Here Henry Longfellow spent his childhood and youth. Much of that strong
aversion to war which pervades the poet's verses may undoubtedly be
charged to early association with his uncle's death.

The imaginative side of his temperament has commonly been attributed to
his mother, who was fond of poetry and music, and a lover of nature in
all its aspects; one who would sit by a window during a thunderstorm, as
her youngest son has testified, "enjoying the excitement of its
splendors." She loved the retirement of a country life, and found in it,
in her own language, "a wonderful effect in tranquillizing the spirit
and calming every unpleasant emotion." She played the spinet until her
daughter's piano replaced it, and apparently read Cowper, Hannah More,
and Ossian with her children. She sent them early to school, after the
fashion of those days; this experience evidently beginning for Henry
Longfellow at three years of age, when he went with a brother of five to
a private school where he learned his letters. After several
experiments, he was transferred, at the tolerably early age of six, to
the Portland Academy. At this age, his teacher, Mr. Carter, wrote of
him, "Master Henry Longfellow is one of the best boys we have in school.
He spells and reads very well. He also can add and multiply numbers. His
conduct last quarter was very correct and amiable." He began early to
rhyme, and the first poem of his composing which is known to be
preserved in manuscript is entitled, "Venice, an Italian Song," and was
dated Portland Academy, March 17, 1820, he being then barely thirteen.
There appeared a little later, in the poets' corner of the Portland
"Gazette," the following verses, which show curiously, at the very
outset, that vibration between foreign themes and home themes which
always marks his verse:--

THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND

Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast
That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,
As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,
Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.

The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell
Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;
The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er,
And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more.

The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
Nor points out the sp