DOCTOR WARD was born at Newark, in New Jersey, on the eighth of June, 1807. His father, General THOMAS WARD, is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most respectable citizens of that town; and has held various offices of public trust in his native state, and represented his district in the national Congress.

Doctor WARD received his classical education at the academies in Bloomfield and Newark, and the college at Princeton. He chose the profession of physic, and, after the usual preparation, obtained his degree of Doctor of Medicine in the spring of 1829, at the Rutgers Medical College, in New York. In the autumn of the same year he went to Paris, to avail himself of the facilities afforded in that capital for the prosecution of every branch of medical inquiry; and, after two years' absence, during which he accomplished the usual tour through Italy, Switzerland, Holland, and Great Britain, he returned to New York, and commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the course

of two or three years, however, he gradually withdrew from business, his circumstances permitting him to exchange devotion to his profession for the more congenial pursuits of literature and general knowledge. He is married, and still resides in New York; spending his summers, however, in his native city, and among the more romantic and beautiful scenes of New Jersey. His first literary efforts were brief satirical pieces, in verse and prose, published in a country gazette, in 1825 and 1826. It was not until after his return from Europe, when he adopted the signature of "FLACCUS," and began to write for the "New York American," that he attracted much attention. His principal work, "Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that River," appeared in 1841. It contains some fine descriptive passages, and its versification is generally correct and musical. The Monomania of Money-getting," a satire, and many of his minor pieces, are more distinguished for vigour and sprightliness, than for mere poetical qualities.

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MUSINGS ON RIVERS.

BEAUTIFUL rivers! that adown the vale With graceful passage journey to the deep, Let me along your grassy marge recline At ease, and musing, meditate the strange Bright history of your life; yes, from your birth, Has beauty's shadow chased your every step; The blue sea was your mother, and the sun Your glorious sire: clouds your voluptuous cradle, Roof'd with o'erarching rainbows; and your fall To earth was cheer'd with shout of happy birds, With brighten'd faces of reviving flowers And meadows, while the sympathising west Took holiday, and donn'd her richest robes. From deep, mysterious wanderings your springs Break bubbling into beauty; where they lie In infant helplessness a while, but soon Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting, Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks; Which, with the rich increase resistless grown, Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood Rings with the boisterous glee; whileo'er their heads, Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport, The frolic children of the wanton sun.

Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age, Though calm, unlovely; still, where'er ye move, Your train is beauty; trees stand grouping by To mark your graceful progress: giddy flowers, And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge To greet their faces in your flattering glass; The thirsty herd are following at your side; And water-birds, in clustering fleets, convoy

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Your sea-bound tides; and jaded man, released
From worldly thraldom, here his dwelling plants,
Here pauses in your pleasant neighbourhood,
Sure of repose along your tranquil shores.
And when your end approaches, and ye blend
With the eternal ocean, ye shall fade
As placidly as when an infant dies;
And the death-angel shall your powers withdraw
Gently as twilight takes the parting day,
And, with a soft and gradual decline
That cheats the senses, lets it down to night.
Bountiful rivers! not upon the earth

Is record traced of Gon's exuberant grace
So deeply graven as the channels worn
By ever-flowing streams: arteries of earth,
That, widely branching, circulate its blood:
Whose ever-throbbing pulses are the tides.
The whole vast enginery of Nature, all
The roused and labouring elements combine
In their production; for the mighty end
Is growth, is life to every living thing.
The sun himself is charter'd for the work:
His arm uplifts the main, and at his smile
The fluttering vapours take their flight for heaven,
Shaking the briny sea-dregs from their wings;
Here, wrought by unseen fingers, soon is wove
The cloudy tissue, till a mighty fleet,
Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores,
Floats waiting for the breeze; loosed on the sky
Rush the strong tempests, that, with sweeping
Impel the vast flotilla to its port; [breath,

Where, overhanging wide the arid plain,
Drops the rich mercy down; and oft, when summer
Withers the harvest, and the lazy clouds
Drag idly at the bidding of the breeze,

New riders spur them, and enraged they rush, Bestrode by thunders, that, with hideous shouts And crackling thongs of fire, urge them along.

As falls the blessing, how the satiate earth
And all her race shed grateful smiles!--not here
The bounty ceases: when the drenching streams
Have, inly sinking, quench'd the greedy thirst
Of plants, of woods, some kind, invisible hand
In bright, perennial springs draws up again
For needy man and beast; and, as the brooks
Grow strong, apprenticed to the use of man,
The ponderous wheel they turn, the web to weave,
The stubborn metal forge; and, when advanced
To sober age at last, ye seek the sea,

Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs,
Ye seem the unpaid carriers of the sky
Vouchsafed to earth for burden; and your host
Of shining branches, linking land to land,
Seem bands of friendship-silver chains of love,
To bind the world in brotherhood and peace.

Back to the primal chaos fancy sweeps
To trace your dim beginning; when dull earth
Lay sunken low, one level, plashy marsh,
Girdled with mists; while saurian reptiles, strange,
Measureless monsters, through the cloggy plain
Paddled and flounder'd; and the Almighty voice,
Like silver trumpet, from their hidden dens
Summon'd the central and resistless fires,
That with a groan from pole to pole upheave
The mountain-masses, and, with dreadful rent,
Fracture the rocky crust; then Andes rose,
And Alps their granite pyramids shot up,
Barren of soil; but gathering vapours round
Their stony scalps, condensed to drops, from drops
To brooks, from brooks to rivers, which set out
Over that rugged and untravell'd land,
The first exploring pilgrims, to the sea.
Tedious their route, precipitous and vague,
Seeking with humbleness the lowliest paths:
Oft shut in valleys deep, forlorn they turn
And find no vent; till, gather'd into lakes,
Topping the basin's brimming lip, they plunge
Headlong, and hurry to the level main,
Rejoicing: misty ages did they run,
And, with unceasing friction, all the while
Fritter'd to granular atoms the dense rock,
And ground it into soil-then dropp'd (O! sure
From heaven) the precious seed: first mosses, lichens
Seized on the sterile flint, and from their dust
Sprang herbs and flowers: last from the deepening
mould

Uprose to heaven in pride the princely tree,
And earth was fitted for her coming lord.

TO THE MAGNOLIA.

WHEN roaming o'er the marshy field,
Through tangled brake and treacherous slough,
We start, that spot so foul should yield,

Chaste blossom! such a balm as thou.
Such lavish fragrance there we meet,
That all the dismal waste is sweet.

So, in the dreary path of life,

Through clogging toil and thorny care, Love rears his blossom o'er the strife,

Like thine, to cheer the wanderer there: Which pours such incense round the spot, His pains, his cares, are all forgot.

TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN.

THOU bright and star-like spirit!

That, in my visions wild,

I see mid heaven's seraphic host-
O! canst thou be my child?
My grief is quench'd in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies.
Our hopes of thee were lofty,

But have we cause to grieve?
O! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?

The little weeper, tearless,

The sinner, snatch'd from sin; The babe, to more than manhood grown, Ere childhood did begin.

And I, thy earthly teacher,

Would blush thy powers to see; Thou art to me a parent now,

And I, a child to thee!

Thy brain, so uninstructed

While in this lowly state, Now threads the mazy track of spheres, Or reads the book of fate.

Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision,

Now range the realms of space-
Look down upon the rolling stars,
Look up to God's own face.
Thy little hand, so helpless,

That scarce its toys could hold,
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer,
Or twangs a harp of gold.

Thy feeble feet, unsteady,

That totter'd as they trod,
With angels walk the heavenly paths,
Or stand before their God.

Nor is thy tongue less skilful,
Before the throne divine

"T is pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she pray'd for thine.
What bliss is born of sorrow!

"T is never sent in vainThe heavenly surgeon maims to save, He gives no uscless pain.

Our Gon, to call us homeward,

His only Son sent down:

And now, still more to tempt our hearts, Has taken up our own.

MR. LONGFELLOW was born in the city of Portland, in Maine, on the twenty-seventh of February, 1807. When fourteen years of age he entered Bowdoin College, where he was graduated in 1825. He soon after commenced the study of the law, but being appointed Professor of Modern Languages in the college in which he was educated, he in 1826 sailed for Europe to prepare himself for the duties of his office, and passed three years and a half visiting or residing in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland and England. When he returned he entered upon the labours of instruction, and in 1831 was married. The professorship of Modern Languages and Literatures in Harvard College was made vacant, in 1835, by the resignation of Mr. TICKNOR. Mr. LONGFELLOW, being elected his successor, resigned his place in Brunswick, and went a second time to Europe to make himself more thoroughly acquainted with the subjects of his studies in 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 follow. ing spring and summer in the Tyrol and Switzerland. He returned to the United States in October, 1836, and immediately entered upon his duties at Cambridge, where he has resided ever since, except during a visit to Europe for the restoration of his health, in 1843.

