The air was fresh and soft and sweet; The slopes in Spring's new verdure lay, And, wet with dew-drops, at my feet Bloomed the young violets of May.

No sound of busy life was heard Amid those pastures lone and still, Save the faint chirp of early bird,

Or bleat of flocks along the hill.

I traced that rivulet's winding way;
New scenes of beauty opened round,
Where meads of brighter verdure lay,
And lovelier blossoms tinged the ground.

"Ah! happy valley-stream," I said,

"Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers, Whose fragrance round thy path is shed

Through all the joyous summer hours.

"Oh! could my years like thine be passed
In some remote and silent glen,
Where I could dwell and sleep at last
Far from the bustling haunts of men!"

But what new echoes greet my ear?
The village school-boys' merry call!
And 'mid the village hum I hear
The murmur of the water-fall.

I looked the widening vale betrayed
A pool that shone like burnished steel,
Where that bright valley-stream was stayed
To turn the miller's ponderous wheel.

Ah! why should I (I thought with shame) Sigh for a life of solitude,

When even this stream without a name

Is laboring for the common good?

No, never let me shun my part

Amid the busy scenes of life,

But, with a warm and generous heart, Press onward in the glorious strife.

THE LITTLE CLOUD.

As when, on Carmel's sterile steep,
The ancient prophet bowed the knee,
And seven times sent his servant forth
To look toward the distant sea;-

There came at last a little cloud

Scarce broader than the human hand, Spreading and swelling, till it broke

In showers on all the herbless land,

And hearts were glad, and shouts went up,
And praise to Israel's mighty God,
As the sere hills grew bright with flowers,
And verdure clothed the naked sod,-

Even so our eyes have waited long; But now a little cloud appears, Spreading and swelling as it glides, Onward into the coming years!

Bright cloud of Liberty! full soon,

Far stretching from the ocean strand, Thy glorious folds shall spread abroad, Encircling our beloved land.

Like the sweet rain on Judah's hills

The glorious boon of love shall fall, And our broad millions shall arise As at an angel's trumpet-call.

Then shall a shout of joy go up,

The wild, glad cry of freedom come From hearts long crushed by cruel hands, And songs from lips long sealed and dumb,

And every bondman's chain be broke,
And every soul that moves abroad
In this wide realm shall know and feel
The blesséd liberty of God.

SONNET.

'Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me far
To a wild hill that overlooks a land
Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star
Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand
The streamlet slides with mellow tones away:
The West is crimson with retiring day;
And the North gleams with its own native light.
Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie,
And through green banks the river wanders by,
And the wide woods with autumn-hues are bright,-
Bright-but of fading brightness!-soon is past
That dream-like glory of the painted wood;
And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast,

The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good.

James Otis Rockwell.

AMERICAN.

Rockwell (1807-1831) was a native of Lebanon, Conn. At an early age he was apprenticed to a printer in Utica, N. Y., and began, while yet a boy, to write for the newspapers. Afterward he labored as a journeyman compositor in Boston till he became an assistant editor of the Statesman. He was connected with the Patriot of Providence, R. I., at the time of his death. Some pathetic lines to his memory were written by Whittier.

That thine eye is quickly shaded,

That thy heart-blood wildly flows, That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, Are the fruits of these new woes.

Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring Linger on your mother's face,— Know ye that she is expiring,

That ye are an orphan race? God be with you on the morrow,

Father, mother-both no more; One within a grave of sorrow, One upon the ocean's floor!

THE LOST AT SEA.

Wife, who in thy deep devotion
Puttest up a prayer for one
Sailing on the stormy ocean,

Hope no more-his course is done.
Dream not, when upon thy pillow,
That he slumbers by thy side;
For his corse beneath the billow
Heaveth with the restless tide.

Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, Laugh amid the sorrowing rains, Know ye many clouds are throwing

Shadows on your sire's remains? Where the hoarse, gray surge is rolling

With a mountain's motion on, Dream ye that its voice is tolling For your father lost and gone?

When the sun looked on the water,
As a hero on his grave,
Tingeing with the hue of slaughter
Every blue and leaping wave,
Under the majestic ocean,

Where the giant current rolled, Slept thy sire, without emotion, Sweetly by a beam of gold.

And the silent sunbeams slanted, Wavering through the crystal deep, Till their wonted splendors haunted

Those shut eyelids in their sleep. Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming, Sparkled through his raven hair; But the sleep that knows no dreaming Bound him in its silence there.

So we left him; and to tell thee Of our sorrow and thine own, Of the woe that then befell thee, Come we weary and alone.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

AMERICAN.

Longfellow was born in Portland, Me., Feb. 27th, 1807. He was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825, in the same class with Hawthorne; was appointed Professor of Modern Languages in 1826; then passed four years in Europe, and on his return commenced the duties of his chair. His "Outre-Mer," containing his notes of travel, appeared in 1835. The same year he succeeded George Ticknor in the chair of belles-lettres at Harvard, when he again visited Europe. He gave up his professorship in 1854, and devoted himself exclusively to literature. His "Voices of the Night" appeared in 1839, and secured for him a high rank among the poets of the age. His prose romance of "Hyperion" appeared the same year. It was followed by "Ballads, and other Poems," in 1841; "Poems on Slavery," in 1842; "The Spanish Student," a play, in 1843; "Poets and Poetry of Europe," in 1845; "The Belfry of Bruges," in 1845; "Evangeline," in 1847; "Kavanagh," a novel, in 1849; "Seaside and Fireside," in 1849; "The Golden Legend," in 1851; "The Song of Hiawatha," in 1855; "The Courtship of Miles Standish,” in 1858; "Tales of a Wayside Inn," in 1863; "Flower de Luce," in 1866; a translation of" The Divine Comedy of Dante," in 1867; "The New England Tragedies," in 1868; "The Divine Tragedy," in 1871; "Three Books of Song," in 1872; "Keramos, and other Poems," in 1878: besides many minor productions that have appeared in leading American magazines.

