Select Poetry.

Thames Star, Volume XIII, Issue 4212, 1 July 1882, Page 1

Select Poetry.

LONGFELLOW'S LAST POEM.

The following poem appears in "tt» Atlantic Monthly for May, and is the last that Longfellow wrote. It is stated that th« proofs of it were revised by the poet only a few days before his last sickness. , MADjBIVER. In thb White Mountains. TBAVBMiBR. Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, Mad River, O Mad River? Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er This rocky shelf_for over ?.-. z What secret troablo stirs thy breast ? Why all this fret and flurry ? Dost thou not know'that which is best In this too restless world is rest From over-work and worry ? .

THB RIVBR. What would'st thou. in .these mountains ; seek, ' O stranger from the city ? ' Is it perhaps some foolish freak Of thine to put the words I speak Into a plaintive ditty P

TBAVELLBK. Yes: I would learn of thee thy song, With all its flowing nubmers, r And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long, ' '<■'■ ■■ And hear it in my slumbers. THB KIVEE. •-.? 'A brooklet namelefc and unknown „ Was lat first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of Btonv, Irresolute and trembling. Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wide world I panted, Out of the forest dark and dread AcroßS the open fields I fled, Like one pursued and haunted. I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, " ; My voice eamltant blending With thunder from the passing cloud; The wind the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending. I heard the distant ocean call, • Imploring and entreating; Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall Made answer to the greeting. And now, beset with many ills, -< !'•- A toilsome life I follow; ' Compelled to carry from the hilla These logs to the impatient mills Below there in the hollow. ; Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors: Daily I water with these arms The cattle of a hundred farms; < • And have the birds for neighbours. Men call me mad, and well they may, When, fell of rage and trouble, I burst my bauka of sand and clay, And sweep their wooden bridge away Like withered reeds or stubble. STow go and write thy little rhyme, As of thine own creating. Thou aeest the day is past its prime, I can no longer waste my time; The mills are tired of waiting.