In the city of Philadelphia, the long pilgrimage finds a close. Here Evangeline, now advanced in years, joins the order of the Sisters of Mercy, and, while pestilence prevails, she devotes herself to attendance on the afflicted poor. It is a Sabbath-morning, when, in the alms-house, Evangeline is called to wait upon an aged man, who has been brought there to die. The closing scene is touchingly described :

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'Across the meadows were wafted Sounds of psalms that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.

Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit ; Something within her said: "At length thy trials are ended!” And with light in her looks, she entered the chamber of sickness. Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip and the aching brow, and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of the dead and concealing their faces.

Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,

Turned on its pillow of pain, to gaze while she passed; for her presence

Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,

Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
Long, and thin, and gray, were the locks that shaded his temples;
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the form of its earlier manhood
(So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying).
Motionless, senseless, dying he lay, and his spirit, exhausted,
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the
darkness-

Darkness of slumber and death-for ever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like :
"Gabriel! O my beloved !"—and died away into silence.
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and walking under their

shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.

Tears came into his eyes; and, as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline kneeled by his bedside. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents, unuttered, Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what the tongue would have spoken.

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.'

Beside the poems already noticed, Longfellow has written The Spanish Student, a play (1842); Poems on Slavery (1843); and the series entitled The Seaside and the Fireside. In his short occasional poems, he frequently inculcates some moral truth, as in The Ladder of St Augustine, which may be regarded as a concise sermon in verse. Like the Psalm of Life, it clothes in fine imagery common proverbs as old as the hills. For example, nothing can be more trite than the doctrine of the following verses; but the poetical illustration has a noble character :

'We have not wings-we cannot soar ;
But we have feet to scale and climb,
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains that uprear
Their frowning foreheads to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways that appear
As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept,
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.'

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One more example of homely doctrine in a pleasing poetical dress must be quoted, for it is a general favourite among young readers. Carlyle, Emerson, and we must add Longfellow, make truth tiresome by their frequent iteration of the doctrine, that to work for self-culture, and the world's general culture, is man's true destiny and happiness; but the trite sermon seems fresh when Longfellow's sturdy blacksmith is the preacher.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught:
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought!'

The Golden Legend is a dramatic and mystical version of an old German story, versified by a minnesinger named Hartmann von der Aue, who lived, it is said, in the twelfth century. We do not admire the supernatural machinery introduced by Longfellow in his treatment of the legend. It was in itself sufficiently improbable. We read that, in old times, there lived in Swabia a wealthy young nobleman, whom we may style Prince Henry. The plague of leprosy was prevalent in central Europe, and the prince was suddenly seized by this dreadful disease, and became an outcast from society. In vain he travelled far, and sought the aid of various celebrated physicians: they could not give him a ray of hope. At last he went to a physician at Salerno, who, according to the superstition of the times, told him that he might be cured, but only on the condition that a young maiden must freely offer her life as a sacrifice. As he regarded this as impossible, he returned home to Swabia in despair, left his castle, disposed of his riches and furniture, and retired to a little farmhouse occupied by one of his vassals. Here he lived for some time, bitterly lamenting his fate, and refusing to submit patiently to the evil which had fallen upon him. His misery touched the heart of a peasant-girl, the daughter of his vassal. She learned from her parents what the doctor of Salerno had said of the only means by which Prince Henry might be cured. It rested on her mind; and, after meditations by day and night, she resolved to offer her own life. This supernatural self-devotion is contrasted with the selfishness of the prince, who at first consents to buy health at this high price; but subsequently he relents; the life of the intended victim is spared, and the disease is cured.

In his treatment of the legend, Longfellow has freely introduced Lucifer and good angels, with other dramatis persona of the old mysteries.

We have still to notice the writer's extensive work on The Poets and Poetry of Europe-a series of translations, with introductions and biographical notices, published in 1845. The translations are partly original and partly selected from other works. In the difficult and commonly thankless task of translating poetry from the German and other modern languages, Longfellow has apparently obeyed the orders of certain critics who have insisted on verbal fidelity.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, a member of the Society of Friends, is one of the most earnest and impetuous of the writers who have attacked the evil of slavery. His sincerity and warm benevolence cannot be doubted; but the same fervour that gives spirit to his lyrics, makes him too impatient of the pains of finished composition. He regards a song as a sword-to be used in battle; and if it has a sharp point, he cares nothing about its polish. A friendly reviewer says of Whittier: 'There is a rush of passion in his verse which sweeps everything along with it. His fancy and imagination can hardly keep pace with their fiery companion. His vehement sensibility will not allow the inventive faculties fully to complete what they may have commenced.' These remarks may be applied to the anti-slavery verses, and several other poems by Whittier; but he rises, sometimes, far above the declamatory style, and gives indications of a truly poetical imagination. When free from polemical excitement, he can find suitable expressions for refined and elevated sentiments. example, there is found not only a gentle tolerant spirit, but also sound philosophy, in the following lines on the death of an amiable and accomplished woman, who, in creed, belonged to the episcopal church :

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IN MEMORY OF LUCY HOOPER.

They've laid thee midst the household graves,
Where father, brother, sister lie;

prayer

Below thee sweep the dark blue waves,
Above thee bends the summer sky.
Thy own loved church in sadness read
Her solemn ritual o'er thy head,
And blessed and hallowed with her
The turf laid lightly o'er thee there.
That church, whose rites and liturgy,
Sublime and old, were truth to thee,
Undoubted to thy bosom taken,
As symbols of a faith unshaken.
Even I, of simpler views, could feel
The beauty of thy trust and zeal ;
And, owning not thy creed, could see
How deep a truth it seemed to thee,
And how thy fervent heart had thrown
O'er all, a colouring of its own,
And kindled up, intense and warm,
A life in every rite and form,
As, when on Chebar's banks of old,
The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled,
A spirit filled the vast machine-
A life "within the wheels" was seen.

F

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