I was married for the second time; I lived with my wife eighteen years, and it is eighteen years since she died. . . . And then, by way of parenthesis or epicycle, I was eighteen years professor in the college here, and have published eighteen separate volumes of poems." During these last years he was engaged in preparing his "Poems of Places," which he called a "poetic guide-book." More than once the author of this sketch saw him at the University Press superintending the proofs. The last volume which Longfellow himself published was "Ultima Thule," which contained his verses in memory of Burns. His last verses were written on the fifteenth of March, 1882. They were touching and significant, like Tennyson's and Whittier's:« O Bells of San Blas, in vain Ye call back the past again, The past is dead to your prayer. Out of the shadow of night The world rolls into light; It is daybreak everywhere. He had not been very well for some little time; in fact, not since "a strange and sudden seizure” which befell him in July, 1873, and which almost deprived him of the use of his right hand and arm. On the eighteenth of March he took a chill, was seized with peritonitis, and died on the afternoon of Friday, the twenty-fourth. In regard to his work, the words which Motley quoted in a letter to Longfellow in 1856 were appropriate to the last : "I heard a brother poet of yours, for whom I hope you have as much regard as I have, say the other day that you had not only written no line which dying you would wish to blot, but not one which living you had not a right to be proud of." Pure as crystal are all his works. His life was likewise lofty and blameless, sweet and unselfish. The greatest tribute came to him from the spontaneous love of the children of his native land. Next to that the love and admiration of his friends, and not least the marble image which enshrines his memory in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey. May this simple memorial be a single leaf contributed by the son of one of his Brunswick pupils, to whom also more than once he showed that unfailing courtesy which made his life a perpetual benediction. NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. "Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Not mountains capped with snow, Nor forests sounding like the sea, Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, Where the woodlands bend to see The bending heavens below. "There is a forest where the din Of iron branches sounds! A mighty river roars between, And whosoever looks therein, Sees the heavens all black with sin, Sees not its depths, nor bounds. "Athwart the swinging branches cast, Soft rays of sunshine pour; Then comes the fearful wintry blast; Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; Pallid lips say, 'It is past! We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright, Be these henceforth thy theme." HYMN TO THE NIGHT. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, |