Longfellow [pp. 416]

416 Longfellow. [April,
standers as for the act itself. But not once selves softly in her cheeks, had told me of
have you given me specific cause for punish- her simple gladness in being singled out and
ment. You have been fractious occasional- analyzed even with dubious praise. No one
ly, but you always recognized it and chang- had ever complimented her with attention.
ed yourself before I could reprove you. Yo~ But in those infinitely natural eyes, I saw
have not been bad. Yet you have gained young thoughts, gentle, innocent, and Unnothing. You or I have been in fault -who consciously outlooking as doves from their
shall be punished? Don't you see, my windows. It was a revelation to me of the
child, that worthiness doesn't belong to the way in which nature sometimes conceals for
starting point nor yet to the final height? It a while a fine possibility.
is only in what is gained between them- "Don't you want the hand, sir?"
the sum of the increment-" "The hand! No, Gloriana, it is too good
"Some of the which, sir?" for punishment. But I take the hand re I dropped her hand hurriedly. She raised spectfully, and say good-by to the only pupil
her fine eyes, and I saw them then for the I shall ever care to remember. For my amfirst time. The queer lines quivering about bition as a teacher is fully closed: I shall
her mouth and the`blush-roses lifting them- never play pedagogue again."
C. T H I)a7,,ier.
LONGFELLOW.
PLEASANT as sound of falling rain among
The summer leaves, and sweet as after rain
The moist earth is when the sun shines again,
The measure and the music of his song.
Not to his muse, most gentle, may belong
The throb of passion, the wild pulse of pain;
Upon his perfect purity no stain
And the world's turmoil would but do him wrong.
But with a tender ministry he glides
Into our hearts, and like an angel guest
That presence evermore with us abides
With healing, strength; with comforting and rest.
0, bard beloved! the blessed labor thine
To show thine art how pure, and how divine.
He sang the New World's song unto the Old:
The fading story of a fading race
Revived upon his lips in numbers bold,
Art without art, and grace untaught of grace.
With master hand that wakened and controlled,
The lyres of other lands he made his own,
And gave the added magic of his tone,
Their golden legends touched with finer gold.
Well won thy bays-and not alone the bays,
0, poet! great as is thy meed of praise,
Greater the love that follows after thee
To that new life, new land; where, with calm eyes,
And brow serene, there greets thee lovingly,
Thy Dante, in the gates of Paradise!
fna B. Coolbrit/i.