Original subtitles

The cannon thundered in the south.

And with the sound, the carols drowned.

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, goodwill

to men.

Papa!

Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the--

Papa!

Papa, they're singing the last song!

Let's ring the bell.

Yeah.

God and sinners--

I'll take this side.

Christ be with you.

Henry Longfellow's in attendance.

Yes, I know.

Wake up!

Christ be with you.

And with you.

Christ be with you, Mr. Longfellow.

And with you.

Is born in Bethlehem.

Hark, the herald angels sing.

Christ be with you.

He's always doing that.

Shh.

I know.

He's creepy.

I know!

I saw it.

Christ by highest heaven

adored, Christ the everlasting lord.

Look, it's Mary.

Late in time behold him come,

offspring of the virgin's womb.

The bell!

The bell!

Is it Christmas now, Papa?

Not yet, Annie.

When is it?

Not until we get past the Reverend.

Then it's Christmas.

Hark the herald angels sing, glory

to the newborn king.

Merry Christmas, Cambridge!

Merry Christmas, Cambridge!

Merry Christmas, Boston!

Merry Christmas, Boston!

Happy Holy Day, Mr. Longfellow.

Uh, yes.

Happy Holy Day, Reverend.

Almost missed America's greatest poet

and our most famous congregant.

Perhaps next year, a Christmas message?

I have retired from public speaking.

Oh.

Well, perhaps then a Christmas poem, hmm?

Perhaps a poem.

Say Merry Christmas, Annie.

But you said it's not Christmas until we get past the Reverend.

Look how magical the snow is, Annie.

Henry and I wish you and your wife

a blessed Christmas, Reverend.

Always lovely to see your entire family

at Christmas service, Fanny.

Oh, my heavens.

Well, it was Charles Dickens who said,

"it's good to be children sometimes, and never better

than at Christmas when its mighty founder was

a child himself."

Perhaps Henry has been corresponding a little too much

with Mr. Dickens.

Yes, perhaps.

A Merry Christmas to everybody, and a happy new year to all the

world!

Henry!

Let it be known, I warned my sister about marrying a poet.

God bless us, everyone.

He hit him right in the face!

Come on.

Let's go home.

Between the dark and the daylight,

when the night is beginning to lower,

comes a pause in the day's occupations

that is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me the patter of little feet.

Edith, go that way.

Oh.

The sound of a door that is opened

and voices, soft and sweet.

From my study, I see in the lamplight

descending the broad hall stair, grave Alice

and laughing Allegra and Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence.

Yet I know by their merry eyes they

are plotting and planning together

to take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway.

A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded they enter my castle wall.

They climb up into my turret, o'er the arms

and back of my chair.

If I try to escape, they surround me.

Oh, they seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,

their arms about entwined!

Oh, till I think I'm the Bishop of Bingen in his Mouse-Tower

on the Rhine!

Ha, ha!

Oh.

Do you think, oh blue-eyed banditti,

because you have scaled the wall, oh, such an old mustache

as I am is not a match for you all?

Oh!

No!

I have you fast in my fortress, oh,

and will not let you depart--

Ha, ha!

But put you down into the dungeon

in the round tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever.

Yes, forever and a day, till the walls

shall crumble to ruin and moulder in dust away.

Again, Papa, again!

Little Annie Allegra says, "again, Papa, again!"

Mama says, no, no, no.

Not again.

Tomorrow, my angels.

Listen!

Christmas bells?

And tomorrow has become today.

Is it Christmas now, Papa?

Hmm, I don't hear anything.

Papa!

Oh!

Well, the clock strikes midnight,

but it's not Christmas until we hear the bells.

I do hear them.

Papa, listen.

Oh, perhaps you're hearing the whistling wind?

No.

Or a foghorn of a distant ship?

Papa, you're teasing us.

Would it help if I open the window?

No!

Guards, seize the maidens!

Yes, to know for sure that it is Christmas--

Do not.

I must.

Guards, stop them!

Not so fast, little bandittis!

Take them to the dungeon!

What are you thinking?

Alice, I was at the piano first!

Move over!

Finally, I have you all to myself.

Let me go, Mr. Longfellow.

Oh, it took me seven long years to convince you

that you love me.

I am never letting you go.

Well, at least put on your coat.

You know, a famous poet once said, "love withstands

the cold better than a cloak."

Well, poets have heart but lack brains.

