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HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was born in Portland, Me., February 27, 1807, and he died at his home in Cambridge, Mass., March 24, 1882, at the age ot seventy-five. For some time before his death his home was in the building formerly occupied by Gen. Washington as his headquarters.

Longfellow studied at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, and after three years' travel and study in Europe, became Professor of Modern Languages in his native college. In 1835, he accepted the Chair of Modern Languages and Literature in Harvard University.

The poet's youth was noted for industry and close application to study. While at college, he became somewhat noted for his poems and criticisms contributed to periodicals. Longfellow's literary record is a long one. In 1833, he published translations of Spanish verses called Coplas de Manrique, and an essay on Spanish poetry; 1835, Sketches from Beyond the Sea; 1839, Hyperion, a Romance, and also collections of poems, entitled Voices of the Night; 1842, Poems on Slavery, 1843, The Spanish Student, a tragedy; 1845, Poets and Poetry of Europe; 1846, The Belfry of Bruges; 1847, Evange

line; 1849, Kavanaugh, and The Seaside and Fireside; 1851, The Golden Legend; 1855, Song of Hiawatha; 1858, Miles Standish; 1863, Tales of a Wayside Inn.

He has also published Three Books of Song, a divine tragedy; and translations. Thus we see that Longfellow was a great literary worker. Whipple says that Longfellow idealizes real life, embodies high moral sentiment in beautiful and ennobling forms, and inweaves the golden threads of spiritual being into the texture of common existence. He is the most popular of American poets, and his works are admired throughout the literary world. In speaking of his death, under date of March 24, 1882, the London Times, says: "News of Longfellow's death will be read with deep regret whereever the English language is spoken. The death of no literary Englishman could excite more general sorrow than that of the much-loved author of Evangeline. He will be no more sincerely lamented in America than in this country."

The News, Standard and Telegraph all speak in equally graceful terms of Longfellow.

All the many sounds of nature

Borrowed sweetness from his singing;

All the hearts of men were softened
By the pathos of his music;

For he sang of peace and freedom,
Sang of beauty, love, and longing;
Sang of death, a life undying
In the Islands of the Blessed.

-Hiawatha.

THE

The Day Is Done.

HE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles rain.

Come read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of time;

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor,
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humble poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs
And as silently steal away.

Hiawatha's Wooing.

S unto the bow the cord is,

So unto the man is woman;

Though she bends him, she obeys him,
Though she draws him yet she follows.
Useless each without the other!"

Thus the youthful Hiawatha
Said within himself and pondered,
Much perplexed by various feelings,
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing,
Dreaming still of Minnehaha,
Of the lovely Laughing Water,
In the land of the Dacotahs.

"Wed a maiden of your people,"
Warning said the old Nokomis;
"Go not eastward, go not westward,
For a stranger, whom we know not!
Like a fire upon the hearthstone
Is a neighbor's homely daughter,

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