Down sank the great red sun, and in golden glimmering vapours,
Veiled the light of his face, like the prophet descending from Sinai.
And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,-
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed.
As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,
Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,
So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.

Other poems followed from Longfellow's fertile pen-those under the title of "The Seaside and the Fireside," comprising "The Building of the Ship," "The Ballad of Sir Humphry Gilbert," "The Fire of Drift-wood," and "The Sand of the Desert in an Hour-glass." All of these are distinguished by vigour and poetic associations; by touching tenderness, and by that purity of style and grace of sentiment in which Longfellow excelled.

In 1851 appeared the "Golden Legend," a poem which takes us back to the Middle Ages, and which is remarkable for its dramatic force and power, and for the daring manner in which the poet introduces the evil spirit on the scene, a daring more than justified by his treatment of his theme. It is a delightful poem, striking throughout, and well maintaining the character, and colours, and thoughts of the medieval legend of the young maiden who willed to lay down her own life in order to save the life of her prince.

The poem we should place the foremost of all the poet's writings, "Hiawatha," was given to the world in 1855. Here he is at his best. It is his master-piece,-full of artless dignity and an inimitable grace. We remember how some critics condemned it at first because of the strangeness of the Indian names which so often recur throughout the poem; but even these were found to form an attraction to the reader, and to give it a local colouring; no one could help being charmed with the exuberance of fancy, the humour and the pathos, and the childlike spirit with which it is pervaded. The description of natural scenery: the rivers and the forests, the icebergs and snowdrifts, the simple customs and religious myths of the departing race-the wild life of the children of the woods, are all told with simplicity and yet dignity in the poet's melodious verse. The legends are full of a singular interest; and if the wooing of Hiawatha, and his weddingfeast, leave an impression as of sunshine on the mind, a tender joyous feeling-"The Ghosts" and "The Famine" are fraught with the most touching pathos, and we leave Minnehaha “ underneath the moaning hemlocks," with eyes

Wet with most delicious tears.

Will the reader pardon an extract, somewhat lengthy-to make it shorter were to spoil it-from "The Famine?" "The

VOL. VII.—NO. XXXVII.

C

Ghosts," with its intimations of a spiritual world as yet hidden from Hiawatha, but to be revealed to him by the coming of the pale-faced prophet, is too long for quotation:

Wrapped in furs, and armed for hunting,
With his mighty bow of ash-tree,

With his quiver full of arrows,
With his mittens, Minjekahwun,

Into the vast and vacant forest
On his snow-shoes strode he forward.
"Gitche Manito, the mighty!"
Cried he with his face uplifted
In that bitter hour of anguish,
"Give your children food, O father!
Give us food, or we must perish!
Give me food for Minnehaha,
For my dying Minnehaha!"

Through the far-resounding forest,
Through the forest vast and vacant,
Rang that cry of desolation,
But there came no other answer
Than the echo of his crying,
Than the echo of the woodlands,
"Minnehaha! Minnehaha!"

All day long roved Hiawatha
In that melancholy forest,

Through the shadow of whose thickets,
In the pleasant days of summer,

Of that ne'er-forgotten summer,

He had brought his young wife homeward,
From the land of the Dacotahs;

When the birds sank in the thickets,

And the streamlets laughed and glistened,
And the air was full of fragrance,

And the lovely Laughing Water

Said, with voice that did not tremble,

"I will follow you, my husband !"

In the wigwam with Nokomis,

With those gloomy guests that watched her,
With the Famine and the Fever,

She was lying, the Beloved,

She the dying Minnehaha.

"Hark!" she said, "I hear a rushing,

Hear a roaring and a rushing,

Hear the Falls of Minnehaha

Calling to me from a distance!"

"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,

""Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!"
"Look," she said, "I see my father
Standing lonely at his doorway,

Beckoning to me from his wigwam,

In the land of the Dacotahs!"

"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,

"'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons !"
"Ah," she said, "the eyes of Pauguk

Glare upon me in the darkness;
I can feel his icy fingers

Clasping mine amid the darkness!

Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"

And the desolate Hiawatha,

Far away amid the forest,

Miles away among

the mountains,

Heard that sudden cry of anguish,

Heard the voice of Minnehaha

Calling to him in the darkness,
"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"

Over snowfields waste and pathless,
Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing,
"Wahonowin! Wahonowin!