Unlike some poets of the most recent school in verse, Longfellow rarely tries to convey an idea which is not clear and intelligible to his own mind. He is as honest as Shakspeare, Milton, or Burns in this respect. The notion that the poet must suggest more than he express es is a just one; but it has led some writers to take it for granted that suggestiveness lies in obscurity rather than in such a clearly defined expression as this: "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." Here we have the utmost paucity of words, and yet the thought is level to the ordinary understanding. The obscure may sometimes excite a lively imagination so as to produce a poetical effect; but surely the highest order of poetry is that which gives more than it requires for its

solution. The obscure writer is often a contriver of riddles which may be interpreted in different ways by dif ferent minds. The true, the lasting poetry, is that which, while it goes to the general heart, does not involve too much of a strain of the thinking faculty, It is in his shorter lyrical pieces, his ballads, and his fine descriptive touches that Longfellow's powers are brought out to most advantage; for it is in these that he oftenest combines the neatness and skill of the consummate artist with the curious felicity and perfect simplicity of the genuine poet. His "Building of the Ship," "Rain in Summer," "Sea-weed," "The Fire of Drift-wood,” “ Revenge of Rain-in-the-face," "Paul Revere's Ride," and many other pieces, have in them, on this account, the elements of an enduring popularity. Several of his sonnets are among the choicest in the language.

For some forty-five years he has been almost continuously productive, either as author, compiler, or translator; and his latest poems have shown an increase rather than a diminution of power. Few poets have lived to reap such a harvest of contemporary fame, united to admiration and esteem for personal qualities and an unblemished life, such as the history of the "irritable race" too rarely exhibits. Longfellow has been twice married; and in his second marriage was blessed with that experience of paternity which finds beautiful expression in some of his verses. An elegant quarto edition of his poems, finely illustrated, appeared in Boston in 1880.

KILLED AT THE FORD.

He is dead, the beautiful youth,

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth-
He, the light and life of us all,

Whose voice was as blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,

The cheer of whose laugh and whose pleasant word
Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along
Down the dark of the mountain gap,
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,

He was humming the words of some old song: "Two red roses he had on his cap,

And another he bore at the point of his sword."

Sudden and swift a whistling ball

Came out of the wood, and the voice was still:
Something I heard in the darkness fall,
And for a moment my blood grew chill;
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks
In a room where some one is lying dead;
But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up on his saddle again,
And through the mire and the mist and the rain

Carried him back to the silent camp,
And laid him asleep as if on his bed;
And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp
Two white roses upon his cheeks,
And one just over his heart blood-red.

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant North,
Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;

And a bell was tolled in that far-off town,
For one who had passed from cross to crown-
And the neighbors wondered that she should die.

THE LAUNCH.

FROM "THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP."

Then the master,

With a gesture of command, Waved his hand;

And at the word,

Loud and sudden there was heard,

All around them and below,

The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs!

She starts, she moves,-she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel;
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!

And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,-
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
Take her to thy protecting armis,
With all her youth and all her charms!"

How beautiful she is! how fair

She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O ship!

Through wind and wave right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life,

Oh, gentle, loving, trusting wife,

And safe from all adversity

Upon the bosom of that sea
Thy comings and thy goings be!
For gentleness and love and trust
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
And in the wreck of noble lives
Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears,

With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what master laid thy keel,
What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'Tis of the wave, and not the rock:
"Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest's roar-
In spite of false lights on the shore-
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee;
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,-are all with thee!

THE ARROW AND THE SONG.

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who hath sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke,
And the song from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE.

In that desolate land and lone,
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone

Roar down their mountain path, By their fires the Sioux Chiefs Muttered their woes and griefs,

And the menace of their wrath.

"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, "Revenge upon all the race

Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" And the mountains dark and high From their crags re-echoed the cry Of his auger and despair.

In the meadow, spreading wide
By woodland and river-side,
The Indian village stood;
All was silent as a dream,
Save the rushing of the stream

And the blue-jay in the wood.

In his war-paint and his beads, Like a bison among the reeds,

In ambush the Sitting Bull Lay, with three thousand braves, Crouched in the clefts and caves,

Savage, unmerciful.

Into the fatal snare

The White Chief with yellow hair, And his three hundred men, Dashed headlong, sword in hand! But of that gallant band

Not one returned again.

The sudden darkness of death
Overwhelmed them, like the breath
And smoke of a furnace fire;
By the river's bank, and between
The rocks of the ravine,

They lay in their bloody attire.

But the foeman fled in the night,
And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight,
Uplifted high in air

As a ghastly trophy, bore

The brave heart that beat no more,
Of the White Chief with yellow hair.

Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, oh funeral song,

With a voice that is full of tears, And say that our broken faith Wrought all this ruin and scath, In the Year of a Hundred Years.