Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Sonnets

I THE GOOD SHEPHERD Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song          Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,          Who mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree,          On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long! Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains;          For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be;          I will obey thy voice, and wait to see          Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. Hear, Shepherd! thou who for thy flock art dying,          O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou          Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. O, wait! to thee my weary soul is crying,          Wait for me! Yet why ask it, when I see,          With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still for me! II TO-MORROW Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care,          Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait          Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,          And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? O strange delusion! that I did not greet          Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost,          If my ingratitude's unkindly frost          Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. How oft my guardian angel gently cried,          "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see          How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow,          "To-morrow we will open," I replied,          And when the morrow came I answered still "To-morrow." III THE NATIVE LAND Clear fount of light! my native land on high,          Bright with a glory that shall never fade!          Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade,          Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,          Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath;          But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence          With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. Beloved country! banished from thy shore,          A stranger in this prison-house of clay,          The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! Heavenward the bright perfections I adore          Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,          That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. IV THE IMAGE OF GOD O Lord! who seest, from yon starry height,          Centred in one the future and the past,          Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast          The world obscures in me what once was bright! Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given,          To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays;          Yet in the hoary winter of my days,          Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven. Celestial King! O let thy presence pass          Before my spirit, and an image fair          Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, As the reflected image in a glass          Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there,          And owes its being to the gazer's eye. V THE BROOK Laugh of the mountain!—lyre of bird and tree!          Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!          The soul of April, unto whom are born          The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! Although, where'er thy devious current strays,          The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,          To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems          Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. How without guile thy bosom, all transparent          As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye          Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current!          O sweet simplicity of days gone by!          Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!