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by Unknown

Our fortunes must be wrought,

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

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THE BRIDGE.

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.

stood on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,