The dove in the belfry must hear it well. moon When the sexton cheerly rings for noon When the clock strikes clear at morning light- He broods on his folded feet unstirred, I tread, like thee, the crowded street; Canst smoothe the feathers on thy breast, I would that in such wings of gold I could my weary heart upfold; And while the world throngs on beneath, THE ANNOYER. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever.-SHELLEY. Love knoweth every form of air, And every shape of earth, He peeps into the warrior's heart From the tip of a stooping plume, And the serried spears, and the many men, He'll come to his tent in the weary night, And he'll float to his eye in morning light He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf, The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, And ponders the silver sea, For love is under the surface hid, He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, "Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, He blurs the print of the scholar's book, And profanes the cell of the holy man, In the shape of a lady fair. In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, In every home of human thought, LOVE IN A COTTAGE. They may talk of love in a cottage, And milkmaids half divine; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping And a walk in the fields at morning, But give me a sly flirtation Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover The small white hand in mine. Your love in a cottage gets hungry, Your vine is a nest for fliesYour milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies! You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer. True love is at home on a carpet, And mightily likes his ease And true love has an eye for a dinner, And starves beneath shady trees. His wing is the fan of a lady, His foot's an invisible thing, And his arrow is tipped with a jewel, And shot from a silver string. UNSEEN SPIRITS. The shadows lay along Broadway"Twas near the twilight-tide And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side. Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair- She kept with care her beauties rare But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do. Now walking there was one more fair A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail— "Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way!But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is curst alway! LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY. I was in Greece. It was the hour of noon, Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea. I scrawled upon the smooth and marble base. I was in Asia. Twas a peerless night I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn, The dust is old upon my "sandal-shoon," "Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled their garments; and they shall walk with me in white; for they are worthy." Revelation iii. 4. LETTER TO THE UNKNOWN PURCHASER AND NEXT OCCUPANT OF GLENMARY. SIR: In selling you the dew and sunshine ordained to fall hereafter on this bright spot of earth-the waters on their way to this sparkling brook-the tints mixed for the flowers of that enamelled meadow, and the songs bidden to be sung in coming summers by the feathery builders in Glenmary, I know not whether to wonder more at the omnipotence of money, or at my own impertinent audacity toward Nature. How you can buy the right to exclude at will every other creature made in God's image from sitting by this brook, treading on that carpet of flowers, or lying listening to the birds in the shade of these glorious trees-how I can sell it you-is a mystery not understood by the Indian, and dark, I must say, to me. "Lord of the soil," is a title which conveys your privileges but poorly. You are master of waters flowing at this moment, perhaps, in a river of Judea, or floating in clouds over some spicy island of the tropics, bound hither after many changes. There are lilies and violets ordered for you in millions, acres of sunshine in daily instalments, and dew nightly in proportion. There are throats to be tuned with song, and wings to be painted with red and gold, blue and yellow; thousands of them, and all tributaries to you. Your corn is ordered to be sheathed in silk, and lifted high to the sun. Your grain is to be duly bearded and stemmed. There is perfume distilling for your clover, and juices for your grasses and fruits. Ice will be here for your wine, shade for your refreshment at noon, breezes and showers and snow-flakes; all in their season, and all "deeded to you for forty dollars the acre" Gods! what a copyhold of property for a fallen world! Mine has been but a short lease of this lovely and well-endowed domain (the duration of a smile of fortune, five years, scarce longer than a five-act play); but as in a play we sometimes live through a life, it seems to me that I have lived a life at Glenmary. Allow me this, and then you must allow me the privilege of those who, at