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ture. In 1844 he produced a second series of poems; in 1845, "Conversations on some of the Old Poets;" in 1848, a witty review, in verse, of some of the conspicuous American men of letters, entitled "A Fable for Crities :" also a third series of poems, and "The Bigelow Papers," containing some dainty bits of Yankee humor, and indicating the writer's place in the front rank of American political reformers. In 1869 appeared "Under the Willows, and other Poems," and soon afterward "The Cathedral," perhaps the most mature and vigorous of all his poems. In 1864 appeared "Fireside Travels;" in 1870, a volume of prose essays, entitled "Among my Books;" and in 1871, "My Study Windows," a second collection of essays, chiefly critical.

In 1855 he succeeded Longfellow as Professor of Modern Languages, etc., in Harvard University. Having taken a somewhat active part in the Presidential canvass of 1876, he was appointed Minister to Spain in 1877, and Minister to England in 1880. His first wife, Maria White (1821-1853), has shown, in some finished verses, that she shared with him the poetic gift. His rank is high among the most original and vigorous of the poets of the age. He was editor of the Atlantic Monthly in 1857, and was also editor for a time of the North American Review.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN!

The little gate was reached at last,
Half hid in lilacs down the lane;
She pushed it wide, and, as she passed,
A wistful look she backward cast,
And said, "Auf wiedersehen!"

With hand on latch, a vision white
Lingered reluctant, and again
Half doubting if she did aright,
Soft as the dews that fell that night,
She said, "Auf wiedersehen!”

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair;
I linger in delicious pain;

Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,
Thinks she,“ Auf wiedersehen !”

"Tis thirteen years; once more I press The turf that silences the lane;

I hear the rustle of her dress,

I smell the lilacs, and-ah, yes,
I hear "Auf wiedersehen!"

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!

The English words had seemed too fain, But these they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart;

She said, "Auf wiedersehen!"

A DAY IN JUNE.

FROM "SIR LAUNFAL," A POEM.

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;
The heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, grasping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf or a blade too meau To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illuminated being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nestIn the nice ear of nature which song is the best?

Now is the high tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it; We are happy now because God so wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade, and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack!

We could guess it by yon heifer's lowing-
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true

As the grass to be green, or the skies to be blue'Tis the natural way of living.

TO H. W. L.1

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1807.

I need not praise the sweetness of his song, Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he wrong The new-moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along, Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds.

With loving breath of all the winds his name
Is blown about the world, but to his friends
A sweeter secret hides behind his fame,
And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim
To murmur a God bless you! and there ends.

As I muse backward up the checkered years
Wherein so much was given, so much was lost,
Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears-
But hush! this is not for profaner ears;
Let them drink molten pearls, nor dream the cost.

Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core,
As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's ground;
Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and the more
Fate tried his bastions, she but found a door
Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound.

Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade
Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with sun,
So through his trial faith translucent rayed
Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed
A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun.

Surely, if skill in song the shears may stay,
And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss,
If our poor life be lengthened by a lay,
He shall not go, although his presence may;
And the next age in praise shall double this.

Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet
As gracious natures find his song to be;
May Age steal on with softly cadenced feet
Falling in music, as for him were meet
Whose choicest verse is not so rare as he!
1 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

LONGING.

Of all the myriad moods of mind

That through the soul come thronging, Which one was e'er so dear, so kind,

So beautiful as longing?

The thing we long for, that we are,
For one transcendent moment,
Before the present, poor and bare,

Can make its sneering comment.

Still, through our paltry stir and strife,
Glows down the wished ideal,
And longing moulds in clay what life
Carves in the marble real;

To let the new life in, we know
Desire must ope the portal;
Perhaps the longing to be so

Helps make the soul immortal.

Longing is God's fresh, heavenward will
With our poor earthward striving;
We quench it, that we may be still

Content with merely living;

But would we learn that heart's full scope
Which we are hourly wronging,
Our lives must climb from hope to hope,
And realize our longing.

Ab, let us hope that to our praise
Good God not only reckons

The moments when we tread his ways,
But when the spirit beckons !

That some slight good is also wrought, Beyond self-satisfaction,

When we are simply good in thought, Howe'er we fail in action.

