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, With hand on latch, a vision white The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air "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, 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; 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, We could guess it by yon heifer's lowing- Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 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 As I muse backward up the checkered years Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core, Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade Surely, if skill in song the shears may stay, Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet 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, Can make its sneering comment. Still, through our paltry stir and strife, To let the new life in, we know Helps make the soul immortal. Longing is God's fresh, heavenward will Content with merely living; But would we learn that heart's full scope Ab, let us hope that to our praise The moments when we tread his ways, 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.” O Power, more near my life than life itself Not darkness, or in darkness made by us. Of other witness of Thyself than Thou, To nurse Thy flickering life, that else must cease, SHE CAME AND WENT. As a twig trembles, which a bird 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 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, 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 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, I count this thing to be grandly true: 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, 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; Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog 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, 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, They were washed by the autumn tempest, They were trod by hurrying feet, |