LONGFELLOW'S MILES STANDISH. * THERE are people in America who say

they prefer other national poets to Longfellow. But the Anglo-Saxon world does not agree with them. Wherever the English language is spoken Longfellow stands forth " longo intervallo" as the poet of America, and of liv- ing poets second only to Tennyson, if even altogether second to him. Longfellow may not quite attain the easy strength and refined simplicity which the Laureate occasionally puts forth, or the cul- tured richness of some of his poems ; but Longfellow on the other hand never sinks to such prosaic baldness as Tennyson occasion- ally substitutes for poetry. Mere secondary excellences, however, have not produced the world-wide fame of either. Both bards have looked upon the life around them, reaching its weaknesses, searching out its wants, and not only instructing men in the day's duties that lie before them, but presenting that instruction in pithy and felicitous expressions, which strike the mind with the force of conviction and sink into the memory. It is this com- bination of the philosopher and poet which is the strong charac- teristic of Longfellow as well as Tennyson, and is we believe the true foundation of their wide-spread fame. It is this blending of the utile with the duke which has carried the works of Long- fellow to the remote places of far off lands, and has caused his verse to linger in the memory of the dying soldier, when the mind was dim to his own condition or the visible objects round him. The story of The Courtship of Miles Standish, which forms the principal poem of the present volume, will not disappoint expec- tation as a production, though it will not raise the position of its author as a poet. The subject is rightly an American tale. Its hero is not only a real man but the incident on which it is founded is a truth. According to tradition, Captain Miles Standish, the commander of the soldier and pilgrim settlers who went out in the May Flower to found New England, really did, after the death of his first wife, employ, a friend named John Alden, to court Priscilla Mullins. The lady, however, fell in love with the ambassador, and, married him, Miles eventually so- lacing his rejection with one " Barbara " ; but this last fact is

omitted by the poet.

This not over-promising "story is treated with great delicacy and effect by Longfellow. The passion of Alden and Priscilla exists before the bluff middle-aged captain, with heart as true as Ins own steel, though he has not "those soft parts of conversa- tion which chamberers have," despatches his friend John as deputy wooer. The worldly wisdom of Polonius- " This above all : to thine own self be true ;

And it mat follow as the night to day,

Thou ean'st not then be false to any man "— is not displayed by John when he silently undertakes the task of " worting." But though accepting the office of wooer, he is only false to himself; he does his duty as well as he can ; but Priscilla rejects the captain, taking natural objection to the form of his " summons." " If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,

Why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me ? If Iam not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning' "!

The heart lady, moreover, like Desdemona, hints the state of her own .

" But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, Said, in a tremulous voice, Why don't you speak for yourself John' " ?

As a detailed " report " of the embassy is immediately made to the captain, he at once sees how matters stand. This puts him into a towering passion, when luckily he is called to a council of lvar, and marches against the Indians. We have seen how the lady tells her love ; there is as much delicacy in the half veiled ritship that goes on while the captain is on his campaigns. atere skilful management of a singular story, is not however the ue VID:ractens' tic of Miles Standish. Indeed, even in Long- OW s unproved version of the original, the story merely as a storyas not greatly beyond the happiest class of annual tales. The inents of the poem consist in its numemis pictures of old Eng- LougfaHnte ocow urtssip of Miles Standish. and other zoeMs, By Henry Wadsworth

Published by Kent and Co.

lish character and garniture transferred to New England ; of the early manners and economy of the colony ; of the bluff, choleric, placable soldier ; the nice sense of honour and conscience possessed by John Alden, though dashed with a leetle spice of selfishness ; and the frank open-heartedness yet delicacy of Priscilla. Here is an example.

" So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn,

Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers, As if the tluead she was spinning were that of his life and his fortune, After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. Truly .Priscilla,' he said, 'when I see you spinning and spinning, Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others, Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment ; You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner.' Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter ; the spindle Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers ; While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief continued : You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia ; She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and meadow and mountain, Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed into a proverb. So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no longer Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill as chambers with music. Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in their childhood, Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner ' ! Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puritan maiden, Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the sweetest,

Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning,

Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden, Come, you must not be idle ; if I am a pattern for housewives Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. Hold this skein on your hands while I wind it, ready for knitting ; Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have changed and the manners, Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden ! ' Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, He sitting awkwardly there with his arms extended before him,

She standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his lingers,

Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares—for how could she help it ?- Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body.

Lo! in the midst of this scene a breathless messenger entered, Bringing, in hurry and heat, the terrible news from the village. Yes ; Miles Standish was dead !—an Indian had brought them the

tidings,—

Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of the battle, Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of his forces ; All the town would be burned, and all the people be murdered ! Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror; But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered Once and for ever the bonds that held him bound as a captive, Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom,

Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla,

Pressing her close to his heart, as for ever his own, and exclaiming, Those whom the Lord hath united let no man put them asunder !' "

Perhaps one proof of Longfellow's skill as a poet, is the success with which he wields a not very poetical metre. If fit for any- thing, however, the hexameter is fit for a story of this kind, in which a touch of the ludicrous and satirical is blended with quaintness and the homely affections. If there were any great depth of passion or even feeling in the poem, we fancy the hex- ameter would break down. It is, we fear, unequal to the carriage of those moral lessons which Longfellow has presented in happier metres. It is not an absolute but a comparative drawback, but it goes to prevent the poet's advance beyond his present ground, that an occasional scene has in its subject and manner a slight resemblance to Hiawatha.

Upwards of twenty miscellaneous poems follow Miles Standish. They consist of thoughts, incidents, or scenes, treated for the most part with an application to human life. The best theme of the whole is Haunted Houses, the 'idea of which is indicated in the opening stanza.

"All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors."

This idea, however, is not developed with great felicity. The stanzas on the death of the Duke of Wellington have the greatest force and distinctness of any of the shorter pieces.

"A mist was driving down the British Channel. The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships ; And from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Lsover Were all alert that day,

To see the French war-steamers speeding over,

When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like conehant lions, Their cannon through the night, Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel ; Each answering each, with morning salutations, • That all was well.

And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, Awaken with its call !

No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal Be seen upon his post !

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled.

Ile passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And, as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom.

lie did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar; Ali, what a blow ! that made all England tremble And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead ; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead."