on the resignation of Mr. George Ticknor, he was elected professor of modern languages and belles-lettres in Harvard College, Cambridge. Again, therefore, he went abroad, to become more thoroughly acquainted with the languages and literature of modern Europe, and passed more than twelve months in Denmark, Sweden, Germany, and Switzerland. He returned in 1836 to enter upon his new duties, and has ever since resided at Cambridge, in the faithful and honorable discharge of the same. Mr. Longfellow's literary career, which has been so highly creditable to him, 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 1833, he published his translation from the Spanish of the celebrated poem of Don Joze Manrique, on the death of his father, together with an introductory essay on Spanish poetry. 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, "Evangeline;" in 1848, "Kavanagh, a Tale;" in 1849, “The Seaside and the Fireside;" in 1851, "The Golden Legend ;" and in 1855, "The Song of Hiawatha." It will thus be seen that Mr. Longfellow is a most prolific writer, and the many editions of his works that are called for show that he is also a very popular one. And his popularity he richly deserves, for his poetry, and indeed his prose, are 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! Lives of great men all remind us 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; 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 kissed 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, And saints, upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of Day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished 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, Uttered not, yet comprehended, O, though oft depressed 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, And loud, amid the universal clamor, 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 sacked and burning village; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 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, There were no need of arsenals nor forts: The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! Down the dark future, through long generations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its blazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. AUTUMN. With what a glory comes and goes the year! |