rich harvests, the bounty of Heaven, and the reward of industry, consumed in a moment, or trampled under foot, while famine and pestilence follow the steps of desolation. There the cottages of peasants given up to the flames, mothers expiring through fear, not for themselves but their infants; the inhabitants flying with their helpless babes, in all directions, miserable fugitives on their native soil! In another part you witness opulent cities taken by storm; the streets, where no sounds were heard but those of peaceful industry, filled on a sudden with slaughter and blood, resounding with the cries of the pursuing and the pursued; the palaces of nobles demolished, the houses of the rich pillaged, and every age, sex, and rank mingled in promiscuous massacre and ruin! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, an American poet and man of letters, was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 2, 1819. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1838. He studied law, and was admitted to the bar, but never practised his profession. He has been for many years professor of belles-lettres in Harvard College. He is a man of original genius, and in variety of intellectual power has no equal among our men of letters. He has very rare powers of wit and humor. His "Fable for Critics" is a brilliant satire. He has published two series of " Biglow Papers," so called, the first of which has had great popularity both in England and America. No one has ever used the Yankee dialect with so much skill and effect as he. His serigus poems are remarkable for their vigor, originality, and depth of thought. Many of them have been called forth by the antislavery conflict. His descriptions of nature are vivid and beautiful. He has published two volumes in prose, called 'Among my Books" and "My Garden Windows," which contain much admirable criticism. The following extract is from "The Vision of Sir Launfal," a poem founded upon the Legend of King Arthur. D OWN swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hill-top bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; He groined his arches and matched his beams; As the lashes of light that trim the stars; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here And hung them thickly with diamond drops, Which crystalled the beams of moon and sun, No mortal builder's most rare device 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay Lest the happy model should be lost, *Groined: adorned with intersecting arches. Within the hall are song and laughter, Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Hunted to death in its galleries blind; Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer. But the wind without was eager and sharp, The icy strings, Singing in dreary monotone, A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, Was "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless ! " The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch Through the window-slits of the castle old, Against the drift of the cold. X. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. LONGFELLOW. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW is a native of Portland, Maine, and was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825. Soon after leaving college he went to Europe, and remained there till 1829. He then returned home and assumed the duties of professor of modern languages at Bowdoin College. He resigned his post in 1835, and visited Europe again, and upon his return in 1836, was appointed to a similar professorship in the University at Cambridge. Here he has resided ever since, but he resigned his professorship in 1854. Mr. Longfellow holds a very high rank among the authors of America, and is one of the most popular of living poets. He has written " Evangeline," "The Golden Legend," "The Song of Hiawatha," and "Courtship of Miles Standish," narrative poems of considerable length; "The Spanish Student," a play; and a great number of smaller pieces. He has a fruitful imagination, under the control of the most perfect taste, and a remarkable power of illustrating moods of mind and states of feeling by material forms. He has a great command of beautiful diction, and equal skill in the structure of his verse. His poetry is marked by tenderness of feeling, purity of sentiment, elevation of thought, and healthiness of tone. His readers are more than admirers; they become friends. And over all that he has written there hangs a beautiful ideal light, — the atmosphere of poetry, — which illuminates his page as the sunshine does the natural landscape. Mr. Longfellow has also won enduring praise as a prose writer. His "Outre-mer," a collection of travelling sketches and miscellaneous essays, his "Hyperion," a romance, and his "Kavanagh," a domestic story, are marked by the same traits as his poetry. He is a "warbler of poetic prose," and would be entitled to the honors of a poet had he never written a line of verse. His " 'Hyperion," especially, is full of beautiful description, rich fancy, and sweet and pensive thought. He is also a man of extensive literary attainments, familiar with the languages of modern Europe, and a great master in the difficult art of translation. OMEWHAT back from the village street So Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico, Tall poplars-tees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall, An ancient timepiece says to all, "Forever never! Never forever!" - Half-way up the stairs it stands, |