II.

Old man with the pale blue eyes, Mild and clear! Why, as thou dost fare, With that pondering air Into passing faces dost thou peer? Why dost pause, where dim like autumn skies Starry asters grow? Why gazest thou O’er the round hill’s brow?

“Ah, from each gray-bearded face Would I know What that heart hath found; And in youths that bound See a youth who vanished long ago! In each flower a memory can I trace; O’er the hill the green, still place may be That doth wait for me!”

AN INVOCATION IN A LIBRARY.

O brotherhood, with bay-crowned brows undaunted, Who passed serene along our crowded ways, Speak with us still! For we like Saul are haunted: Harp sullen spirits from these later days!

Whate’er high hope ye had for man your brother, Breathe it, nor leave him like a prisoned slave To stare through bars upon a sight no other Than clouded skies that lighten on a grave.

In these still alcoves give us gentle meeting, From dusky shelves kind arms about us fold, Till the New Age shall feel her chilled heart beating Restfully on the warm heart of the Old.

Till we shall hear your voices mild and winning Steal through our doubt and discord, as outswells At fiercest noon, above a city’s dinning, The chiming music of cathedral bells:

Music that lifts the thought from trodden places And coarse confusions that around us lie, Up to the calm of high cloud-silvered spaces, Where the tall spire points through the soundless sky.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.