Oh, I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well that

has a brain and a heart.

And I can say that in eight different languages.

I saw that.

You're laughing.

Stop.

They take me to sacred places.

They are ferocious, untamed creatures who steal our food

and steal my wife.

Not the children.

The bells on Christmas Day.

The hopeful voices of the church ringing out peace on Earth.

Imagine how hopeful it would be if they were

the only voices of the church.

Oh, how delightful to finally see you

at service, Mr. Longfellow!

Oh!

Now, about that Christmas poem you promised.

Henry, be kind!

Christmas is already a poem, Fanny.

It doesn't need my help.

The Reverend is a good man who brings goodwill to men.

Yes, I know.

However, he's--

And he knows that within his congregation

there is a gifted poet, one who could put words

to what we are all feeling during these trying times.

Everyone says a war is certain.

Is it?

Yes.

Charley wants to enlist.

He is not of age.

There are boys as young as 15 enlisting.

You know that.

Yes, but with their father's consent.

I cannot bear the thought of losing another child.

Henry, you promise me you will not let this war take our sons.

Fanny, you have my promise.

And with Charley, a boy's will is the wind's will,

and the thoughts of youth--

I know.

Are long, long thoughts.

My poet.

My poetry.

Listen.

There, you see?

They're thieves.

Stealing you away from me once again.

Get back here!

Fall on your knees.

Oh, hear the angel voices.

Oh, night divine!

Oh, night when Christ was born.

Oh, night divine!

Oh, night, Oh, night divine.

How can you be fully devoted to writing if you are more fully

devoted to reading your mail?

Well, how am I to know the impact of my writing

if I never read the letters of my many admirers?

You were never good at being vain.

Oh.

Well, I suppose I could read your diary instead.

You will not.

No?

To remain humble, I should stay home tonight,

instead of being the center of some hollow spectacle.

Let me see your hands.

Henry.

Henry!

This dinner is a ploy.

They are trying to flatter me into writing some national song

or something of the like.

You should do it.

We need poets to change the world, Henry.

Not politicians.

Such arenas I never enter.

Who, then?

Who will write the anthems for our children

and their children?

I'm not a songwriter.

Besides, you are far more talented than I.

There should be banquets in your honor, not mine.

Sit.

Frances Appleton Longfellow, artist extraordinaire!

I like my place in this world, tying your ties,

cleaning your hands, fixing your poems.

What?

You're beautiful.

I'm hungry, and I want you to take me to a lovely banquet.

Ye are better than all the ballads

that ever were sung or said, for ye are living poems,

and all the rest are dead.

Ye are sweet, but we are late, so don't forget your coat.

Our carriage awaits, my bride!

Your coat!

Right.

Should we ask him why--

No, never!

He's insufferable.

Senator, you have charmed all the hearts of the North.

Must you now charm my own wife?

Your wife?

And all this time I thought I was

speaking with the heroine of a great romance.

Hyperion, have you read it?

Oh, indeed she is that heroine.

And indeed she has since forgiven me

for that bold and blind attempt for her heart.

Oh, have I?

Perhaps I should give it a try.

Yes, I will write a fictional account of a factual maiden.

I would not recommend it.

And we will marry.

Thank you for inspiring me, Mr. Longfellow.

Ms. Ashburton.

Oh, stop.

Ladies and gentlemen of highest esteem,

thank you for adorning our home with your lovely presence.

Now as you return to your place at the table,

would you please join me in warmly

acknowledging those responsible for tonight's feast?

Tonight we also acknowledge a few of Massachusetts finest.

Chief among them a man who just five years ago lay near death

on the chamber floor of the US Senate.

Beaten with the cane of a slave-holding congressman,

Mr. Sumner fought for his life that day

but also for the lives of helpless slaves

across this land who are beaten daily by immoral men.

Ladies and gentlemen, Senator Charles Sumner.

Now we turn our attention to this evening's central figure.

Already enshrined as America's poet

and referred to as America's most famous person, his works,

well, have helped shape the national character

and its legacy.

The New York Evening Post casts Longfellow

as the nation's prophet.

Like Thomas Paine of the Revolution,

his recent poem, "Paul Revere's Ride"

is finding its way into the ranks

and the rucksacks of a gathering army of patriots.

Here, here!

Here, here!

It was reported that over 10,000 copies of his works

sold in London in a single day, a day that Charles Dickens

called more frightening than all the ghosts of Christmas

past, present and future combined.

