soar; that the elements of moral growth are to be | They render with their precepts less We know that Mr. Longfellow has reaped, in no scanty measure, that harvest of grateful acknowledgment, which is due to those who have laid the offerings of their genius upon the altar of truth. We know that many fainting spirits have found strength, and many despairing ones, hope in his poetry; that it has awakened new energy in bosoms that sorrow had benumbed, and sent the sunshine of peace into many a benighted heart. We have preferred to speak of the general impression left by Mr. Longfellow's poetry, rather than to take up his pieces one by one, partly because they have all a certain family likeness, and partly because they are so familiar to the lovers of poetry, that they need not to have their peculiar beauties pointed out. We have therefore said nothing of his admirable ballads, "The Skeleton in Armor" and "The Wreck of the Hesperus," so full of strength and beauty, with their vigorous conceptions and vivid power of painting; nothing of the picturesque simplicity and quiet wisdom of "The Village Blacksmith;" nothing of the exquisite delicacy and matchless grace of expression which mark his "Endymion," "It is not always May," etc., for these may be read by him that runs. But it would be doing injustice to his claims not to speak of his peculiar merits as a translator, which he has displayed in some very happy versions of poems, presenting more than common difficulties of construction and expression. His earliest published work was a translation from the Spanish of Manrique's noble poem on the death of his father, which has always appeared to us one of the most felicitous versions in the language. It is sufficiently, though not slavishly literal; the flow of the verse is easy and graceful, and the spirit of the original is most completely preserved. The translation is a fine and finished poem, and a valuable accession to the stores of English literature. He has also translated from the Swedish of Tegner, the author of the well-known poem, "Frithiof's Saga," a religious poem called "The Children of the Lord's Supper," which is very | popular in Sweden. The original is written in hexameters, and the translation is in the same measure, which has never been naturalized in our language, and never will be. Professor Longfellow deserves great praise for the patience and skill he has shown in the accomplishment of his self-imposed and difficult task. By those who understand the original, his version is said to be exact and faithful, and regarded as a poem simply, it has great merit of thought and expression, and its hexameters are, to say the least, as good as those of any one who has made use of them before. But every reader will give a ready assent to the apologetic remarks of the translator in the preface. "I have preserved even the measure; that inexorable hexameter, in which, it must be confessed, the motions of the English muse are not unlike those of a prisoner dancing to the music of his chains; and perhaps, as Dr. Johnson said of the dancing dog, the wonder is not that she should do it so well, but that she should do it at all."" There are in his two volumes of poems many other translations, mostly from the German, Spanish and Italian, all of which have marked merit, and show, even the shortest of them, the master's hand. 6 In addition to his two volumes of poems, Professor Longfellow, as will be remembered by our readers, has recently published in this magazine a drama in three acts, called "The Spanish Student," the merits of which are too fresh in the minds of our readers to require any critical exposition on our part.. Though, in those particular qualities which separate the drama from other forms of intellectual production, as the skillful construction of the plot, the natural succession of events, the appropriateness of the dialogue, the exposition of character and the proba bility of the denouement, it can claim no very high rank as a work of art, yet, as a poem, its merit is most unquestioned and emphatic, and it contains scenes and passages of extreme beauty. Within a few weeks he has also published in a thin pamphlet a few striking poems on slavery, of considerable literary merit, though, in that point of view alone, they will not add essentially to his reputation. They will be judged by a different standard, and the estimate formed of them will be according to the reader's views upon the subject which gave them birth, and which is hourly assuming more importance and piness and intellectual improvement. His professorfilling a larger space in the public mind. Professor Longfellow has by no means devoted his whole time to the composition of those works, in prose and verse, which have passed in review before us. He has made himself a ripe and good scholar, and his intellectual accomplishments and attainments would entitle him, apart from his genius, to much honor and consideration. Few poets have ever accumulated such stores of various and elegant learning. He is familiarly acquainted with the principal languages of modern Europe, speaking them fluently and correctly, and has read with critical accuracy all the best productions of their respective literatures. Of the best writers in English literature he has also been a diligent student, and has deeply freighted his mind with their golden stores of thought and expression. He has also contributed several papers to the North American Review, some of which are learned and elaborate, and show that patient and plodding industry not often found in connection with an inventive genius like his. Among these is a review of Tegner's "Frithiof's Saga," containing some original translations from the reviewer's own pen, which were highly approved by its distinguished author, who pronounced them, so far as they went, superior to any of the several English versions which had been made of his poem, and added his earnest request that he would translate the whole poem. Professor Longfellow's present position is a very enviable one, and affords ample sources both of hap ship occupies, without absorbing, his time, and he is as regular and conscientious in the discharge of its duties as the dullest pedant that ever darkened the meaning of Eschylus or Pindar with bad Latin. His instructions are highly appreciated by the students, with whom he is also, personally, a great favorite. The cultivated and graceful society of Boston and Cambridge proffers him social privileges of the highest order, into which he is always warmly welcomed, not only on account of his genius, attainments and character, but also for his agreeable manners and pleasing conversation. In the retirement of his own study, he finds himself in the companionship of a large and well-chosen library, and in the midst of those silent friends who are ever ready to sympathize with the scholar in every