The earliest of LONGFELLOW's metrical compositions were written for "The United States Literary Gazette," printed in Boston, while he was an under-graduate; 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. During his subsequent residence in Brunswick he wrote several of the most elegant and judicious papers that have appeared in the «orth American Review;" made a translation of Coplas de Manrique; and published "Outre Mer, or a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea," a collection of agreeable tales and sketches, chiefly written during his first residence abroad. In 1939 appeared his "Hyperion," a romance, which contains passages of remarkable beauty, but has little dramatic or narrative interest.

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The first collection of his poems was published in 1839, under the title of "Voices of the Night." His Ballads and other Poems" followed in 1841; "The Spanish Student, a Play," in 1843; "Poems on Slavery," in 1844, and a complete edition of his poetical writings, excepting some early effusions and the lyrical pieces on slavery, in a large octavo volume, illustrated with engravings by J. CHENEY, from original pictures by HUNGTINGTON, in 1845.

LONGFELLOW's most considerable poem is the "Children of the Lord's Supper," translated from the Swedish of ESAIAS TEGNER, 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, from 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 a singularly exact reproduction of it, in form and 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 among the most difficult tasks to be undertaken, as spondaic words, necessary in the construction of hexameters, and 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 his 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.

Soon after the appearance of the first edition of this work, I suggested to the late Mr. CAREY, the publisher, widely known for his taste in art and literature, that a series of such volumes, embracing surveys and specimens of the poetry and prose of different countries, would be valuable and popular; and among the results of various conversations on the subject, was a request to Mr. LONGFELLOW to prepare 66 The Poets and Poetry of Europe." He acceded, and in the summer of 1845 finished and gave to the press the most comprehensive, complete, and accurate review of the poetry of the continental nations that has ever appeared in any language.

Of all our poets LONGFELLOW best deserves the title of artist. He has studied the principles of verbal melody, and rendered himself master of the mysterious affinities which exist between sound and sense, word and thought, feeling and expression. This tact in the use of language is probably the chief cause of his success. There is an aptitude, a gracefulness, and vivid beauty, in many of his stanzas, which at once impress the memory and win the ear and heart. There is in the tone of his poetry little passion, but much quiet earnestness. It is not so much the power of the instrument, as the skill with which it is managed, that excites our sympathy. His acquaintance with foreign literature has been of great advantage, by rendering him familiar with all the delicate capacities of lan

guage, from the grand symphonic roll of Northern tongue to the "soft, bastard Latin" of the South. His ideas and metaphors are often very striking and poetical; but there is no affluence of imagery, or wonderful glow of emotion, such as take us captive in BYRON OF SHELLEY: the claim of LONGFELLOW consists rather in the wise and tasteful use of his materials than in their richness or originality. He has done much for the Art of Poetry in this country

by his example, and in this respect may claim the praise which all good critics of English Poetry have bestowed on GRAY and COLLINS. The spirit of LONGFELLOW's muse is altogether unexceptionable in a moral point of view. He illustrates the gentler themes of song, and pleads for justice, humanity, and particularly the beautiful, with a poet's deep conviction of their eternal claims upon the instinetive recognition of the man.

NUREMBERG.

Is the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands

Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,

Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng;

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,

That their great imperial city stretch'd its hand through every clime.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band,

Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen CUNIGUNDE's hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old

heroic days

Sat the poet MELCHIOR singing Kaiser MAXIMILIAN's praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art,

Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,

By a former age commission'd as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted SEBALD sleeps enshrined his holy dust,

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;

In the church of sainted LAWRENCE stands a pix of sculpture rare,

Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies;

Dead he is not, but departed,-for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,

That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes,

Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly guild,

Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme,

And the smith his iron measures hammer'd to the anvil's chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom

In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here HANS SACHS, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft,

Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios

sang and laugh'd.

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor,

And a garland in the window, and his face above the door;

Painted by some humble artist, as in ADAM PUSCHMAN's song,

As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care,

Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair.

reverent heart,

Lived and labour'd ALBRECHT DURER, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,

Like an emigrant he wander'd, seeking for the Better Land.

dreamy eye

Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard;

But thy painter, ALBRECHT DURER, and HANS SACHS, thy cobbler-bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,

As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil,

The nobility of labour,-the long pedigree of toil.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,

Like a huge organ, rise the burnish'd arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing, Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,

Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norsemen's And loud, amid the universal clamor,

[song,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrench'd asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,

With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth, bestow'd on camps and

courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals nor forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest,

Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt 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 seemed 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. "I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse!
For this I sought thee.
"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.

"Oft to his frozen lair
Track'd I the grizzly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark

Sang from the meadow. "But when I older grew,

66

Joining a corsair's crew,
O'er the dark sea I flew

With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.

Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long winter out.
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Fill'd to o'erflowing.

"Once as I told in glee

Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning yet tender;