So who is this man?

He is the song of Hiawatha.

He is the belfry of Bruges.

He is New England's very own Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Lift your eyes, Henry.

Lifting.

Smile, nod.

Smiling, nodding.

Good boy.

Cheer and calm the wildest woe and stay the bitterest tear.

But even Henry Longfellow cannot stay those bitter tears when it

comes to the sin of slavery in our land.

Longfellow's poems on slavery have helped

ignite a national outcry.

I have chosen one of these poems to be

read by a man who is all too well aware of the dehumanizing

consequence of being man's property.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Josiah Wilson.

A poem on slavery by Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The pages of thy book, I read.

And as I closed each one, my heart, responding,

ever said, well done.

Well done!

Thy words are great and bold.

At times to me they seem like Luther's in the days of old,

half-battles for the free.

Go on.

Until this land revokes the old and chartered lie,

the feudal curse whose whips and yokes insult humanity.

A voice is ever at thy side, speaking in tones of might

like the prophetic voice that cried

to John in Patmos, "Write!"

Write!

And tell out this bloody tale.

Record this dire eclipse, this day

of wrath, this endless wail, this dread apocalypse!

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

For the union!

For the union!

You are a good man, Henry.

Charles, you promised your brother and sisters you would

help them fly the K-I-T-E this morning at the P-A-R-K.

Well, I can't find the kite!

I want to fly a kite!

Did they already take it to the park?

I want to go to the park!

I know.

Aha!

Found it.

I want it, Charley!

I want it!

Thank you so much, Charles.

Can I go, Mother?

Sure.

But first, let's recite one of Papa's poems.

Yeah, the little girl poem.

Yes.

I'll start.

There was a little girl--

Me.

--Who had a little curl--

Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good--

She was very good indeed.

But when she was bad--

She was horrid!

Charles Appleton Longfellow!

What?

That's the poem.

Oh!

That's how father wrote it.

Ask him.

Oh, my goodness.

Papa!

Papa!

I changed the ending for her.

Papa.

Oh!

Oh, goodness me.

Charley said you called me horrid in your little girl

poem.

What?

No, no, no.

The little girl with curls is about a different little girl.

But I thought it was my poem.

Oh, it is your poem.

Just not that part.

Charley!

Come along, little one.

To the park!

The park!

Charley's taking me to the park!

Oh.

Did I grow, Mama?

Well, let's see.

I believe you did.

And we just measured you yesterday!

Now go enjoy the park.

I love you!

Bye, Mama!

Ah, fresh stack of papers.

We should have bought a paper mill.

Perhaps "horrid" is a bit strong.

That's why I changed it.

You changed my poem?

What could possibly rhyme better than "horrid"?

Changed my poem.

I'm Henry Longfellow.

Hm.

I need you to stop at the post office.

My father loves how Annie's hair curls in the summertime.

I'm placing it on your desk, under the watchful eye

of Johanne.

No, no!

No!

Henry!

Henry, help!

No!

No!

No!

No!

Henry!

Oh!

Henry!

Fanny!

No!

Help!

Abide with me.

Fast falls the eventide.

The darkness deepens.

Lord with me abide.

When other helpers--

Would you please rise for the last verse?

Would you take me to see Henry?

Have no weight and tears, no bitterness.

Where is death's sting?

Where, grave, thy victory?

Christ be with you, Henry.

The service has concluded.

Everyone sends their deepest condolences.

Is there anything we can say on your behalf?

I understand.

It's the 13th day of July.

It is.

18 years ago today, she became my bride.

She wore orange blossoms in her hair.

Thomas?

Yes, Henry?

She would want orange blossoms in her hair.

I will see to it.

Thank you for coming, Senator.

Christmas Day, 1862.

Yesterday, as I was passing down the village street--

--I saw in a shop window, a beautiful orange tree having

upon it six oranges and a hundred buds and blossoms.

It is now flourishing in my own window

and filling the room with fragrance.

But the fragrance opens graves within me.

How inexpressibly sad are all holidays.

A Merry Christmas, say the children.

But that is no more for me.

Measure me, Ernest.

Measure me!

You probably shrunk.

Did not.

Fine.

Whoa.

What?

Why did you say whoa?

You did shrink.

I did not!

Ha ha!

Anne shrunk!

Alice, stop!

Ernest, measure me for real!

Measure yourself!

Is that the book about Mama?

Yes.