the close of life, leave something behind them: that of writing out my will. Though I depart this life, I would fain, like others, extend my ghostly hand into the future; and if wings are to be borrowed or stolen where I go, you may rely on my hovering around and haunting you, in visitations not restricted by cock-crowing. Trying to look at Glenmary through your eyes, sir, I see too plainly that I have not shaped my ways as if expecting a successor in my lifetime. I did not, I am free to own. I thought to have shuffled off my mortal coil tranquilly here; flitting at last in company with some troop of my autumn leaves, or some bevy of spring blossoms, or with snow in the thaw; my tenants at my back, as a landlord may say. I have counted on a life-interest in the trees, trimming them accordingly; and in the squirrels and birds, encouraging them to chatter and build and fear nothing; no guns permitted on the premises. I have had my will of this beautiful stream. I have carved the woods into a shape of my liking. I have propagated the despised sumach and the persecuted hemlock and "pizen laurel." And "no end to the weeds dug up and set out again," as one of my neighbors delivers himself. I have built a bridge over Glenmary brook, which the town looks to have kept up by "the place," and we have plied free ferry over the river, I and my man Tom, till the neighbors, from the daily saving of the two miles round, have got the trick of it. And betwixt the aforesaid Glenmary brook and a certain muddy and plebeian gutter formerly permitted to join company with, and pollute it, I have procured a divorce at much trouble and pains, a guardian duty entaile l of course on my successor. First of all, sir, let me plead for the old trees of Glenmary! Ah! those friendly old trees! The cottage stands belted in with them, a thousand visible from the door, and of stems and branches worthy of the great valley of the Susquehannah. For how much music played without thanks am I indebted to those leaf-organs of changing tone? for how many whisperings of thought breathed like oracles into my ear? for how many new shapes of beauty moulded in the leaves by the wind? for how much companionship, solace, and welcome? Steadfast and constant is the countenance of such friends, God be praised for their staid welcome and sweet fidelity! If I love them better than some things human, it is no fault of ambitiousness in the trees. They stand where they did. But in recoiling from mankind, one may find them the next kindliest things, and be glad of dumb friendship. Spare those old trees, gentle sir! In the smooth walk which encircles the meadow betwixt that solitary Olympian sugar-maple and the margin of the river, dwells a portly and venerable toad; who (if I may venture to bequeathe you, my friends) must be commended to your kindly consideration. Though a squatter, he was noticed in our first rambles along the stream, five years since, for his ready civility in yielding the way-not hurriedly, however, nor with an obsequiousness unbecoming a republican, but deliberately and just enough; sitting quietly on the grass till our passing by gave him room again on the warm and trodden ground. Punctually after the April cleansing of the walk, this jewelled habitué, from his indifferent lodgings hard by, emerges to take his pleasure in the sun; and there, at any hour when a gentleman is likely to be abroad, you may find him, patient on his os coccygis, or vaulting to his asylum of high grass. This year, he shows, I am grieved to remark, an ominous obesity, likely to render him obnoxious to the female eye, and, with the trimness of his shape, has departed much of that measured alacrity which first won our regard. He presumes a little on your allowance for old age; and with this pardonable weakness growing upon him, it seems but right that his position and standing should be tenderly made known to any new-comer on the premises. In the cutting of the next grass, slice me not up my fat friend, sir! nor set your cane down heedlessly in his modest domain. He is "mine ancient," and I would fain do him a good turn with you. For my spoilt family of squirrels, sir, I crave nothing but immunity from powder and shot. They require coaxing to come on the same side of the tree with you, and though saucy to me, I observe that they commence acquaintance invariably with a safe mistrust. One or two of them have suffered, it is true, from too hasty a confidence in my greyhound Maida, but the beauty of that gay fellow was a trap against which nature had furnished them with no warning instinct! (A fact, sir, which would prettily point a moral!) The large hickory on the edge of the lawn, and the black walnut over the shoulder of the flower-garden, have been, through my dynasty, sanctuaries inviolate for squirrels. you, sir, let them not be "reformed out," under your administration. I pray Of our feathered connexions and friends, we are most bound to a pair of Phebe-birds and a merry