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What seem to us but sad funereal tapers,
May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead, the child of our affection,
But gone unto that school
And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion
By guardian angels led,
She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day, we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air ;
Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her,
For when, with raptures wild,
She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion
Clothed with celestial grace;
Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
That cannot be at rest;
We will be patient and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
The grief that must have way.
I add one simile from the “ Address to a Child :"
By what astrology of fear or hope
The concluding extract has a stronger recommen
dation than any that I can give; it is Mrs. Browning's favourite among the poems of Longfellow :
THE ARROW AND THE SONG.
I shot an arrow into the air,
I breathed a song into the air,
Long, long afterwards, in an oak
I venture to add an anecdote new to the English public.
Professor Longfellow's residence at Cambridge, a picturesque old wooden house, has belonging to it the proudest historical associations of which America can boast : it was the head-quarters of Washington. One night the poet chanced to look out of his window, and saw by the vague starlight a figure riding slowly past the mansion. The face could not be distinguished; but the tall erect person, the cocked hat, the traditional costume, the often-described white horse, all were present. Slowly he paced before the house,
and then returned, and then again passed by, after which neither horse nor rider were seen or heard of.
Could it really be Washington ? or was it some frolic-masquerader assuming his honoured form ? For my part I hold firmly to the ghostly side of the story, so did my informant, also a poet and an American, and as worthy to behold the spectre of the illustrious warrior as Professor Longfellow himself. I can hardly say more.
AUTHORS SPRUNG FROM THE PEOPLE.
I REMEMBER saying one day to a woman of high genius that a mutual friend of hers and mine proposed to give a series of lectures on authors sprung from the people, from the masses as it is the fashion to say now-a-days, and her replying quickly :
Why all authors who are worth reading are sprung from the people ;—it is the well-born who are the exceptions.” And then she ran through a beadroll of great names from Chaucer to Burns : nevertheless this repartee was not quite right; not a whit more right than a repartee usually is; for the number of educated writers must always preponderate. But still the class of self-educated writers is large, increasingly large; and truthful biographies of such persons must always be amongst the most in