About the Poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born on February 27, 1807, in Portland, Maine. Stephen Longfellow, his father, was a Portland lawyer and congressman. His mother’s name was Zilpah. He was very fond of reading. He wrote his first poem at thirteen and titled it, "The Battle of Lovell's Pond," which appeared in the Portland Gazette. Longfellow's translation of Horace earned him a scholarship for further studies. He graduated in 1825 and then traveled to Italy, France and Spain from 1826 to When he returned to the United States, he worked as a professor and librarian in Bodwoin. In 1831 he married Mary Storer Potter, The two took a trip to Europe together, where he studied Swedish, Danish, Finnish, and the Dutch language and literature.

On this trip he learned of German Romanticism. His wife, Mary, died in Rotterdam in In 1839 he published Hyperion, a romantic novel, and a collection of poems Voices Of The Night. Both of which became very popular. In 1840 he wrote "The Skeleton in Armor" and The Spanish Student. In 1836 he began teaching at Harvard, and lived in the historic Craigie House. He stopped teaching in 1854 and published his best-known narrative poem, The Song of Hiawatha. After his second wife, Frances, died from burning to death, Henry Longfellow settled down in Cambridge, where he remained for the rest of his life. His later work reflected American mythology. Longfellow died in Cambridge on March 24, In London his marble image is seen in Westminster Abbey, in the Poet's Corner.

I heard the bells on Christmas day Their old familiar carols play, And wild and sweet the words repeat Of peace on earth, good will to men. And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along the unbroken song Of peace on earth, good will to men. And in despair I bowed my head “There is no peace on earth,” I said, “For hate is strong and mocks the song Of peace on earth, good will to men.” Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The wrong shall fail, the right prevail With peace on earth, good will to men.” Till ringing, singing on its way The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, a chant sublime Of peace on earth, good will to men. Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound the carols drowned Of peace on earth, good will to men. It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn, the households born Of peace on earth, good will to men.

This poem shows a great deal of despair. He wrote this poem right after he found that his son was injured in the civil war, and his wife had passed not long before. In the poem he discusses how the religious people, the belfries, and their confidence that all will be okay, eventually. Henry Longfellow has a satirical tone throughout the poem, criticizing it almost. Perhaps pessimistic even like Poe, Hawthorne, and Melville, whom at the time were the main authors during the Romanticism period. I believe that he feels as if people are acknowledging the importance of the war.

Longfellow’s poems were very well liked and popular with people because the lessons that were included in them. Audiences wanted some kind of sermon or lesson to help shape their character and morals during the time of the Industrial Revolution where those things were being tested, and that is what his poems did.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o’erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

In this poem, Longfellow is saying that we can’t keep waiting to pursue what we want to do. We have to seize the day, because life is fleeting, we only have so much time on this Earth before we are gone. So let’s do something we want to be remembered for. “Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime,”

The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveler hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls. Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in darkness calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls. The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveler to the shore. And the tide rises, the tide falls. *This poem is a representation of how life keeps going. Even after the lonely traveler dies, no one notices his death and the days keep going just as they did before he dies. The tide rises and falls, the morning comes and goes and so does the night, people go out of the earth and people come in everyday.

In the long, sleepless watches of the night A gentle face--the face of one long dead-- Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night lamp casts a halo of pale light. Here in this room she died; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight. There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died. *This is one of the most personal poems that Longfellow ever wrote. It is about his second wife Frances, who died from a terrible accident with fire. “Here in this room she died; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led” She died in their home when a lighted match or some hot sealing wax she was using on a letter caught her dress on fire, Henry tried to extinguish her with a rug but she passed away and he was left very badly burned. So this poem could maybe be a eulogy for the tragic loss of his wife.