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I love to look on a scene like this,
I have walk'd the world for fourscore years;
Play on, play on; I am with you there,
I am willing to die when my time shall come,
Love knoweth every form of air,
He peeps into the warrior's heart
And the serried spears, and the many men,
He'll come to his 'ent in the weary night,
And he'll float to his eye in the morning light,
He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
REVERIE AT GLENMARY.
I have enough, O God! My heart to night
Rich, though poor
Thou, who look'st Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve,
Knowest its fulness, as thou dost the dew
HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLOW.
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.
A PSALM OF LIFE.
What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
Life is real Life is earnest
“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,”
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
But to act, that each to-morrow
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
In the world's broad field of battle,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant'
Act—act in the living Present
Lives of great men all remind us
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints. that perhaps another,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Let us, then, be “n 2nd doir -
Still achieving, still pursuing,
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
“Shall I have naught that is fair?” saith he ;
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
It was for the Lord of Paradise
“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”
“Dear tokens of the earth are they,
“They shall all bloom in fields of light,
And saints, upon their garments white,
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
She knew she should find them all again
Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
When the hours of Day are number'd,
Wake the better soul, that slumber'd,
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light