"IN WHOM WE LIVE AND MOVE.”
FROM "THE CATHEDRAL."

O Power, more near my life than life itself
(Or what seems life to us in sense immured),
Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,
Share in the tree-top's joyance, and conceive
Of sunshine and wide air and wingéd things
By sympathy of nature, so do I
Have evidence of Thee so far above,
Yet in and of me! Rather Thou the root
Invisibly sustaining, hid in light,

Not darkness, or in darkness made by us.
If sometimes I must hear good men debate

Of other witness of Thyself than Thou,
As if there needed any help of ours

To nurse Thy flickering life, that else must cease,
Blown out, as 'twere a candle, by men's breath,
My soul shall not be taken in their snare,
To change her inward surety for their doubt
Muffled from sight in formal robes of proof:
While she can only feel herself through Thee,
I fear not thy withdrawal; more I fear,
Seeing, to know Thee not, hoodwinked with thought
Of signs and wonders, while, unnoticed, Thou,
Walking thy garden still, commun'st with men,
Missed in the commonplace of miracle.

SHE CAME AND WENT.

As a twig trembles, which a bird
Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent,
So is my memory thrilled and stirred;
I only know she came and went.

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven; I only know she came and went.

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps
The orchard's full of bloom and scent,
So clove her May my wintry sleeps;
I only know she came and went.

An angel stood and met my gaze,

Through the low door-way of my tent: The tent is struck, the vision stays;

I only know she came and went.

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim,
And life's last oil is nearly spent,
One gush of light these eyes will brim,
Only to think she came and went.

Charles Kingsley.

Novelist, poet, and theologian, Kingsley (1819-1875) was one of nature's foremost noblemen in act and thought. A native of Devonshire, he studied at King's College, London, and Magdalene College, Cambridge, where he graduated in 1842. He entered the Church, and became Rector of Eversley. From 1859 to 1869 he was Regius Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. In 1873 he was transferred to a Canonry in Westminster. Two years before his death he travelled and lectured in the United States. A volume of his poems was publish

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Josiah Gilbert Holland.

AMERICAN.

Holland was born in Belchertown, Mass., 1819. He studied and practised medicine for a time, and was for a year superintendent of schools in Vicksburg, Miss. From 1849 to 1866 he was associate - editor of the Springfield (Mass.) Republican. He travelled in Europe in 1870, and on his return became editor of Scribner's Monthly. He is the author of two popular poems-" Bitter Sweet" and "Katrina." As a prose essayist and a novelist he has also been successful in winning the public attention. His "Marble Prophecy, and other Poems," appeared in 1872.

GRADATIM.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true:
That a noble deed is a step toward God-
Lifting the soul from the common clod
To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under our feet; By what we have mastered of good and gain; By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on wings
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angel, but feet for men!

We may borrow the wings to find the way— We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray; But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit, round by round.

WANTED.

God, give us men! A time like this demands Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and ready hands,

Men whom the lust of office does not kill;
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;
Men who possess opinions and a will;
Men who have honor; men who will not lie;
Men who can stand before a demagogue,
And damn his treacherous flatteries without wink-
ing!

Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog
In public duty, and in private thinking:
For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds,
Their large professions and their little deeds,-
Mingle in selfish strife, lo! Freedom weeps,
Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps!

Samuel Longfellow.

AMERICAN.

Longfellow, brother of the eminent poet, Henry W., was born in Portland, Me., in 1819. He graduated at Harvard College in 1839, and from the Divinity School in 1846. He has preached in various pulpits, has made several voyages to Europe, and has his home in Cambridge. In his hymns and other poetical productions, he has given ample proof of superior talent.

APRIL.

Again has come the Spring-time,
With the crocus's golden bloom,
With the smell of the fresh-turned earth-mould,
And the violet's perfume.

O gardener! tell me the secret

Of thy flowers so rare and sweet!"I have only enriched my garden With the black mire from the street."

NOVEMBER.

The dead leaves their rich mosaics,
Of olive and gold and brown,
Had laid on the rain-wet pavements,
Through all the embowered town.

They were washed by the autumn tempest, They were trod by hurrying feet,

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