HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. [Born, 1807.] MR. LONGFELLOW, son of Mr. STEPHEN LONGFELLOW, an eminent lawyer of that city, was born in Portland, Maine, on the twenty-seventh of FebWhen fourteen years of age he ruary, 1807. entered Bowdoin College, where he graduated in 1825. He soon after commenced the study of the law, but being appointed Professor of Modern Languages in the college in which he was educated, he in 1826 sailed for Europe to prepare himself for the duties of his office, and passed three years and a half visiting or residing in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland, and England. When he returned he entered upon the labours of instruction, and in 1831 was married. The professorship of Modern Languages and Literatures in Harvard College was made vacant, in 1835, by Mr. LONGFELthe resignation of Mr. TICKNor. Low, being elected his successor, gave up his place in Brunswick, and went a second time to Europe, to make himself more thoroughly acquainted with the subjects of his studies in the northern nations. He passed the summer in Denmark and Sweden; the autumn and winter in Germany-losing in that period his wife, who died suddenly at Heidelberg; and the following spring and summer in the Tyrol and Switzerland. Returning to the United States in October, 1836, he entered upon his duties at Cambridge, where he has since resided. The earliest of LONGFELLOW's metrical compositions were written for "The United States Literary Gazette," printed in Boston, while he was an undergraduate; and from that period he has been known as a poet, and his effusions, improving as each year added to his scholarship and taste, have been extensively read and admired. While a professor in Brunswick, he wrote several elegant and judicious papers for the "North American Review;" made a translation of Coplas de Manrique ; and published "Outre Mer, or a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea," a collection of agreeable tales and sketches, chiefly written during his first residence abroad. In 1839 appeared his "Hyperion," a romance, and in 1848 Kavanagh," his last work in prose. In the summer of 1845 he gave to the press "The Poets and Poetry of Europe," the most comprehensive, complete and accurate review of the poetry of the continental nations that has ever appeared in any language. The first collection of his own poems was published in 1839, under the title of "Voices of the Night." His "Ballads and other Poems" followed in 1841; "The Spanish Student, a Play," in 1843; Poems on Slavery," in 1844; "The Belfry of Bruges and other Poems," in 1845; "Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie," in 1847; "The Seaside and the Fireside," in 1849; "The Golden Legend," in 1851; and "The Song of Hiawatha," in 1855. Editions of his collected poetical works A considerable portion of Mr. LONGFELLOW'S Of all our poets LONGFELLOW best deserves the title of artist. He has studied the principles of verbal melody, and rendered himself master of the mysterious affinities which exist between sound and sense, word and thought, feeling and expression. His tact in the use of language is probably the There is an aptitude, chief cause of his success. a gracefulness, and vivid beauty, in many of his stanzas, which at once impress the memory and win the ear and heart. There is in the tone of his poetry little passion, but much quiet earnestness. It is not so much the power of the instrument, as the skill with which it is managed, that excites our sympathy. His acquaintance with foreign literature has been of great advantage, by rendering him familiar with all the delicate capacities of lan 355 guage, from the grand symphonic roll of Northern tongue to the "soft, bastard Latin" of the South. His ideas and metaphors are often very striking and poctical; but there is no affluence of imagery, or wonderful glow of emotion, such as take us captive in BYRON or SHELLEY: the claim of LONGFELLOW consists rather in the wise and tasteful use of his materials than in their richness or originality. He has done much for the Art of Poetry in this country by his example, and in this respect may claim the praise which all good critics of English Poetry have bestowed on GRAY and COLLINS. The spirit of LONGFELLOW's muse is altogether unexceptionable in a moral point of view. He illustrates the gentler themes of song, and pleads for justice, humanity, and particularly the beautiful, with a poet's deep conviction of their eternal claims upon the instinctive recognition of the man. Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng; Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretch'd its hand through every clime. In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen CUNIGUNDE'S hand; On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet MELCHIOR singing Kaiser MAXIMILIAN's praise. Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art, Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commission'd as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted SEDALD sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; In the church of sainted LAWRENCE stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. Here, when art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and labour'd ALBRECHT DERER, the Evangelist of Art; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wander'd, secking for the Bet ter Land. Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Dead he is not,-but departed,-for the artist never dies. Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air! Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammer'd to the anvil's chime; Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here HANS SACHS, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laugh'd. But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door, Painted by some humble artist, as in ADAM PUSCH MAN'S song, As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. Vanish'd is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; But thy painter, ALBRECHT DERER, and Hass SACHS, thy cobbler-bard. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norsemen's And loud, amid the universal clamor, [song, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat .he wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth, bestow'd on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. "SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Comest to daunt me! Why dost thou haunt me?" Gleam in December; From the heart's chamber. No Saga taught thee! "Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, Tamed the ger-falcon ; "Oft to his frozen lair Sang from the meadow. With the marauders. Many a wassail-bout Set the cocks crowing, Fill'd to o'erflowing. "Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, 357 And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendour. "I woo'd the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade 66 Our vows were plighted. Under its loosen'd vest Flutter'd her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. Bright in her father's hall "While the brown ale he quafl"d The sea-foam brightly, "She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blush'd and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night "Scarce had I put to sea, Among the Norsemen!- With twenty horsemen. When the wind fail'd us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that cur foe we saw Laugh as he hail'd us. "And as to catch the gale Round veer'd the flapping sail, As with his wings aslant, Seeking some rocky haunt, "Three weeks we westward bow, Stands looking sea-ward. "There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies: On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sun-light hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, O, death was grateful! Thus, seam'd with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's sou!, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"* -Thus the tale ended. In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. The orthography of the word is slightly changed, to preserve the correct pronunciation. NOTE. This poem was suggested by the Round Tower at Newport, now claimed by the Danes, as a work of their ancestors. Mr. Longfellow remarks, On this ancient structure, there are no ornaments remaining which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, who are familiar with Old-Northern architecture, will coneur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building, which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for example as the sub structure of a wind-mill, and latterly, as a hay magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fire-place, and the apertures made above the columns That this building could not have been erected for a wind-mill, is what an architect will easily discern.-PRO FESSOR RAFN, in the Mémoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaires du Nord, for 1838-1839. |