HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. MR. LONGFELLOW, Professor of Modern Languages in Harvard University, is one of the most fertile and popular of the American poets, He has tried almost every style of verse, and won applause in translations, prose sketches, and criticism. His first collection of poems, "Voices of the Night," appeared in 1839. Though inferior to Bryant, in his best pieces, Mr. Longfellow has accomplished more in various styles than any other of his countrymen, and is always clear and elegant in diction. Our first extract is a specimen of hexameter verse from a tale entitled "Evangeline." SOFTLY the evening came. The sun from the western horizon A PSALM OF LIFE. 579 Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. Then from a neighbouring thicket, the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow-spray that hung over the water, A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest ! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 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! Lives of great men all remind us And, departing, leave behind us Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us then be up and doing, EXCELSIOR. The shades of night were falling fast, His brow was sad; his eye beneath The accents of that unknown tongue- In happy homes he saw the light Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered with a sigh: "Excelsior!" "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche !" This was the peasant's last good-night; A voice replied, far up the height: "Excelsior!" WOODS IN WINTER. At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air : A traveller, by the faithful hound, There, in the twilight cold and gray, WOODS IN WINTER. When winter winds are piercing chill, That over-brows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, On the grey maple's crusted bark, Where, twisted round the barren oak, And summer winds the stillness broke- Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs, Shrilly the skater's iron rings And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, 581 But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods, within your crowd; CHARACTERISTICS OF SPRING. When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-in of storms. From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes through the pleasant woods, and coloured wings Are glancing in the golden sun, along The forest openings. And when bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows. And when the day is gone, In the blue lake, the sky, o'erreaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the tide Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. |