LONGFELLOW’S LAST POEM.

Dunstan Times, Issue 1056, 14 July 1882, Page 4

LONGFELLOW’S LAST POEM.

Thr Atlantic Monthly for May contains Longfellow's last poem, the proofs of which he corrected shoitly before his death. It is entitled MAD RIVER. In the White Mountains. Traveller. Why dost'thou wildly rush and roar, M»d River, 0 Mad River? Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o’er This rocky shelf for ever? What secret trouble stirs thy breast ? Why all this fret and flurry ? Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest, From over-work and worry ? Thr River. AVhat would’st thou in these mountains seek 0 stranger from the city ? 1 It is perhaps some foolish freak Of thine, to put the words I speak Into a plaintive ditty ? Traveller. Yes : 1 would learn of dice thy song, With all its flowing mimheis, And in a voice as fresh and strong As thins is, sing it all day long, And hear it in my slumbers. The Uivkr. A brooklet nameless and unknown, Was f at first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of stone Irresolute and trembling. Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wild world I panted ; Out of the forest dark and dread Acro»a the open Helds 1 fled, Like one pursued and haunted. 1 tossed my arms, I sang aloud, My voice exultant blending W>th thunder from the passing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending.

I beam (he distant ocean call, Emploring and entreating ; Drawn onward, o’er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud water fall Made answer to the greeting. And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow ; Competed to carry bom the hills These logs to the impatient mills lielow there in the hollow. Yet somethin*: ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors ; Daih I water wi.h these arms The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors. M"U call me Mad. and weU they may, When fil l of rage and trouble, I burst, my banks of sand an I clay, And sweep ibeir wooden bridge away, Like withered roads or stubble. Now go and w-tte thy little rhyme, As of thine own creating : Thou seest the day is past its prime ; I can no longer wast.- my lime ; The mills are tired of wailing.