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their leaves :—then there awake in Nature, and the soul of man can see and comprehend them, an expectation and a longing for a future revelation of God's majesty.

They awake, also, when, in the fullness of life, field and forest rest at noon, and through the stillness are heard only the song of the grasshopper and the hum of the bee; and when at evening the singing lark up from the sweet-smelling vineyards rises, or in the later hours of night Orion puts on his shining armor, to walk forth into the fields of heaven. But in the soul of man alone is this longing changed to certainty, and fulfilled.

For, lo! the light of the sun and the stars shines through the air, and is nowhere visible and seen; the planets hasten with more than the speed of the storm through infinite space, and their footsteps are not heard; but where the sunlight strikes the firm surface of the planets, where the storm-wind smites the wall of the mountain cliff, there is the one seen and the other heard. Thus is the glory of God made visible, and may be seen, where in the soul of man it meets its likeness changeless and firm-standing

Thus, then, stands Man;-a mountain on the boundary between two worlds ;-its foot in one, its summit far-rising into the other. From this summit the manifold landscape of life is visible, the way of the Past and Perishable, which we have left behind us; and as we evermore ascend, bright glimpses of the daybreak of Eternity beyond us!

In 1840, Voices of the Night, Longfellow's first volume of original poetry, was issued.

FLOWERS.

FROM "VOICES OF THE NIGHT."

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

Stars, that in earth's firmanient do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,

As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,

Like the burning stars, which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,

God hath writter in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us

Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation,

In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being,

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,

Buds that open only to decay;
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,

Flaunting gayly in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,

Tender wishes, blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more than seeming;

Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,

Seeth. in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing,

Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears v'erflowing,

Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,

And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,

In the centre of his brazen shield;
Not alone in meadows and green alleys,

On the niountain-top, and by the brink
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,

Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone,
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,
Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings;
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,

How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection

We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,

Emblems of the bright and better land.

After the lapse of two years in 1842), Ballads and other l'oems and Poems on Slavery appeared. The Spanish Student a play possessing considerable dramatic power and humor, and of exquisite poetic grace and sentiment—The Belfry of Bruges, Evangeline, The Seaside and the Fireside, together with various Songs, Sonnets, and Translations, were produced in separate forms during the seven following years.

A SCENE FROM "THE SPANISH STUDENT.

A street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA and MUSICIANS.

CHISPA. ABERNUNCIO Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my master, Victorian, yesterday a cow-keeper, and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this serenading

(To the musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobis. cum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray walk this way; anu don't hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend?

rease.

FIRST MUSICIAN. Geronimo Gil, at your service.

CHISPA. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Geronimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee?

FIRST MUSICIAN. Why so ?

CHISPA. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that?

FIRST MUSICIAN. An Aragonese bagpipe.

CHISPA. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off?

FIRST MUSICIAN.
No, your honor.

CHISPA.
I am glad of it. What other instruments have wei

SECOND AND THIRD MUSICIANS.
We play the bandurria.

CHISPA.
A pleasing instrument. And thou?

FOURTH MUSICIAN.
The fife.

And you

CHISPA. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that soars uk lo my lady's window like the song of a swallow. others ?

OTHER MUSICIANS. We are the singers, please your honor.

CHISPA. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the cathedral of Córdova ? Four men can make but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the garden wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady's window. It is by the vicar's skirts that the devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make nu noise.

[Exceunt.

Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie, is one of our poet's most popular productions. The spectacle of a summer's day issuing from among rosy clouds, musical bird and stream notes, and breaking in mellow glory upon a rural landscape, but anon becoming wrapt in storm-clouds, and going down on a scene of desolation, with but a single ray of parting light, would be no unfit simile of this touching poem. ' Its imagery and word-colors are lifelike to homeliness, but it is a homeliness that is irresistibly charming. We quote the poet's description of his heroine:

EVANGELINE. FAIR was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the

wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of

her tresses ! Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the

meadows. When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden. Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its

turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,

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