Bob-o'-Lincoln, the first occupying the top of the young maple near the door of the cottage, and the latter executing his bravuras upon the clump of alder-bushes in the meadow, though, in common with many a gay-plumaged gallant like himself, his whereabout after dark is a mystery. He comes every year from his rice-plantation in Florida to pass the summer at Glennary. Pray keep him safe from percussion-caps, and let no urchin with a long pole poke down our trusting Phebes; annuals in that same tree for three summers. There are humming-birds, too, whom we have complimented and looked sweet upon, but they cannot be identified from morning to morning. And there is a golden oriole who sings through May on a dog-wood tree by the brook-side, but he has fought shy of our crumbs and coaxing, and let him go! We are mates for his betters, with all his gold livery! With these reservations, sir, I commend the birds to your friendship and kind keeping. And now, sir, I have nothing else to ask, save only your watchfulness over the small nook reserved from this purchase of seclusion and loveliness. In the shady depths of the small glen above you, among the wild-flowers and music, the music of the brook babbling over rocky steps, is a spot sacred to love and memory. Keep it inviolate, and as much of the happiness of Glenmary as we can leave behind, stay with you for recompense! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW WAS born in Portland, Maine, February 27th, 1807, “in an old square wooden house, upon the edge of the sea." He entered Bowdoin College, where in due time he was graduated in the class with Hawthorne, in 1825. He wrote verses at this time for the United States Literary Gazette, printed at Boston. For a short time after leaving college, he studied law in the office of his father, the Hon. Stephen Longfellow; but soon fell into the mode of life he has since pursued as a scholar, by the appointment to a Professorship of Modern Languages in his college, to accomplish himself for which he travelled abroad in 1826, making the usual tour of the continent, including Spain. He was absent three years; on his return, he lectured at Bowdoin College, as Professor of Modern Languages and Literature, and wrote articles for the North American Review, papers on Sir Philip Sidney, and other topics of polite literature. One of these, an Essay on the Moral and Devotional Poetry of Spain, included his noble translation of the Stanzas of the soldier poet Manrique on the death of his father.* He also at this time penned the sketches of travel in Outre Mer, commencing the publication after the manner of Irving in his Sketch Book; but before the work was completed in this form, it was intrusted to the Harpers, who issued it entire in two volumes. The elegance of the manner, the nice phrases and fanciful illustrations-a certain decorated poetical style-with the many suggestions of fastidious scholarship, marked this in the eye of the public as a book of dainty promise. In 1835, Mr. Ticknor having resigned his Professorship of Modern Languages and Literature in Harvard, Mr. Longfellow was chosen his successor. He now made a second tour to Europe, This was published in a volume, by Allen & Ticknor, in 1883, with some translations of Sonnets by Lope de Vega and others. preliminary to entering upon his new duties, visiting the northern kingdoms of Denmark, Sweden, Holland, and afterwards Switzerland. Shortly after assuming his engagement at Harvard, he established himself, in 1837, as a lodger in the old Cragie House, the Washington Head Quarters, which has since become his own by purchase, and the past traditions and present hospitality of which have recently been celebrated by line, a Tale of Acadie, a happy employment of the hexameter, the next year; Kavanagh, a Tale, an idyllic prose companion, in 1849; The Seaside and the Fireside, in 1850; and that quaint anecdotal poem of the middle ages in Europe, The Golden Legend, in 1851. These, with two volumes of minor poems from favorite sources, entitled The Waif and The Estray, prefaced each by a poetical introduction of his own, with a collection, The Poets and Poetry of Europe, in 1845, complete the list thus far of Longfellow's publications;* though some of his finest poems have since appeared in Putnam's Magazine, to which he is a frequent contributor. In 1854 he resigned his Professorship at Harvard. Longfellow's Residence. an appreciative pen.