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I love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walk'd the world for fourscore years;
And they say that I am old,
That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are wellnigh told.
It is very true; it is very true;
I'm old, and “I 'bide my time:”
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring:
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;
For the world at best is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low :
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness
To see the young so gay.


Love knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song, in the time of birds.

He peeps into the warrior's heart
From the tip of a stooping plume,

And the serried spears, and the many men,
May not deny him room.

He'll come to his 'ent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream,

And he'll float to his eye in the morning light,
Like a fay on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,
And flits in his woodland track.
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,
The cloud, and the open sky,_
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thought has he:
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.

He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer,
And profanes the cell of the holy man
In the shape of a lady fair.
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought,
Will Love be lurking nigh.


I have enough, O God! My heart to night
Runs over with its fulness of content;
And as I look out on the fragrant stars,
And from the beauty of the night take in
My priceless portion,-yet myself no more
Than in the universe a grain of sand,-
I feel His glory who could make a world,
Yet in the lost depths of the wilderness
Leave not a flower unfinish’d

Rich, though poor
My low-roof’d cottage is this hour a heaven.
Music is in it, and the song she sings,
That sweet-voiced wife of mine, arrests the ear
Of my young child awake upon her knee;
And with his calm eye on his master's face,
My noble hound lies couchant; and all here—
All in this little home, yet boundless heaven—
Are, in such love as I have power to give,
Blessed to overflowing.

Thou, who look'st Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve,

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 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.

1 “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 landed 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. Tickmor & 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.


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'erheadl -

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 “n 2nd doir -
With a *

Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.


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 ;
“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.


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 phantoins grim and tall,

Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor-wall;

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