enlightening the age in which he lived, and if we look into his poetry for profound psychological analysis, or new insights into nature, we shall be disappointed.

The reputation of Longfellow rests mainly on the exquisite poem “Evangeline,” and of his longer poems this is unquestionably the masterpiece. It is an imitation of Goethe's "Herman and Dorothea." The hexameter so long continued occasions a disagreeable cadence, but no other measure could have told the lovely story with such effect. The charm of the poem is without doubt the character of Evangeline, teaching, as it does, that patience and devotedness may, when exercised with religious purity of heart, rise to the scale of heroic virtues. One incident in the poem fixes itself upon the memory with startling reality, for few of us, whatever may be the object. of our pursuit, have not felt that at some time we were close to that object and yet missed it. We allude to that passage where, after long travel, the weary wanderers moor their boat by a woody island in the Mississippi, and, resting, slumber. At last Gabriel is approaching

Nearer, and ever nearer, among the numberless islands,
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trap-
pers.

Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.

At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and

careworn.

Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sad

ness

Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of forrow.

But they do not meet. He passes the slumberer without seeing her, and they drift apart again.

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and
her footsteps.

As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far
below her,

Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the

distance.

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence.
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but trans-
figured;

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices,
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Savior.

Another of the author's longer poems is the "Golden Legend," a sketch of Europe during the Middle Ages. It abounds in scenes illustrative of the manners and religion of that time; against one scene we must protest strongly; it accords ill with the following lines, referring to the old illuminator of the Scriptorium and the Abbot Ernestus:

Friar Pacificus. It is growing dark! Yet one line more,

And then my work for to-day is o'er.

I come again to the name of the Lord!
Ere I that awful name record,
That is spoken so lightly among men,
Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen;
Pure from blemish and blot must it be
When it writes the word of mystery!
Thus have I labored on and on,
Nearly through the Gospel of John.
Can it be that from the lips

Of this same gentle Evangelist,
That Christ himself perhaps has kissed,
Came the dreadful Apocalypse!

The Abbot Ernestus speaks thus:

66

Time has laid his hand

Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness
And weariness of life, that makes me ready

To say to the dead Abbots under us,

Make room for me!" Only I see the dusk

Of evening twilight coming, and have not

Completed half my task; and so at times
The thought of my shortcomings in this life
Falls like a shadow on the life to come.

His chosen province was the level of ordinary life and he strikes the chords of human sympathy with delicate tenderness. His subjects are for the most part those that influence by their pathos, and for heroic deeds preserved in legend or history, records of devotion and self-sacrifice and quaint old tales, he had a special fondness.

We name his chief writings in the order in which they appeared before the public: "Coplas de Manrique,"