* It is from this genial residence, the outlook from which has furnished many a happy epithet and incident of the poet's verse, that Hyperion, a Romance, was dated in 1839, a dainty volume perfecting the happy promises of Outre Mer. Old European tradition, the quaint and picturesque of the past, are revived in its pages, by a modern sentiment and winning trick of the fancy, which will long secure the attractiveness of this pleasant volume. It has been always a scholar's instinct with Longfellow to ally his poetical style to some rare subject of fact or the imagination worthy of treatment; and those good services which he has rendered to history, old poets, and ancient art, will serve him with posterity, which asks for fruit, while the present is sometimes contented with leaves. The first volume of original poetry published by Longfellow, was the Voices of the Night at Cambridge in 1839. It contained the "Psalm of Life," the "Midnight Mass for the Dying Year," the Manrique translation, and a number of the early poems of the Gazette. It at once became popular -many of its stanzas, eloquently expressive of moral courage or passive sentiment, veins since frequently worked in his poems, as Excelsior and Resignation, being fairly adopted as "household words." Ballads and other Poems, and a thin volume of Poems on Slavery, followed in 1842. The former has the translation in hexameters of "The Children of the Lord's Supper," from the Swedish of Bishop Tegner. Other delicate cream-colored volumes came on in due sequence. The Spanish Student, a play in three acts, in 1843; The Belfry of Bruges in 1846; Evange *G. W. Curtis, in the "Homes of American Authors." Sdonny W. Longheres The same general characteristics run through all Mr. Longfellow's productions. They are the work of a scholar, of a man of taste, of a fertile fancy, and of a loving heart. He is "a picked man" of books, and sees the world and life by their light. To interest his imagination the facts around him must be invested with this charm of association. It is at once his aid and his merit that he can reproduce the choice pictures of the past and of other minds with new accessories of his own; so that the quaint old poets of Germany, the singers of the past centuries, the poetical vision and earnest teachings of Goethe, and the every-day humors of Jean Paul, as it were, come to live among us in American homes and landscape. This interpretation in its highest forms is one of the rarest benefits which the scholar can bestow upon his country. The genius of Longfellow has given us an American idyl, based on a touching episode of ante-revolutionary history, parallel with the Hermann and Dorothea of Goethe, in the exquisite story of Evangeline; has shown us how Richter might have surveyed the higher and inferior conditions, the There have been other editions of several of these works; a collection made by the author in a cheap form published by the Harpers in 1846; the costly copy, illustrated by Huntington, published at Philadelphia in 1845; and the elegant editions of Evangeline, the Poems, the Golden Legend, and Hyperion, published by Bogue of London, with the wood-cut illustrations from original designs-for one series of which the artist made a tour on the continent-by Birket Foster. schoolmaster, the clergyman, the lovers and the rustics of a New England village in his tale of Kavanagh; has reproduced the simple elegance of the lighter Spanish drama in his play of the Student; and in his Golden Legend has carried us, in his ingenious verse, to the heart of the Middle Ages, showing us the most poetic aspects of the lives of scholars, churchmen, and villagers, how they sang, travelled, practised logic, medicine, and divinity, and with what miracle plays, jest, and grim literature they were entertained. His originality and peculiar merit consist in these felicitous transformations. If he were simply a scholar, he would be but an annalist or an annotator; but being a poet of taste and imagination, with an ardent sympathy for all good and refined traits in the world, and for all forms of the objective life of others, his writings being the very emanations of a kind generous nature, he has succeeded in reaching the heart of the public. All men relish art and literature when they are free from pedantry. We are all pleased with pictures, and like to be charmed into thinking nobly and acting well by the delights of fancy. In his personal appearance, frank, graceful manner, fortune, and mode of life, Mr. Longfellow reflects or anticipates the elegance of his writings. In a home surrounded by every refinement of art and cultivated intercourse, in the midst of his family and friends, the genial humorist enjoys a retired leisure, from which many ripe fruits of literature may yet be looked for. A PSALM OF LIFE-WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO Tell me not, in mournful numbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of Day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Dance upon the parlour-wall; Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished By the road-side fell and perished, Who the cross of suffering bore, Comes that messenger divine, With those deep and tender eyes, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Such as these have lived and died! GOD'S-ACRE. I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls In the sure faith that we shall rise again With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, This is the place where human harvests grow? |