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
Upon Judea's hills.

He saw on heights and plains
Creatures of every race:

But a mighty thrill ran through his veins
When he met the human face;

And his virgin sight beheld

The ruddy glow of even,

And the thousand shining orbs that fill'd
The azure depths of heaven.

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
To a wild hill, that overlooks a land
Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star
Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand
The streamlet slides with mellow tones away;
The west is crimson with retiring day;
And the north gleams with its own native light.
Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie,

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.

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!
Wrapp'd not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretch'd as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"
Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seem'd to rise,
As when the northern skies

Gleam in December!
And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of wo

From the heart's chamber:
"Far in the northern land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,

Tamed the ger-falcon ;
And, with my skates fast bound,
Skimm'd the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor, whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on."

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,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.

The maiden flies with the Viking, however, and
after long weeks of tempest at sea, they reach the
new continent, where the hero builds
-the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,

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,
Tell you if you are not weary,
Of the mighty Higher-Water;
Higher Water swelling proudly,
Proudly swelling down the valley.
On the white wave he descended,
On O-wa-te-paw the white wave,
With him came the whirling eddies,
Came with him Ker-chunk the big stump,
Came the rolling logs O-wah-sis;
Came the snags the Jag ger-nag.gers;
Came Sca-wot-te-che the drift wood;
Came Ka-rick-e-ty the fence rails;

Came the corn stalks, came the bark wood;
Came a pitching mass of plunder,
Big sticks, little sticks and shavings;
Swimming, driving, butting, pitching,
Rolling, piling, thumping, smashing,
Heaving, tumbling, spinning, crashing,
Hither, thither, this side, that side-
What confusion, what a tumult,
What a roaring, what a surging,
What a mighty rush of waters,
What an army of destruction,
Coming down in wrath and fury,
Coming down the handsome river,
Coming down with Higher-Water,
Filled with raging, mad with fury,
Rushing down to fight the big rats,
To o'erwhelm the skulking wharf-rats."

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;
And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon
Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven,
But the cold light of stars;

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
A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,

The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars:

I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquer'd will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,

And calm, and self-possess'd.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

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,
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if DIANA, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke ENDYMION with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dream'd not of her love.
Like DIAN's kiss, unask'd, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassion'd gaze.

It comes the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity-

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the bows, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.
O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes!
O, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto its own.

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,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul that slumber'd
To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlour-wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved ones, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
Noble longings for the strife,-
By the road-side fell and perish'd,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore,-
Folded their pale hands so meekly,-
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me,

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saintlike,
Looking downward from the skies.
Utter'd not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,

Breathing from her lips of air.
O, though oft depress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

THE BELEAGURED CITY.

I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleagured the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,

The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flow'd between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasp'd the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell

Proclaim'd the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

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.

Encamp'd beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
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.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.

THE sun is bright, the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elms I hear

The blue-bird prophesying Spring.
So blue yon winding river flows,

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,
To some good angel leave the rest,
For Time will teach thee soon the truth-
There are no birds in last year's nest.

300

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

Through woods and mountain-passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing; Pray for this poor soul,
Pray,-pray!

The hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;-
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!

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
Loveth her ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,

And the voice gentle and low

Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!

And now the sweet day is dead;

Cold in his arms it lies,

No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,

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
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie Eleyson!
Christe Eleyson!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

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-
Onward through life he goes:
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted-something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of Life

Our fortunes must be wrought, Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.