Here.

Did I growed smaller?

No, Annie, you've grown.

In fact, you've grown so much.

Are you standing on your tippy-toes?

No!

Are you sure?

Papa, stop.

Look at how you've grown.

I'm growing!

Here.

It's yours.

I have another somewhere.

I didn't shrink!

I didn't shrink!

If God gave me the voice of a poet,

then why did he take my poetry from me?

I will never write again.

As the dead lie silent, my voice lies silent.

Let the war within me rage!

Fire!

Come to the rescue to save our Union!

Calling all able-bodied men.

It is time to serve your country!

Here they come.

Here who comes?

54th Massachusetts.

Go Massachusetts!

Look, there's Mary's brother.

Douglas!

Douglas!

I'm proud of you, son!

How old is he?

15.

Hi, Charley.

Hello, Mary.

Fine parade.

Yes, it is.

You'd make a brave soldier.

You think so?

But I'd rather you stay here in Cambridge with me.

So it's got to be one or the other?

What?

You just said it.

Said what?

I can't stay in Cambridge and be brave.

Charley, that's not what I meant.

I'm sorry, Mary.

Sir!

Here!

Charley?

Charley!

Where's Charley going?

What's happening?

Where's Charley?

All right, go ahead.

Next up.

Sign your name here, and sign your name there.

You Longfellow's boy?

I am.

Suddenly a man?

Next up.

A boy's will is the wind's will.

And for our family.

It's in Christ's name we pray.

Amen.

Amen.

Amen.

Amen.

Did you watch the parade today, Pa?

No, I did not watch the parade today.

I watched you watching the parade.

Pa, I'm the only man on Brattle Street that hasn't enlisted.

Man?

I'm almost 18.

You've written poems that rage against slavery.

You've inspired the Union with "Paul Revere's Ride."

And there are alternative ways you can serve as well.

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

the people will waken and listen to hear the hurrying hoof

beats of that steed and the midnight message

of Paul Revere!

I intend for my pen to raise unity, not swords.

It has raised an army of swords!

Please, sit down, Charles.

I will not sit.

I will stand, and I will fight!

We are fighting!

Fighting every day just to survive!

I need--

Oh, you need?

You need?

What about us?

You never leave the house, except to get more ether!

It's for the pain.

We cook the food, we clean the house.

Your brother and sisters look to you for--

For what?

To replace their absent father and their dead mother?

For hope, Charles!

Hope.

Hope in what?

Is Charley going to die too?

No.

No, Charley is not going to die.

I will not let it happen again.

And again.

And again!

I know what you promised Mother, but she's dead now.

Let that promise die too.

This is not God's will for you.

God's will?

You still believe in that?

What do you think he was doing while she burned alive?

Huh?

Was he sleeping?

Into each-- Into each life, some rain must fall.

This is not a poem!

I am not a poem!

This war is not a poem!

I know!

You write about the hopes of youth!

Well, my youth was stolen from me.

And hope?

I will not put it in a God who is sleeping

or a God who is dead.

There, I said it for both of us.

You don't mean that, son!

Charles, don't go.

Charley, please!

Charley!

Senator Sumner, Charles has run off to war without my consent.

Perhaps you can make arrangements to protect him.

Please, I beseech you, do what you must.

Your eternally grateful friend--

Henry.

Adjutant Curtis--

Sir!

Within your ranks is a private

by the name of Mr. Charles Appleton Longfellow.

Promote him to a rank that would serve the officers

and prevent him from entering the fray of battle.

Senator Charles Sumner.

Find Charles Longfellow and have him begin reporting directly

to me immediately.

Sir.

You too good to eat hardtack like the rest of us?

Oh, is that why you officers keep your shiny teeth?

Mm-hmm.

Shiny teeth, shiny boots, shiny promotion.

Shut your mouth, Richard.

Look, how do you get to second Lieutenant anyhow?

You ain't even fired a rifle.

Enough.

What are you going to do?

Throw a silver spoon at him?

I said enough!

Fine!

Just get back to my reading then.

What are you doing with that magazine, Richard?

Everybody knows you can't read.

I can too!

Two if by land, one if by sea.

That ain't even on the page.

Cause I'm a fast reader!

Would you believe it if I told you

he's got more teeth than brains?

Yes, I would.

Brave, though.

Name's Elliot.

Elliot Gleason.

Charley.

Just Charley?

Just Charley.

