66 99 219 You may learn the song that the seraph sings; A grand and glorious psalm That will tremble, and rise and thrill, And fill your breast with its grateful rest, And its lonely yearnings still. THE BRIDGE. H. W. LONGFELLOW. [By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, I saw her bright reflection And far in the hazy distance Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, And like those waters rushing How often, O how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, O how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands THE BRIDGE. Each bearing his burden of sorrow, I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, The moon and its broken reflection 223 |