Suggestive programs for special day exercises/Longfellow Day/Quotations

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

QUOTATIONS.

Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

—From the Light of Stars.

Thus by aspirations lifted,
By misgivings downward driven,
Human hearts are tossed and drifted
Midway between earth and heaven.

—From King Trisanku.

Whatsoever thing thou doest
To the least of mind and lowest.
That thou doest unto Me!

—From The Legend Beautiful.

 

Spake full well in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelt beside the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden.
Stars that in earth’s firmament do shine.

—From the Flowers.

Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems.
And all the rest are dead.

—From Children.

When e’er a noble deed is wrought.
When e’er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise
To higher levels rise.

—From Santa Filomena.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition.
This life of mortal breath
Is but the suburb of the life elysian
Whose portal we call Death.

—From Resignation.

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

—From The Psalm of Life.

God sent his singers upon earth
With songs of sadness and of mirth.
That they might touch the hearts of men.
And bring them back to heaven again.

—From The Singers.

Not in the clamor of the crowded street,
Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng.
But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

—From The Poets.

We shall be sifted till the strength
Of self-conceit be changed at length
To meekness.

—From The Sifting of Peter.

Storms do not rend the sail that is furled;
Nor, like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled
In an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul.

—From Old St. David.

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 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.

—From The Ladder of St. Augustin.

Believe me, the talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well.—From Hyperion.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.—From Kavanagh.

 

NATURE’S BOOK.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*And Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying: “Here is a storybook
Thy Father has written for thee.”

“ Come, wander with me,” she said;
“Into regions yet untrod;
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God.”

So he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long.
Or his heart began to fail,
She would sing a more wonderful song.
Or tell a more marvelous tale.
*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*

—Longfellow—“ The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz. ”

CHARITY.

The little I have seen of the world and know of the history of mankind, teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger. When I take the history of one poor heart that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it has passed—the brief pulsations of joy, the feverish inquietude of hope and fear, the tears of regret, the feebleness of purpose, the pressure of want, the desertion of friends, the scorn of a world that has little charity, the desolation of the soul’s sanctuary and threatening voices within—health gone, happiness gone, even hope, that stays longest with us, gone,—I have little heart for aught else than thankfulness that it is not so with me, and would fain leave the erring soul of my fellow-man with Him from whose hands it came.—From Hyperion.

 

THE THREE STATUES OF MINERVA.

In ancient times there stood in the citadel of Athens three statues of Minerva. The first was of olive-wood, and according to popular tradition had fallen from heaven. The second was of bronze, commemorating the victory of Marathon; and the third of gold and ivory,—a great miracle of art, in the Age of Pericles. And thus in the citidel of Time stands Man himself. In childhood, shaped of soft and delicate wood, just fallen from heaven; in manhood, a statue of bronze, commenorating struggle and victory; and, lastly, in the maturity of age, perfectly shaped in gold and ivory,—a miracle of art!—From Hyperion.