I heard your father's some sort of famous writer or something.

He's a poet.

Is there a difference?

He says one rambles, and the other rhymes.

That's good.

Could you tell us one?

Hm?

One of your old man's poems.

No.

Ah, come on.

It's either listening to you recite poetry

or listening to ugly over there gnawing on tack.

And he climbded to the toe--

"toe-er."

Tow-- Toe--

Tower.

--Tower of the old North ch--

Church.

Church!

Ha, church.

Look, Charley, these boys are going

to spend the rest of their lives trying to forget

what happened out there today.

Give them something to take their minds--

My mind-- Off it for a while.

All right.

Listen up.

This here is Charley.

Just Charley.

He's got something to share.

His wages?

No, not his wages.

His old man's a writer.

A poet.

Poet.

His old man's a poet.

That explains it.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see the forms I see nor

hear the sounds I hear.

He but perceives what is, while unto me all that has been

is visible and clear.

There are things of which I may not speak.

There are dreams that cannot die.

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak

and bring a pallor into the cheek and a mist

before the eye.

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair.

And with joy that is almost pain,

my heart goes back to wander there.

And among the dreams of the days that were,

I find my lost youth again.

And the strange and beautiful song, the groves

are repeating it still.

A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth

are long, long thoughts.

Your Pa wrote that?

And a few more.

General.

As you were.

Look not mournfully into the past.

It comes not back again.

Wisely improve the present.

It is thine.

Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear

and with a manly heart.

You're not just Charley.

Who are you?

Longfellow.

Yes, sir?

I'm assembling the officers for a debrief.

Yes, sir.

Did he just say Longfellow?

Oh, and it's one if by land, two if by sea.

Well done.

You just offended the son of America's greatest poet.

You think his old man'd sign it for me?

Could you read it if he did?

Get out!

Get out of here!

Get out of here.

My poet.

You promise me you will not let this war take our sons.

Forward, march!

Company, halt!

Fire!

Hudson!

Yes, sir.

Take my horse.

They'll shoot you if you go in there.

We have every reason--

--An entire flank out on the left side for this.

Sir, it's him again.

Excuse me, sir, for the interruption.

Why are you not guarding the supply wagon?

Well, sir, that's-- That's why I'm here.

I thought I'd be of better service at the front, fighting.

Then who would be guarding the supply wagon?

Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.

Charley, don't do this.

Sir?

Charley.

Sir, why am I continually miles away from every engagement?

Isn't that the best place to be?

No.

No, sir, it's not.

Your field glasses, sir.

Sir, does this have anything to do with who my father is?

Ask the politicians.

So it's true?

Truth.

Is that what you're looking for?

See those wagons over there?

Yes, sir.

They're empty.

You know why they're empty?

No, sir.

Because I just ordered my officers

to march 200 men into a slaughterhouse!

By noon, those wagons will be stacked

with bloody heaps of men!

My men.

Officers like you.

So you tell me which officer you want to be--

Me?

A dead one?

Or one who guards the supply wagon?

Looks like your father made that decision for you.

Dear Charles, I hope this letter finds

you well and in good health.

Summer has arrived, yet still no word from you.

Fearing my letters are being lost,

I plan for them to be hand-delivered

by your adjutant.

I hope this arrangement does not upset you.

The flowers are in full bloom.

Nature's missive that your birthday draws near.

Where have the years gone?

My son, suddenly a man.

Your uncle Thomas sends his regards.

He has been a tremendous support to us, constantly

coaxing me to get out of the house.

A deeper brotherhood has formed, and I

am reminded that he is grieving the loss of a sister

as I grieve the loss of a wife.

Last autumn, he even persuaded Ernest and I to a duck hunt.

You might be surprised that I invited

the Reverend to join us.

Your mother was right about the Reverend.

He is a good man who brings goodwill to men.

Here they come!

The day proved that he is a better shepherd of people

than he is a hunter of ducks.

There are two barrels to this firearm.

I'll take that now, Reverend.

Your brother and sisters miss you, Charley.

I miss you, son.

There are many things I miss.

How they long for a knock at the door and for it to be you.

How I dread a knock at the door with news of you.

Like all fathers of fighting sons,

the knock is an awful and beautiful obsession.

But I will heed the advice of a once-famous poet who

wrote, "Let us then be up and doing, with a heart

for any fate, still achieving, still pursuing.

Learn to labor and to wait."

