Knowest its fulness, as thou dost the dew
Sent to the hidden violet by Thee;
And, as that flower, from its unseen abode,
Sends its sweet breath up, duly, to the sky,
Changing its gift to incense, so, O God!
May the sweet drops that to my humble cup
Find their far way from heaven, send up, to Thee,
Fragrance at thy throne welcome!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW is the son of Hon. Stephen Longfellow, of Portland, Maine, and was born in that city on the 27th of February, 1807. At the age of fourteen, he entered Bowdoin College, Brunswick, and was graduated there in 1825. Soon after, being offered a professorship of modern languages in his own college, he resolved to prepare himself thoroughly for his new duties, and accordingly left home for Europe, and passed three years and a half in travelling or residing in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland, and England. He returned in 1829, and entered upon the duties of his office. In 1835, on the resignation of Mr. George Ticknor, he was elected Professor of Modern Languages and Belles-Lettres in Harvard College. Again he went abroad, and passed more than twelve months in Denmark, Sweden, Germany, and Switzerland. On his return to resume the duties of his chair, he took up his residence in the old Cragie House, near Mount Auburn, Cambridge, renowned as having been the headquarters of Washington when he assumed the command of the American army. Here he has ever since resided, though he resigned his professorship in 1854.

Mr. Longfellow's literary career began very early. Before leaving college, he wrote a few carefully-finished poems for the "United States Literary Gazette," and while professor at Bowdoin, he contributed some valuable criticisms to the "North American Review." In 1835 appeared his Outre-Mer, a collection of travelling sketches and miscellaneous essays; in 1839, Hyperion, a Romance, and Voices of the Night, his first collection of poems; in 1841, Ballads, and other Poems; in 1842, Poems on Slavery; in 1843, The Spanish Student, a play; in 1845, the "Poets and Poetry of Europe," and the Belfry of Bruges; in 1847, Erangeline; in 1848, Kavanagh, a Tale; in 1849, The Seaside and the Fireside; in 1851, The Golden Legend; in 1855, The Song of Hiawatha; and in 1858, The Courtship of Miles Standish,' of which his publishers sold twenty-five thousand copies in a month from its publication. But it is in hexameter verse, and, though popular for the time from its novelty, it can never obtain a permanent hold of the hearts of the people.

"A charming story, which will do more to throw an attractive, familiar light upon the bleak shores of Plymouth, and the grim-visaged Puritan colonists who lauded upon them, than all the New-England Society orations and labored historical eulogies that were ever uttered or printed."-New York Evening Post.

2 Messrs. Ticknor & Fields have published all of Longfellow's works in various beautiful styles, characteristic of their house.

It will thus be seen that Mr. Longfellow is a most prolific writer; and the numerous editions of his works that are called for, show that he is also a very popular one. His genius is as heartily recognised in England as in this country; for every thing from his pen is eagerly caught up and republished there. And his popularity he richly deserves; for his poetry, as well as his prose, is marked by great tenderness of feeling, purity of sentiment, elevation of thought, and deep human interest. His genius is versatile, for he has trodden almost every path of polite literature, and gathered flowers from them all; and if his strength has failed to carry him to the topmost eminence, he has the satisfaction of knowing that many of his writings have become, as they deserve, “household words," and have so touched the heart, that posterity will not willingly let them die.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
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 labor and to wait.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;

66

Have naught but the bearded grain?

Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kiss'd their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he once was a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;

'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

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 parlor-wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, 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 saint-like, 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.

Oh, 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 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 villagers 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 Miserērè

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 Norseman's song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,

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 sack'd and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldier's revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguer'd 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 accurséd 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 abhorréd!
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! 1

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.

MAIDENHOOD.

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes,

In whose orbs a shadow lies

Like the dusk in evening skies!

Would that the ninth and tenth verses of this fine poem might be engraved upon the mind and heart of every man and woman, in both hemispheres, that speaks the English tongue!