A favorite haunt of Longfellow’s was the bridge between Boston and Cambridge, over which he had to pass, almost daily. “I always stop on the bridge,” he writes in his journal. “Tide waters are beautiful,” and again, “We leaned for a while on the wooden rails and enjoyed the silvery reflections of the sea, making sundry comparisons.” Among other thoughts, we have these cheering ones, that “The old sea was flashing with its heavenly light, though we saw it only in a single track; the dark waves are dark provinces of God; illuminous though not to us.” The following poem was the result of one of Longfellow’s reflections, while standing on this bridge at midnight. I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o’er the city, Behind the dark church tower; And like the waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thought came o’er me, That filled my eyes with tears. 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, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me, Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. 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 Of care-encumbered men, Each having his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old, subdued and slow! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes; The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here. * * * * * RESIGNATION. THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe’r defended, But has one vacant chair! The air is full of farewells to the dying And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted! Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.