Would that I had perished for you,
Would that I were dead as you are!
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"
And he rushed into the wigwam,
Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking to and fro and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him;
And his bursting heart within him
Uttered such a cry of anguish,

That the forest moaned and shuddered,
That the very stars in heaven

Shook and trembled with his anguish.

It is not our intention to dwell at length on Longfellow's many poems: to mention one or two of the most striking is

enough to recall them to the mind-and to whom are they not familiar? "The Courtship of Miles Standish," with the story of the old Colony days, and the noble and womanly love of the Puritan maiden; the "Tales of a Wayside Inn," in which we find the vigorous poem, "Paul Revere's Ride;" the pathetic tale of "Sir Federego and his Falcon ;" and the fine ballad of “King Robert of Sicily;" with some impressive versions of Talmudic legends and the Sagas of the fierce and martial Scandinavian

race.

Among the shorter poems, may we not recall the musical and pathetic song," The Old Clock on the Stairs," with its impressive refrain, "For ever, never;" "The Children's Hour," tender, almost sacred in its feeling; "The Rainy Day," melancholy, yet hopeful; "Blind Bartimæus," perfect in expression and treatment; "God's Acre," through which gleams the light of the Resurrection; and that very touching little poem of four stanzas, called "Weariness." In this last, as well as in "The Children's Hour," we have his sympathy with the little ones, his love for the young. We shall, we are sure, be forgiven if we quote it in full :

WEARINESS.

O little feet! that such long years

Must wander on through hopes and fears,

Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the Wayside Inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,

Am weary, thinking of your road!
O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,

Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,

Such limitless and strong desires;
Mine, that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned,

Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white

And crystalline as rays of light

Direct from heaven, their source divine;

Refracted through the mist of

years,

How red my setting sun appears,

How lurid looks this soul of mine!

Besides being a national singer, Longfellow made, apart from his translation of Dante, as many as forty-nine or fifty versions

from nearly every European language, and from writers otherwise little known. He excelled in a work so difficult as translation. He caught the very spirit of the poem he wished to reproduce in English; and giving it all the needful value of accent and rhythm, made it in a sense his own. "The Bird and the Ship," "Whither," "King Christian," "Beware," "The Happiest Land," "The Castle by the Sea," all read like original inspirations more than mechanical or literal translations. His translation of Dante is considered by eminent critics to be

free alike from the reproach of pedantic literalness and of unfaithful license. His special sympathy and genius guide him with almost unerring truth, and display themselves constantly in the rare felicity of his rendering. In rendering the substance of Dante's poem, he has succeeded in giving also, so far as art and genius could give it, the spirit of Dante's poetry. Fitted for the work as few men ever were, by gifts of Nature, by sympathy, by an unrivalled faculty of poetic appreciation, and by long and thorough culture, he has brought his matured powers in their full vigour to its performance, and has produced an incomparable translation-a poem that will take rank among the greatest English poems.1

It is said that

he spared no pains to make his work perfect. As it went on, friends were called in whose judgment as scholars, men of taste, poets, could be relied on, and to them the cantos were read in English; they comparing the version with the original, which they held in their hands, and making suggestions as the reading proceeded. Thus the utmost accuracy was obtained. In this way every line, every word, was tested by those most competent to pass judgment.2

Longfellow continued to compose and publish almost to the last. His" Ultima Thule" was published some two years before his death, and since that lamented event a volume called "In the Harbour," containing some short poems and translations, has appeared. His "spirit" and his pen were active up to the end. These volumes, if they do not increase, at least sustain the reputation of the honoured author, and add another flower to the garland that wreathes his brow. "The Bells of San Blas" was the last poem that he wrote. It was composed on March 15, 1882; but one of the finest things in "In the Harbour" is the sonnet, "Victor and Vanquished," which gives sonorous expression to exalted emotion and elevated thought. We shall conclude our extracts from the poet with quoting this sonnet, although another very fine one, and marked by the same qualities, is the sonnet entitled "Chimes" :

1 Professor Charles Eliot Norton, in the North American Review for July, 1867.

O. B. Frothingham, in the Atlantic Monthly.