slain
She find the one beloved name.


VII

After a day of cloud and wind and rain
Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again,
And touching all the darksome woods with light,
Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing,
Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring
Drops down into the night.

What see I now? The night is fair,
The storm of grief, the clouds of care,
The wind, the rain, have passed away;
The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright,
The house is full of life and light:
It is the Golden Wedding day.
The guests come thronging in once more,
Quick footsteps sound along the floor,
The trooping children crowd the stair,
And in and out and everywhere
Flashes along the corridor
The sunshine of their golden hair.
On the round table in the hall
Another Ariadne's Crown
Out of the sky hath fallen down;
More than one Monarch of the Moon
Is drumming with his silver spoon;
The light of love shines over all.

O fortunate, O happy day!
The people sing, the people say.
The ancient bridegroom and the bride,
Smiling contented and serene
Upon the blithe, bewildering scene,
Behold, well pleased, on every side
Their forms and features multiplied,
As the reflection of a light
Between two burnished mirrors gleams,
Or lamps upon a bridge at night
Stretch on and on before the sight,
Till the long vista endless seems.

[John]

How I love Longfellow. Thanks, Steve. What beautiful solace I find there.
Here's another that I'm fond of:

THE DAY IS DONE
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

[Tuly]

I found this about The Hanging of the Crane from http://www.bartleby.com/356/251.html

“One morning in the spring of 1867,” writes Mr. T. B. Aldrich, “Mr. Longfellow came to the little home in Pinckney Street [Boston], where we had set up housekeeping in the light of our honeymoon. As we lingered a moment at the dining-room door, Mr. Longfellow turning to me said, ‘Ah, Mr. Aldrich, your small round table will not always be closed. By and by you will find new young faces clustering about it; as years go on, leaf after leaf will be added until the time comes when the young guests will take flight, one by one, to build nests of their own elsewhere. Gradually the long table will shrink to a circle again, leaving two old people sitting there alone together. This is the story of life, the sweet and pathetic poem of the fireside. Make an idyl of it. I give the idea to you.’ Several months afterward, I received a note from Mr. Longfellow in which he expressed a desire to use this motif in case I had done nothing in the matter. The theme was one peculiarly adapted to his sympathetic handling, and out of it grew The Hanging of the Crane.” Just when the poem was written does not appear, but its first publication was in the New York Ledger, March 28, 1874. Mr. Longfellow’s old friend, Mr. Sam. Ward, had heard the poem, and offered to secure it for Mr. Robert Bonner, the proprietor of the Ledger, “touched,” as he wrote to Mr. Longfellow, “by your kindness to poor ——, and haunted by the idea of increasing handsomely your noble charity fund.” Mr. Bonner paid the poet the sum of three thousand dollars for this poem.