I'm proud of you, son.

Please stay safe.

Love, Father.

Lift your eyes.

Mr. Longfellow, lift your eyes, please.

Thank you.

December 25, 1841.

Christmas morning.

Today for the first time I have knelt before--

--The altar and received communion.

I have many times before shrunk back

as too impure to handle those Holy things.

But today, this holiest Sabbath of the year, this birthday

of the world, for Christ was born

to bestow true life on all, I felt

no dread, no superstitious terror,

but overwhelming tenderness and joy.

When the clergyman offered me bread with these words,

"eat this in remembrance of Christ," profound awe followed,

and I seemed already to myself a new creature.

The wine completed this belief in my innermost soul, warming,

reviving, recreating its existence.

And happiness too deep for speech or thought

succeeded, a blessed, blessed peace, the Father's love

encircling me like an atmosphere,

pressing evenly on my whole being like light.

I chronicle this event because it is one of the few

which makes life memorable and death happy.

How long are you going to stare at that church?

Until we freeze?

Charley.

My mother always loved hearing church bells.

She called them hopeful voices of the church.

It looks like the church lost its voice.

Yeah.

Longfellow!

But the adjutant has not.

Here comes your guardian angel.

Gleason, report to your men.

Looking high and low for you, Lieutenant.

Mail came.

Another letter from your father.

You know, your father's words have comforted so many.

You'd think they could do the same for his own son.

Yeah, you'd think.

Week after week he writes you, but you never write him back.

I have nothing to say.

Nothing to say?

Do you know how many young men I've seen

take their last breath?

And do you know what every single one of them

says before they do?

Tell my mother and father I love them.

Read his letters, Charley.

Write him back.

Quit running off, would you?

I have orders to bring you back alive,

and I never disobey an order.

Go, Charley!

Go!

Go!

Two rebels ran through the camp!

Get them, boys!

Turn back!

Turn back!

Sir, two rebels, likely part of a larger force,

behind that tree line.

Two?

And you turned back?

Oh, you should be so proud!

What are you doing?

We drew them out.

Give me your rifle.

I want to secure the church.

Sir, those rebs wanted us out in that open field for a reason!

If General Meade won't end this, then I will.

I got them on the run.

I'm not going to waste my time dragging

my wounded through those woods.

They are drawing us out!

Send a scout.

No.

I'll go, sir.

I'll lead a small unit along those trees--

You will stay here.

Lieutenant Longfellow will go.

I'm going with him.

Me too, sir.

One man goes!

That's an order!

Charley!

Turn back!

Turn back!

Who is it, Ernest?

A message from the Army of the Potomac

for Mr. Henry Longfellow.

I-- I'm Henry Longfellow.

He's been wounded.

So severely wounded, Ernest.

Near death.

He could be paralyzed.

He's on train 475 headed to Washington.

I'll call for Uncle Thomas to watch the girls.

We'll leave tonight.

What happened to Charley?

He got shot.

What if God takes him too?

Father, he's alive.

I'll pack our things.

We're going to find him.

Is Charley going to be OK, Father?

Charley's going to be fine, girls.

Uncle Thomas will be staying with you while we're gone.

Father, we must pack!

We're going to find him.

Check the cars, please.

All aboard!

Check it.

Check here.

Are you Professor Longfellow?

Yes.

I am Dr. Babayev of Riga.

Doctor.

Oh, give me your hand.

I am surgeon in US Army, director of field ambulance.

My son, is he alive?

Your son?

Charles Longfellow.

He's a second Lieutenant.

I don't know a Charles.

There were three men I wanted to meet--

Louis Agassiz, Emerson, and Henry Longfellow.

I am desperate to find my son.

I too am a writer and have translated

your "Hiawatha" into Russian.

I have it here!

Wait.

Your "Hiawatha" meets the hand that authored it.

Would you please place your autograph in it for me?

No.

Charley.

Charley.

Will he live?

I promised his mother.

Father.

Yes.

Father.

I'm sorry.

No, no.

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry, son.

I want to go home.

I'm taking you home, my son.

I'm taking you home.

I'm going to take you home.

Oh.

Are you OK, son?

Never better.

Oh.

Well, I don't want you getting too comfortable.

I would like my bed back someday.

The prodigal son has returned.

What's mine is yours.

Hmm, the holly is nice.

Hmm?

Oh, your sisters.

I don't know which delighted them more--

Searching for their gifts or sneaking past you as you slept.

