“I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day…”
So begins a poem, a lament really, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
To us Longfellow is a guy we read in a textbook in high school. I don’t even know if they read him anymore. But Henry Longfellow was a flesh and blood man, a man who suffered tragedy as so many do. But his unique gift allowed him to express in such a memorable way.
What Longfellow composed was a lament. A lament for all that was wrong with the world and Longfellow was well acquainted with that.
It was the Civil War and tragedy and loss were the order of the day. Longfellow would not be immune. Hostilities in the war had just broken out and Longfellow had just lost his wife. She did not die in the war but in an equally tragic and horrible way. Frances, a good mother, was sealing envelopes with locks of her children’s hair as keepsakes. She was sealing the envelopes with wax from a hot candle. Nobody really knows how, but she accidentally set herself on fire. Henry put out the flames but it was too late. She lingered through the night, but perished the next day. Such a loss would be hard on anyone.
Not too long after this, his son, afraid of telling his father in person for fear he would stop him, informed his father by letter that he had joined the Union army. Longfellow was devastated. Within months Henry got word that his beloved son had been very badly wounded at the Battle of New Hope Church.
To Longfellow the world seemed almost bereft of hope. Almost. On Christmas day 1864, he sat down and composed “Christmas Bells.” In it he showed that even in our darkest hour, the light of Christ continues to shine. There is always hope.
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.I 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!
There is always hope.
This poem has been put to music many times and there are some splendid versions of it including the oddly upbeat version by Bing. The version below captures some of the feeling Longfellow felt when he wrote it. Peace on Earth, good will to men!
ht Amy E. Ekblad
December 14, 2011 at 4:05 am
This is one of my favorites- thanks for the back story
December 14, 2011 at 9:40 am
I live in Portland, Maine; Longfellow's birthplace. We often call him "Portland's Favorite Son." In Longfellow Square there is a large statue of a sitting Longfellow and every Christmas someone places presents around the chair and gives Henry a long scarf. It's nice.
I had the pleasure of being a docent at the Longfellow home and later an intern at the Maine Historical Society.
When his beloved Fanny caught fire down in Cambridge Mass, at Craige House where Longfellow they lived, Longfellow wrapped her in a rug to put the flames out. He himself was badly burned about the face trying to save her. You may recall pictures of Longfellow with a big white beard. He grew that beard to cover the many burn scars he suffered.
Another of his somber poems ending with a message of hope is "The Rainy Day."; but it's a philosophical consolation, not the deep message of hope in "Christmas Bells."
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
December 14, 2011 at 12:49 pm
"Peace on earth, good will to men" is a prayer a wish and a hope."Peace on earth to men of good will" is the reality. The Holy Spirit fills the hearts of the faithful…everybody else…well they have the freedom to reject God…even at Christmas.
December 14, 2011 at 2:05 pm
If I may, I would like to share a related poem that I set to music here. (with emphasis added below in bold regarding Longellow's poem)
This Christmas Joy
by Gerald McClain
In swaddling clothes to us arrive,
This Jesus Christ, our hopes revive!
In Marys arms, her little boy:
This tiny babe, death to destroy.
Was not in clouds, come down to reign
But from a girl in labor pain; (Revelation 12: 2)
Not in a throne was he to lay
But in a manger full of hay.
Welcome to Him from us today,
This Christmas joy, in us to stay.
From foreign lands their homage paid:
To Bethlehem, the star did say.
Fall prostrate where did shepherds come;
Laid out their gifts a costly sum.
Then in a dream: from Herods gaze,
Another path to home was made.
A furious king proclaimed forthright
That innocents shall loose their life.
Though in a world with evil known,
This Christmas joy, Love has outshone.
Give glory to the Fathers Son:
Begotten of the Holy One.
Though evry part is from the same,
The Word to us in flesh he came.
A preview of the coming years,
A final act to wipe all tears:
From nursling small to mature man,
Fulfillment of the Godheads plan.
All praise and laud and glorious powr,
This Christmas joy, tis Jesses flowr.
Gerald McClain
© 2005 Musique de McClain
8-19-05
December 14, 2011 at 10:37 pm
Thanks Rob for sharing what you did. This brings honor to Henry.
December 16, 2011 at 2:45 pm
Still can't read this without crying; written 18 years after her death.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "The Cross of Snow"
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.