Imagination's Fool

I'm doing an independent study this semester on the poetry of Aleksandr Pushkin, and, resultantly, get to read a lot of poetry. The Russian language, with its declensions and conjugations, and the fact that every word has a specific stress, is so terribly suited to lyric verse that English can't even hope to compare. At least, such has been my experience.

At the same time, I'm a sucker for lyric poetry in almost any language.

And because I love it so much, I want to share some of my favorites with you, my beloved readers. To this end, I hereby institute the hourly/daily/weekly/subject to vary "Poem of the Unit of Time" post, wherein I will share a favorite poem, explain why I like it so much, and open the floor for further praise, criticism, and discussion.

We'll start off the series with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's The Arsenal at Springfield.

The Arsenal at Springfield

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.

I think that war is sometimes necessary. It is always -- or ought always to be -- unpleasant, and entered into as a last resort when other means have failed. But sometimes, in this day and age, it is necessary.

That said...like Longfellow, I can imagine a world wherein it is not -- that is, wherein it neither is necessary nor exists. I can imagine a peaceful world where we listen to the voice of Christ -- and of others who have, over the centuries, cried "Peace!" to the teeming masses.

This poem especially resonates with me this evening, after I spent most of the day reading about the French Revolution. Today I reached the September Massacres, and the beheading of Louis XVI. Today my stomach heaved and my heart went out as I read about the insanity of it -- the fall of law and order, and the rise of the mob who, with the call of "Liberty!" on their lips, murdered thousands and then marched off to war.

The French Revolution was murder. What of war? What of sanctioned killing, nation against nation? It would be a sweet world indeed where "such discordant noises" no longer drowned "Nature's sweet and kindly voices" or jarred "the celestial harmonies".

It would be a sweet world, indeed. And how does Longfellow propose to accomplish it?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:

It seems to me that the half of the power of the world that fills it with terror is less inclined to redeem the human mind, and that "half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts" is held so very tightly by those whose interests lie in arsenals and forts, to the extent that to convince them to shift it to a higher purpose would be...difficult.

But then, our dead H.W.L. does offer us this: he speaks of the "dark future" and "long generations" through which "echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease" -- in short, he allows for a gradual change, a gradual growth away from the infantile necessity of war and toward a more enlightened world where peace is a possiblity.

And that -- that I can buy.

Why else do I love this poem? Two reasons, which I think are pretty sound and solid:

First, Longfellow is a Bowdoin grad.

Second, the third stanza

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

is chiseled onto one of the two marble slabs that flank our monument to the brave sons of Bowdoin who served and died in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. It is settled beneath the sheltering west wing of Hubbard Hall, and along one of my favorite paths from the quad to the library and home. Every time I ride past it, and stop to read the Longfellow engraving, I pause, and I ponder, and I think to myself...

"...gee. I wish I were cool enough to use the word 'reverberations' in a poem!"

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