CHAPTER I

A GREAT POET

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;—

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

You doubtless remember how Robinson Crusoe one day found footprints in the sand on the shore of his desert island. “I am not alone!” said he to himself. “Another human being has been here before me.” Soon afterward he had the good fortune to find his “man Friday.”

In geology we learn of footprints in rocks. Living beings ages ago walked on the soft sand, and that sand, lying for a long time undisturbed, was at length hardened into rock.

The poet Longfellow has left “footprints on the sands of time” in the shape of his poems, and we may say those poems are like footprints hardened into rock, which will last for ages. Many an unhappy soul, after reading the sad, sweet, beautiful verses of the “Psalm of Life,” has taken heart to go on fighting life’s battle nobly, and doing good instead of yielding to the temptation to be weak and careless.

To realize what it is to be a great poet, think of the millions of boys and girls, old and young, in the United States, and in Great Britain and other foreign countries, who have learned by heart such famous poems as “The Village Blacksmith,” “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” and “The Building of the Ship.” You, yourself, no doubt, dear reader, when you want something to memorize, turn to a volume of Longfellow’s poems. You have learned to love the poems: therefore let me introduce to you the man who first lived the poems in his own life, and you will certainly learn to love him, too.

The poet was born February 27, 1807, in Portland, Maine. At the time of his birth his parents were living in Captain Stephenson’s house, Mrs. Stephenson being a sister of the elder Mr. Longfellow. But this was only temporarily, indeed only while the Stephenson family were visiting the West Indies. The Longfellows soon moved into the house of General Peleg Wadsworth, where Mrs. Longfellow had spent part of her girlhood. It is said to have been the first brick house ever built in Portland, and it was one of the finest. Here they lived until the baby grew into a man.