And he saw the city's walls, And kings' and prophets' tomb, And mighty arches, and vaulted halls, And the temple's lofty dome. He look'd on the river's flood, And the flash of mountain rills, And the gentle wave of the palms that stood He saw on heights and plains But a mighty thrill ran through his veins And his virgin sight beheld The ruddy glow of even, And the thousand shining orbs that fill'd And woman's voice before Had cheer'd his gloomy night, But to see the angel form she wore Made deeper the delight. And his heart, at daylight's close, For the bright world where he trod, And when the yellow morning rose, Gave speechless thanks to Gop. SONNET. THERE is a magic in the moon's mild ray,What time she softly climbs the evening sky, And sitteth with the silent stars on high,That charms the pang of earth-born grief away. I raise my eye to the blue depths above, And worship Him whose power, pervading space, Holds those bright orbs at peace in his embrace, Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love. Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high, I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, When time with graver lines has mark'd my Sweetly she shines upon my sober'd eye. [brow, O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide, Shine on my eve of life-shine soft, and long abide. SONNET. "Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me far And through green banks the river wanders by, And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright: Bright-but of fading brightness!-soon is past That dream-like glory of the painted wood; And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast, The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. [Born, 1807.] PROFESSOR LONGFELLOW was born in the city of Portland, on the twenty-seventh day of February, 1807. He entered Bowdoin College in his fourteenth year, and took his bachelor's degree at that seminary in 1825. In the following spring he went to Europe, visited France, Spain, Italy, and Germany; studied at Gottingen; and, passing through England on his return, reached home in the summer of 1829. He was soon after appointed Professor of Modern Languages in Bowdoin College, and in 1831 was married. In 1835 he resigned his professorship, and went a second time to Europe, to study the languages and literature of the northern nations. He passed the summer in Denmark and Sweden; the autumn and winter in Germany-losing in that period his wife, who died suddenly at Heidelberg-and the following spring and summer in the Tyrol and Switzerland. He returned to the United States in October, 1836, and immediately afterward entered upon his duties as Professor of the French and Spanish Languages in Harvard College, at Cambridge. The earliest of LONGFELLOW's metrical compositions were written while he was an undergraduate at Brunswick, for "The United States Literary Gazette;" and from that period he has been known as a poet, and his effusions, improving as each year added to his scholarship and taste, have been extensively read and admired. While a professor in the college in which he was educated, he wrote several of the most elegant and judicious papers that have appeared in the "North American Review;" made his translation of Coplas de Manrique; and published "Outre Mer, a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea." In 1839 appeared his "Hyperion," one of the most beautiful prose compositions in our language; in 1840 the first collection of his poems, under the title of "Voices of the Night;" and in the beginning of the present year his "Ballads and Other Poems," embracing among other pieces "The Skeleton in Armour," a ballad in the style of the old Norse poetry, and "The Children of the Lord's Supper," translated from the Swedish of ESAIAS TEGnér, a venerable bishop of the Lutheran church, and the most illustrious poet of northern Europe. The genius of TEGNER had already been made known in this country by a learned and elaborate criticism, illustrated by translated passages of great beauty, of his "Frithiof's Saga," contributed by LONGFELLOW to the "North American Review," soon after he returned from his second visit to Europe. "The Children of the Lord's Supper" is little less celebrated than the author's great epic, and the English version is an exact reproduction of it, in form and in spirit. No translations from the continental languages into the English surpass those of LONGFELLOW, and it is questionable whether some of his versions from the Spanish, German, and Swedish, have been equalled. The rendition of "The Children of the Lord's Supper" was the most difficult task he could have undertaken, as spondaic words, so necessary in the construction of hexameters, and so common in the Greek, Latin, and Swedish, are so rare in the English language. "The Skeleton in Armour" is the longest and most unique of LONGFELLOW's original poems. The Copenhagen antiquaries attribute the erection of a round tower at Newport, in Rhode Island, to the Scandinavians of the twelfth century. A few years ago a skeleton in complete armour was exhumed in the vicinity of the tower. These facts are the groundwork of the story. In the first stanzas the poet addresses the skeleton: "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour dress'd, Comest to daunt me! Why dost thou haunt me?" Gleam in December! From the heart's chamber: Tamed the ger-falcon ; And, proceeding with his "strange, eventful his tory," the spectre Norseman tells how he wooed a maiden, the daughter of a stern old prince, who laughs at his suit And, as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, The maiden flies with the Viking, however, and Stands looking seaward. LONGFELLOW'S works are eminently picturesque, and are distinguished for nicety of epithet, and elaborate, scholarly finish. He has feeling, a rich imagination, and a cultivated taste. He is one of the very small number of American poets who have "written for posterity." The following, besides its excellence as an imitation of the peculiar rythm of Longfellow's wara," is a capital description of a freshet on a river, such as we have ourselves often seen on the Androscoggin and Kennebec. It is from the pen of James W. Ward, of Ohio. "Be not weary and I'll tell you, Came the corn stalks, came the bark wood; Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, act in the living Present! Heart within, and GoD o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; All silently, the little moon There is no light in earth or heaven, And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O no! from that blue tent above And earnest thoughts within me rise, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand Within my breast there is no light, I give the first watch of the night The star of the unconquer'd will, And calm, and self-possess'd. O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars, Had dropt her silver bow On such a tranquil night as this, It comes the beautiful, the free, In silence and alone To seek the elected one. It lifts the bows, whose shadows deep No one is so accursed by fate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds—as if, with unseen wings, A breath from heaven had touch'd its strings; And whispers, in its song, "Where hast thou stay'd so long?" FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of day are number'd, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherish'd Who the cross of suffering bore,- With those deep and tender eyes, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Breathing from her lips of air. If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! THE BELEAGURED CITY. I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale The spectral camp was seen, No other voice nor sound was there, But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaim'd the morning prayer, Down the broad valley fast and far I have read in the marvellous heart of man, Encamp'd beside Life's rushing stream, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Flows the River of Life between. But the rushing of Life's wave. The midnight phantoms feel the spell, Down the broad Vale of Tears afar IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. THE sun is bright, the air is clear, The blue-bird prophesying Spring. It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new-the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eavesThere are no birds in last year's nest. All things rejoice in youth and love, The fulness of their first delight, And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night. Maiden! that read'st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth-it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For, O! it is not always May! Enjoy the spring of Love and Youth, 300 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. Through woods and mountain-passes The hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands, in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crown'd with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised LEAR, A king,-a king! Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! His joy! his last! O, the old man gray To the crimson woods he saith, And the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies, No stain from its breath is spread No mist nor stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, Vex not his ghost! Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest For there shall come a mightier blast, THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His brow is wet with honest sweat; Week in, week out, from morn till night, And children coming home from school Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing- Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Our fortunes must be wrought, Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. |