I see you've been teaching them penmanship.

Oh, no.

The holly is from your sisters.

The note, the note is from Mary.

Have you been writing much?

No, I haven't.

When the times have such a gunpowder flavor,

all literature loses its taste.

I haven't stepped foot behind my writing desk

since your mother died.

The bell has fallen from its steeple.

What's that?

I was so close to that church when I got shot.

You don't have to talk about this, son.

One minute I was on my horse, and the next,

I was on the ground, unable to move, except to open

and close my eyes, and I preferred to keep them closed.

Charley!

And the next time I opened them, I was inside the church.

Go up front.

Right here.

Right here.

Sh.

It's OK, Charley.

Take your coat off.

Put it on him.

Yes, sir.

Here.

You're going to be all right, Charley.

You're going to be all right.

Elliot!

Elliot, we got him!

You got him?

You're going to be OK.

Sh.

It's OK, Charley.

It's OK.

There must have been a million bullet holes.

The wood was splintered everywhere,

metal, twisted and disfigured.

They laid me out on a pew.

And above me was sky where the steeple once stood.

And beside me was the bell.

I just stared at it, lying there, mocking me,

this voice of the church, as mother would say, now

just a bronze corpse on the floor of some blown-out church.

I got cold, Pa.

I got so cold.

I was scared that I was right.

Right about what, son?

What I said the night I left, about God,

about God being dead.

It got so dark.

I could just feel death washing over me,

so I just closed my eyes and waited for it to come.

And then I heard it.

The bell.

And when I opened my eyes, it was shining so bright.

And that's when I saw it.

Saw what, son?

What I had lost--

Hope.

And even though that bell was lying in a pile of rubble,

it rang more loud and deep than if it had been hoisted

atop the highest steeple.

Pa, you are that bell, and you are not done ringing.

I need to go.

It's Christmas Eve, and there's much to do.

Pa.

Yes?

Write.

Rest.

I chronicle this event because it is one of the few

that makes life memorable and death happy.

Christmas 1841, she became the bride of Christ

and then became yours.

Was that the only reason you came, Henry?

I just-- I just wanted you to know of Fanny's deep faith

and devotion.

Everyone who knew Fanny knew of her deep faith and devotion.

What are you carrying, Henry?

Whatever it is, you can leave it here.

I was married once before.

Her name was Mary Potter.

We were childhood friends.

We were married in the summer of 1831.

I never knew.

No, it was a thousand lifetimes ago.

What happened?

We were young.

I was ambitious.

Mary wanted a home.

I wanted a name.

I was offered a professorship of modern languages

from Harvard, with the stipulation that I spend

a year of study in Europe.

Mary was six months pregnant when my ambition took her

across the ocean.

She miscarried somewhere in Holland.

The child had a brief existence, born only to be buried.

Mary died a few days later.

I never blamed God for their deaths.

I am to blame.

And even when Fanny and I lost our daughter to illness,

Fanny's faith kept me strong.

But with Fanny's death--

What is a man to believe?

When Fanny was alive, my faith was alive.

With Fanny dead, my faith is--

Thank you for listening, Reverend.

I've taken enough of your time.

Henry, Fanny passed from this Earth, yes,

but she still speaks from those pages.

And so does He from these.

They are both very much alive.

Is it Christmas now, Papa?

Not until we hear the bells.

Sleep well, my angel.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day.

OK.

Of peace on Earth, goodwill to men.

And the belfries.

Ringing, singing.

Ringing, singing.

A voice, a chime, a chant sublime.

But there is--

There is no peace.

I intend for my pen to raise unity, not swords.

Well, it has raised an army of swords!

Henry!

Why did you take my poetry from me?

Rage.

I will never write again.

Am I writing fiction?

There is no peace on Earth.

And in despair, I bowed my head.

There is-- There is no peace on Earth, I said.

For hate is strong and mocks the song--

Of peace on Earth, goodwill to men.

My poetry lives.

God lives!

My poetry lives.

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, goodwill to men.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day,

their old familiar carols play.

And wild and sweet the words repeat of peace on Earth,

goodwill to men.

And thought how as the day had come,

the belfries of all Christendom had

rolled along the unbroken song of peace on Earth, goodwill

to men.

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep--

Papa, lift your eyes.

Nor does he sleep.

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail with peace on Earth,

peace on Earth, peace on Earth!