The swelling heart heaves, moaning like the ocean

That cannot be at rest;

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.

Or again, when he deals with the more mature, and far more irreparable losses:

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,—
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Utter'd not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's noiseless prayer,—
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died.

Is not death changed? is not the weight lifted? is not One felt to be very near us, bearing our sorrow, and carrying our griefs?

This

O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!

Like the beloved John,

To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,
And thus to journey on!

grasp of things unseen-this sense of the ever present surroundings of the world of spiritsthis abiding trust in the love which has passed beyond the grave, and gate of death, does it not seem to be yet another spiritual echo of the great Apostle's words—“ O death, where is thy sting? grave, where is thy victory?"

III. LONGFELLOW'S ENDEAVOUR AFTER THE Higher Life.—But perhaps, after all, what has gained the firmest hold over the English mind are, not the meditations on death, but the practical grappling with the affairs of every-day life, the trumpet calls to duty, the oft declared need for patience, perseverance, and tireless endeavour.

There is a practical sense about Longfellow which redeems him from every charge of sentimentality. If you ever find him indulging in anything like what we may call "sentiment," it is only to nerve and inspire us with energy for manly action; and I should be unjust to the genius of the greatest American poet if I did not here remind you of his oft repeated "Psalm of Life."

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal: "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,-act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time:

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

And in the matter of earnest moral activity there is another poem, called the "Ladder of St. Augustine," much less known, but also sounding a practical note, the opening lines of which are interesting because they remind us of Tennyson's lines referring to the same quotation from St. Augustine.

I hold it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,

That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.

Many persons on reading the "In Memoriam," have inquired who it is that is referred to. Longfellow informs us :

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said

That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things-each day's events
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire-the base design

That makes another's virtues less,

The revel of the giddy wine,

And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things,

The strife for triumph more than truth,
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill-all evil deeds

That have their root in thoughts of ill,
Whatever hinders or impedes

The action of the nobler will,—

All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain,