Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Beleaguered City

{{smallcaps|I have}} read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,

Prague's actual haunting

[CONTEXT] Longfellow based this on a Czech legend about spectral armies besieging Prague—a real folk tradition tied to the city's turbulent religious history. The 'marvellous tale' is not invented but drawn from documented folklore.

That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Prague's actual haunting

[CONTEXT] Longfellow based this on a Czech legend about spectral armies besieging Prague—a real folk tradition tied to the city's turbulent religious history. The 'marvellous tale' is not invented but drawn from documented folklore.

Moldau's symbolic work

The river physically separates the living city from the dead army. Notice how it 'flows between'—geography becomes a boundary between states of being, not just a landscape detail.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,

Moldau's symbolic work

The river physically separates the living city from the dead army. Notice how it 'flows between'—geography becomes a boundary between states of being, not just a landscape detail.

There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

Fog as ghost-stuff

Longfellow uses fog as the literal material of ghosts: 'White as a sea-fog.' This isn't metaphor—the spectres are *made of* mist, which explains why they vanish at dawn without fighting. They're weather, not warriors.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,

Fog as ghost-stuff

Longfellow uses fog as the literal material of ghosts: 'White as a sea-fog.' This isn't metaphor—the spectres are *made of* mist, which explains why they vanish at dawn without fighting. They're weather, not warriors.

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

Church bell as weapon

The cathedral bell doesn't ring to warn of danger—it 'Proclaimed the morning prayer.' Prayer and light together dissolve the phantoms. The poem treats faith as literal force, not comfort.

But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,

Church bell as weapon

The cathedral bell doesn't ring to warn of danger—it 'Proclaimed the morning prayer.' Prayer and light together dissolve the phantoms. The poem treats faith as literal force, not comfort.

The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmèd air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

Shift to allegory

Line 25 announces the turn: 'I have read, in the marvellous heart of man.' The literal Prague siege becomes a template for internal psychological warfare. The second half rewrites the first as metaphor.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam

Fear's architecture

'Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam / Portentous through the night'—notice that fears grow larger and more threatening in darkness and imagination. The 'portentous' language inflates them. Daylight and prayer reduce them to size.

Fear's architecture

'Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam / Portentous through the night'—notice that fears grow larger and more threatening in darkness and imagination. The 'portentous' language inflates them. Daylight and prayer reduce them to size.

Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
Source Wikipedia Poetry Foundation

Reading Notes

The Two-Part Structure: Legend as Template

The poem splits cleanly at line 25: first half is narrative (the Prague siege), second half is allegory (the soul's siege). This isn't accident—Longfellow uses the legend as a *proof of concept* for how fear works. The spectres don't actually threaten Prague; they simply *exist* until prayer and morning dissolve them. This becomes the model for internal fears.

The genius is that the second half doesn't repeat the first lazily. Instead, it applies the same logic to psychology: fears 'beleaguer' the soul just as spectres beleaguer a city. Both require the same cure—light (morning star / faith), sound (church bell / prayer), and collective witness. Longfellow suggests that external and internal threats follow identical patterns: they're strongest in darkness, they're made of insubstantial stuff, and they dissolve when confronted with ritual and belief.

Longfellow's Technical Choice: Why Repetition Works

The parallel structure—stanzas 2-5 of part one mirror stanzas 8-11 of part two—could feel mechanical, but Longfellow uses exact repetition strategically. Phrases like 'sorrowful, deep sound' and 'spectral camp' reappear because they're *transferable*. The vocabulary of the Prague legend must work for the soul because the threat is identical.

Notice the vocabulary shift in part two: 'Life's rushing stream' replaces the Moldau; 'Fancy's misty light' replaces the wan moon; 'Vale of Tears' replaces the valley. These aren't random substitutions—they're theological language (Vale of Tears is a medieval Christian term for earthly suffering). Longfellow codes the internal siege in Christian terms while keeping the external siege in folk-tale terms. This suggests that spiritual struggles are more 'real' than legendary ones, or at least more urgent to his 19th-century Protestant audience.