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, 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! Heart within, and God o'erhead! We can make our lives sublime, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, Let us, then, be up and doing, 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; He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 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, And saints, upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 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, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherish'd They, the holy ones and weakly, And with them the Being Beauteous, With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Utter'd not, yet comprehended, Oh, though oft depress'd and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sack'd and burning village; The wail of famine in beleaguer'd towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrench'd asunder, Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Given to redeem the human mind from error, The warrior's name would be a name abhorréd! Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! 1 Down the dark future, through long generations, 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! 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! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Standing, with reluctant feet, Gazing, with a timid glance, Deep and still, that gliding stream Then why pause with indecision, Seest thou shadows sailing by, Like the swell of some sweet tune, May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumber'd Gather, then, each flower that grows Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, On thy lips the smile of truth. Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; And that smile, like sunshine, dart |