Excelsior, The Ladder of St. Augustine, and The Footsteps of Angels, although there are many later productions that merit, and must Here are three noble verses from the attain, a like distinction. Psalm of Life : Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Funeral marches to the grave. Lives of great men all remind us The Song of Hiawatha has perhaps been the most popular of any of his recent productions; but that which is generally esteemed his greatest work is Evangeline, which possesses an additional interest for us, since it illustrates some of the stirring incidents of our early history. "I shall never forget," writes an English author, on his recent visit to the United States, "that I have been permitted to touch the hand, and to listen to the discourse-full of calm, and wise, and gentle things-of a noble American man,-of him who wrote the Village Blacksmith and Evangeline,—of him whose life has been blameless, whose record is pure, whose name is a sound of fame to all people-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.” One of his recent poems, entitled "Weariness," must conclude our selections from his works: O little feet, that such long years Must wander on, through doubts and fears, O little hearts, that throb and beat 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! How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine! Very touching is the pathos of these plaintive lines, by SHELDON CHADWICK : Our baby lies under the snow, sweet wife, our baby lies under the snow, Out in the dark with the night, while the winds so loudly blow. breast; Oh, the snow no more can chill that little dove in its nest! Shall we shut the baby out, sweet wife, while the chilling winds do blow? Oh, the grave is now its bed, and its coverlet is of snow. Oh, our merry bird is snared, sweet wife, that a rain of music gave, And the snow falls on our hearts, and our hearts are each a grave! Oh, it was the lamp of our life, sweet wife, blown out in a night of gloom; A leaf from our flower of love, nipped in its fresh spring bloom. But the lamp will shine above, sweet wife, and the leaf again shall grow, Where there are no bitter winds, and no dreary, dreary snow! FIELDS, the author-bookseller of Boston, wrote this refrain: Underneath the sod low-lying, dark and drear, Sleepeth one who left, in dying, sorrow here. Yes! they're ever bending o'er her eyes that weep; As a specimen of the rich music of GERALD MASSEY'S verse, we offer the two following brilliant extracts :— Death of the Babe Christabel :- In this dim world of clouding cares, Shall light thy dark up like a star- Ah! 'tis like a tale of olden time, long, long ago; When the world was in its golden prime, and Love was lord below! Very charming is the following from the pen of SIR E. BULWER LYTTON : Hollow is the oak beside the sunny waters drooping; Thither came, when I was young, happy children trooping; |