"Let the lifeless body rest! He is gone, who was its guest; "Gone, as travellers haste to leave An inn, nor tarry until eve. "Traveller! in what realms afar, In what planet, in what star,

"In what vast, aerial space, Shines the light upon thy face!

"In what gardens of delight

Rest thy weary feet to-night? "Poet! thou, whose latest verse Was a garland on thy hearse; "Thou hast sung, with organ tone, In Deukalion's life, thine own. "On the ruins of the Past Blooms the perfect flower at last.

"Friend but yesterday the bells Rang for thee their loud farewells; "And to-day they toll for thee, Lying dead beyond the sea;

"Lying dead among thy books,

The peace of God in all thy looks!"

If, as Lowell says, a sonnet should "burst with a wave-like up-gathering at the end," this upon Milton is certainly a magnificent specimen. The steady rise to the climax is a striking piece of art:-

"I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold

How the voluminous billows roll and run,
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun
Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled,
And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold
All its loose-flowing garments into one,
Plunges upon the shore; and floods the dun
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold.
So in majestic cadence rise and fall

The mighty undulations of thy song,
O sightless bard, England's Mæonides!

And ever and anon, high over all

Uplifted, a ninth wave, superb and strong,
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas."

Here is a vision of Venice, airy and entrancing as a sea-dream, delicate with vanishing effects like Turner's :

"White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest

So wonderfully built among the reeds

Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds,
As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest!
White water-lily, cradled and caressed

By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds
Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds,

Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest!
White phantom city, whose untrodden streets

Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting
Shadows of palaces and strips of sky;

I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets

Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting
In air their unsubstantial masonry."

The reader will not expect quotations from the early and well-known poems; every one knows them by heart-their sentiment and melody-and it is better to give our at

tention to the later productions in a different vein.

Longfellow was steeped in the German influence in his early days. He translated quite as much from the French, Italian, and Spanish; but the tone of his first poems recalls the dreamy atmosphere, the quaint fancy and the melodic movement of German lyrics. There is a German translation of his poems, following them, line by line, in such perfect cadence that it might be thought the original, and Longfellow's only the translation.

But this manner gradually disappeared. It appears to me that in the later poemssuch as the sonnets upon Venice and Milton already quoted-there is far more power, more imagination, and more art than in those which first brought him fame.

THE POET AND HIS SONGS. "As the birds come in the Spring, We know not from where; As the stars come at evening From depths of the air;

"As the rain comes from the cloud, And the brook from the ground; As suddenly, low or loud,

Out of silence a sound;

"As the grape comes to the vine,
The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
And the tide to the sea;

"As come the white sails of ships
O'er the ocean's verge;
As comes the smile to the lips,
The foam to the surge;

"So come to the Poet his songs,

All hitherward blown

From the misty realm, that belongs To the vast Unknown.

"His, and not his, are the lays

He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
And the pride of a name.

"For voices pursue him by day,

And haunt him by night,

And he listens, and needs must obey,
When the Angel says: 'Write!'"

"Daybreak" may be familiar, but it will bear re-reading; there is a thought and picture in each couplet.

"A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, 'O mists, make room for me.'
"It hailed the ships, and cried, 'Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.'
"And hurried landward far away,
Crying, 'Awake! it is the day.'
"It said unto the forest, 'Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!'
"It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, 'O bird, awake and sing.'

a

"And o'er the farms, O Chanticleer, Your clarion blow: the day is near.' "It whispered to the fields of corn, 'Bow down, and hail the coming morn. "It shouted through the belfry tower, 'Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.' "It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, 'Not yet! in quiet lie.'"

Longfellow only asked fifty dollars-ten pounds-for a poem in the early Atlantic days; and I remember that when he brought "Daybreak" with another poem he would take payment but for one, because, he said, "Daybreak" was such a trifle. In later years he received much larger prices. For "The Hanging of the Crane," it is said, he

received three thousand dollars-six hundred pounds.

One of the most impressive poems of Longfellow's prime was that upon the death of the Duke of Wellington, entitled, "The Warden of the Cinque Ports." No one will venture to rate Longfellow with Tennyson in power or achievement, but this poem may well bear comparison with that of the Laureate on the same theme. Two stanzas especially dwell in memory:

"Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,
No drum-beat from the wall,

No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure,
Awaken with its call!

"Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead;
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead."

I never knew of Longfellow's making excursions to the Adirondacks or Moosehead Lake, as Emerson and Lowell did. The descriptions of scenery in "Evangeline " are exquisite, yet he told one of my family that he had never set foot in Nova Scotia. In "Hiawatha" we feel that his sense of what is characteristic of the places of action is adequate, although his delineations are quite general. It was the human interest with which he was chiefly concerned. The two poems just mentioned are assuredly his best, and it would not have helped either of them if the poets of the Sierras had gone over the regions with him; and both Bret Harte and Joaquin Miller could have instructed him in picturesque topography. The landscapes of Corôt are delicious for their sentiment, although sometimes we cannot tell whether his trees are oaks or beeches.

In like manner he was somewhat conventional as a portrayer of character; he knew mankind, but the persons of his dramas, though in many ways interesting, are seldom

individualised-real men, known and recognised as additions to the gallery of fiction.