mood of mind in which he may find himself; who smooth with gentle appliance "the raven down" of sadness till it smiles, and lend their own light to add to the sunshine of his cheerful hours. He is in the full flower and perfection of his fine faculties, and we may confidently anticipate from him many and various contributions to the wealth of our young and growing literature. The likeness which accompanies this, we are sorry to say, is not a very good one. Though correct, perhaps, in the general outline, Mr. Franquinet has failed to give that refined and poetical expression of his original which attracts the regard of every one who sees him in person. A WHISPER FROM THE GRAVE. As through the church-yard lone I strayed, Breathed from a mossy time-worn tomb, "If thou art weary of thy life; If anguish rack thy throbbing breast; If with thy destiny at strife, Here thou wilt find a place of rest. "Here love can stay his wild desires; Here mad ambition tame his pride; Here lust assuage his raging fires; And avarice cast his curse aside. "For some cold beauty dost thou pine; Some wicked joy that thrilled thy heart; Some bliss that never can be thine, Yet stings thee with its poisoned dart; "If fortune, in her cruel mirth, From some proud eminence has hurled, And sent her brood of bloodhounds forth To track thy footsteps round the world; "If harassed by some cureless pain, That wastes thy strength from day to day; Or memory racks thy burning brain, Or hope has thrown his staff away; "Here is thy destined place of rest; Here is thy last, long, quiet home; "She who first gave thee milk is here, When all that sleeping here abide, Shall wake, and speed their heav'nward way." J. K. P AMERICAN BALLADS. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. NO. II. ARNOLD'S TREASON. NIGHT upon the Highland hills, Night upon the mighty river, Darkly in the witching calm Did the breezeless aspen shiver, Darkly o'er the shrouded moon Were the misty vapors flying, Sadly down the hollow pass Sighed the night air softly dying. Silence, like a heavy shadow, Brooded over Hudson's breast, Brooded over huge Crow-Nest, Once, and oft the katydid Shrilled upon the mountain side, Once, and oft, from shoal and shallow, Deep the bullfrog's bass replied. Scarce a ripple on the deep; New-born freedom's clustered stars, Gleamed old England's red cross glorious, Noble foemen, southward, northward! These for loyalty and fame! Those for liberty and laws! Long had been the strife between them, Yet was treason in the camp, Where no treason should have beenBut it has been so forever, So forever 't will be seen, That the highest, holiest cause, When the Persian myriads quailed, Died not at Thermopyla- Sold his country to the crown. Plot against his fellow clay, Things whose life is but a day, When the Lord of Earth and Heaven Counted in his chosen fold Judas, who betrayed his master Mark the bullfrog's startled croak, What invades their wild dominion? Crawls a boat with muffled oar Grated on the rocks the keel, Stept a stately form to land Well could rein the dashing war-horse, Well could wield the mortal brandNobler spirit, braver hand, Warmer heart have never metWo betide the wicked hour When ashore his foot he set! Not a word had yet been spoken, To that gloomy, guilty spot. Yet had he a glorious name- On the plains of Abram glorious, Up the wintry Kennebec In the fight where fell Montgomery By the ramparts of Quebec. Upon Behmus' bloody height, And the field of grounded arms, Foremost he, though not their leader, Led the men i' the fierce alarms; Foremost when the works were taken, When the Hessian lines were won, Fell he horse and man i' the port, Wounded fell, when his work was done But it galled his haughty spirit, And it rankled in his heartOthers won the meed of praise, Only he had played the partFame deferred and rank denied Turned his very soul to gallPride it was that conquered himPride which made an angel fall. Heavy debt oppressed him too Oh! but he was sorely tried! Oh! that in the battle's hurly, Young and honored he had died! But he hedged aside from truth, Held not honor in his eyePray we, then, for grace to fall not, Fall not thus, but rather die ! Partly spurred by bitter hate, Partly driven by sordid need, He his patriot laurels bartered Basely for a traitor's meed; He, in falling, by his sin Dragged a loftier spirit down, Spirit that stooped not to treason, 'Would not stoop to win a crown. No man knows the words they said, No man knows the villain's suitFor the knave escaped his doom, And the martyr perished mute. No man knows but only this, That his post he should betrayNear the sun!-the work not done!— And they mounted and away. Hard they galloped up the road; Up the road through Haverstraw; Through the village, o'er the bridge; Their approach the sentry sawChallenged loud-advanced his arms"Congress" is the countersign"Pass-all's well!" the sentry criedHe is in the foeman's line. Heavily it smote his heart! He, a Briton, thus betrayed He, who loathed the name of baseness, He was clad in his martial dress! To a lonely house was he taken, So the guerdon reached his hand. Turned and left his victim there, To the Vulture, whence he came But by dastard artifice Left him to a death of shame. Oh but he resisted strongly, Ere he laid his dress aside! He was riding free from fear And the foe was far behind, And the English lines were near— When, beside a little brook, Three who lay in ambush nigh, For the papers they were found- Lie-no! not to save his head! Would not lie to save his fame! He had risked his person fairlyNever risked his soldier name! Dying, 't was his only fear Lest his leader should suppose That obedience to his orders Had betrayed him to his foesAnd the fondest, latest wish Of his noble, noble heart Was to save Sir Henry's soul From that unavailing smart. Then to his doom they led him, He had asked a soldier's death- Back he started-" Why this shrinking? And what shakes thy gallant breast?" "To my death I go all fearless, But the manner I detest!" Not an eye of all the host, Better, better was it far, So like Andre to be dying, With his country mourning o'er him, And his foemen round him sighing, Than like Arnold to live on, Scorn of his adopted land, Heard ye not how England's King, "Rank, and lands, and life are thineBut no traitor's touch may sully This untainted hand of mine." But the traitor still was brave Quailed not he to the old lord's scornQuailed not he to the bravest man That was e'er of woman bornChallenged him to the deadly fieldMet him sternly face to faceLeveled fired! but erred his ballIt may be his soul was touched of grace! Proudly, coldly stood the peer Proudly, coldly turned away! "Stand and fire!" the traitor cried "Yours, my lord, is the luck to-day!" "No! I leave you," sternly spakeSpake the old and haughty lord"Leave you to a fitter doomTo the hangman and the cord!" |