His was a globular mind, seen in an almost unvarying aspect, but his themes were infinitely varied, and he employed successfully nearly all the rhythmic forms of which the language is capable, excepting blank verse. Some critics have laid stress upon his want of spiritual insight and of dramatic power; they say he did not create, but found and adorned; that he was never witty, and seldom humorous; that his points were not far to seek, and that his moral applications were apt to be superfluous. But if his limitations are obvious his merits are equally so. His poems cover a wide field of human interest, and are upon a general high level of excellence; his sense of the beautiful was delicate and true; his learning enriched without cumbering his verse; above all, he has touched the feelings common to mankind with a power given to few men that have lived. Borrowing a word from politics, he has the largest constituency of any poet of the century; and it has not been necessary to form co-operative societies to interpret and enjoy him.

It may be questioned whether profundity may not be pushed too far. If a poem requires as much study as the calculus it is no longer a poem, except for a limited circle. We are agreed that mathematics may become more and more abstruse, until its professors leave all but their swift-footed pupils behind; but poetry is for the culture and pleasure of a fair average of educated readers. When it attempts to be more sententious than Pope, more full of recondite allusions than Milton, more soaring than Shakespeare, one may fairly object when asked to admire.

When we think of the ever-increasing millions who read English, and of the universal delight felt in the poems of the home affections, and of the ever-recurring incidents of our mortal life, and when we think of our poet's manly, christian character, and the cheerfulness with which he faced the great problems of death and immortality, must we not consider that the world is brighter and better for his having lived in it?

The conspicuous thing in Longfellow was the serene loveliness of his nature. What a true homage was that paid by Emerson as our poet lay in his coffin! Emerson had lost his memory, except of ideas and feelings, and was nearing his own end. After looking at the placid face of the dead, he said, was a beautiful soul. I am sorry I cannot remember his name."

"That

narrow deck of a tiny vessel the case is different. Hardly room to move, certainly none for a smart walk to warm the blood, the keen north-easter tingling our ears, and the fierce, relentless ice-cold billows swishing over the low bulwarks, surging over the deck, and well-nigh taking us off our feet; these are scarcely enjoyable phases of sea life. The romance seems somehow to have fled, leaving but the undeniable misery and discomfort. Yet this is only an ordinary winter's experience with the hardy fishermen who win from the North Sea the fish supply of England.

The North Sea is that which lies between the coasts of the British Isles and Holland, Denmark, and Norway. From the time of the "Vikings "it has often borne many a proud fleet designed to carry desolation and death to neighbouring shores. Now, however, its waters are studded by numerous fleets engaged in more peaceful and beneficent pursuits.

The configuration of the sea-bottom just suits the habits of vast multitudes of the finny tribes. Beneath the surface the ground rises in the form of a series of ridges, generally termed the Dogger Bank, though there are a whole chain of banks, each with its distinctive name. These slopes are the great harvest field of the North Sea, from which are trawled endless quantities of sole, plaice, turbot, cod, and haddock.

In bygone days, when the demand was small and trawlers few, the fish were sought on the sides of the bank nearest land, and the fishing smack having filled up ran home with her catch. But in these go-ahead days more comprehensive and economic measures have been adopted. Fleets have been formed by various enterprising firms; the smacks composing a fleet work and sail together, under the guidance of an "admiral," and send home their fish by swift steam carriers specially constructed for the trade.

This system has, moreover, effected a revolution in the fisherman's life and habits. Instead of being home for a few days every week or so, he is now a constant wanderer on the restless billows, incessantly plying his vocation farther and farther from land and loved ones. Every eight or nine weeks his smack is compelled to run home for refitting, but, with this exception, he is at his post from the day he first ships as "cook," until premature old age incapacitates him from further service, or until, as too frequently happens, he falls a victim to the wintry blasts of the wild North Sea. Shut up in

his tiny smack, cut off from home influence and home privilege, without opportunities such as land-dwellers enjoy, scarcely knowing what is passing in the big world beyond the horizon; what wonder if the North Sea trawlers become, as too many of them have become, rude and boisterous in manner, unconventional and careless in dress and speech, reckless and heedless in the highest of all interests!

Let me now, however, introduce my readers to the North Sea trawlers, as I saw them when, by the courtesy of the Founder and director of the "Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen," I have visited the fleets, and spent a week or two with them.

Embarking at Yarmouth in the Edward Auriol, a fine smack of a hundred tons, built expressly for Mission service, I found myself in the thick of a fisherman's farewell. The quays were thronged by wives, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts, who well understood the real good done by such vessels amongst their husbands, sons, brothers and lovers in the fleets.

"Why," exclaimed one enthusiastic woman, as she hugged a sturdy little future fisherman, "it be a reg'lar treat to 'ave Bill a comin' home now. He be a new man, that he be and no mistake."

When a feeling of this kind is general, the natural result is abundant good wishes for our trip. The captain of the tug Cruiser, engaged to tow us down the river, seemed fully to share the popular view, and permitted a large number of well-wishers to board his boat in order to escort us to the "Roads," and cheer us on our way. It was a genuinely spontaneous expression of fisherfolks' gratitude for the past, and hopefulness for the future. Soon we were out of the river and entering Yarmouth Roads, tow ropes were cast off, the steamer put about, a cheer rang from her deck, and amid the waving of pocket handkerchiefs the vessels. parted, the white flutter of these signals of friendship gleaming afar from the returning steamer's deck.

We have about two hundred miles to run to find the "Red-White" fleet, to which we are commissioned, so while the vessel is speeding onward let us have a look round her. That ponderous spar lashed to her bulwarks, and looking like a spare mast, is the trawl beam. To each end is attached a heavy D-shaped iron head, and fastened along the beam is a huge net. Dropped to the bottom the net is held slightly open by the trawl heads, and being towed after the smack sweeps up every