The New York herald. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1840-1920, 1875-07-08


Mr.. Long fellows New Poem.
new poem by Longfellow is always an
important event in our literature, bat his
"Morituri Salutamus," which we print to-day
from the advance sheets OF Horper's Magazine,
derives unusual interest from the anniversary
which it cOmmemorates Fifty'year ago Mr.
Longfellow graduated with the famous class
of Bowdoin College. of which Nathaniel Haw-
thorne, Josiah s. Little, James w. Bradbury.
John $. c. Abbott, Jonathan Cilley, George
b. Cheever, Professor Nathaniel Dunn and
other distinguished men were members Half
OF century is gone, and the great poet, who
has survived many of his ancient college com
panions, is called upon TO celebrate the mem
DRY of the past and the reunion of those who
remain. 1t is not strange that he should ap-
proach this task with reluctance, and that
solemn tone 'from the deep throat of sad
Melpomene" should underlie the silvery music
of his verse.
The idea of the poem is simple and noble.
80 Caesar, we who are about to die salute
you'll" is the cry Of pain which echoes
throughout the lines, softened into serenity
by philosophic resignation. In their old age
the poet and his friends returned, like Ulysses
and his companions, from long wanderings
to the scenes of early youth, salute the groves
and halls of academic toll. They salute the
shades of their dear preceptors, as Dante in
the Inferno" met and bowed before the in
structor of his youth. They who are about
to die salute those who but begin to live
the graduates who go out into the world from
the class of 1875. They salute each other,
these long separated comrades, who meet
once more only to separate again forever.
This conception is beautiful in its simplicity.
and is presented with strength all the stronger
for its tenderness and pathos.
Poems such as this should not be judged
with that severity which is given to those
which are purely imaginative for they speak
of those personal regrets and griefs to which
reverence above all else is due. Nothing that
Mr.. Longfellow has written for years seems
to us to have come more directly from his
heart than this beautiful lament. There are
ing by anything even in his own volumes, in
which all passionate sorrows are transfgured
into shapes of beauty. Yet in this poem the
man sometimes interrupts the poet as an
actor, who is striving with his own grief,
utters imperfectly the alien woe OF an i'm
aginary character. Mr.. Longiellow sees him
self
As one who struggles in troubled dream
To speak and cannot, TO myself 1 seem.
Upon such serious subjects as the closing
of their own lives poets can neither speak
freely nor yet be wholly silent, and it is the
highest praise this poem could receive to say
that in the pathetic strife between the
man and the artist in ''Morituri Salu-
Janus" the artist has won the supremacy.
AS ''there is no beauty without touch of
sadness. so is the profound sadness Of this
poem sufused with beauty, as a dying face
with love. The sincerity of its expression,
chastened by patience and manly reserve,
will endear this poem to the countless
hearts who cherish Mr.. Longfellow as
guide in oil that is noble and
pure. It is more of a personal work than any
thing Mr., Longfellow has written; for gener-
ally be has chosen to stand apart from his
art, like painter behind his picture, express
ing in poetic forms passions and SORROWS
which appear to be his only as they are the
property of all. But this majestic candor Of
the poet who has grown old in fame is very
different from the morbid scorn with which
Byron paraded his griefs before the common
eye. 1t is the farewell Of one to
whom years have brought the philosophic
mind, and who, foreseeing the inevitable
parting from earth, exclaims to all its imperial
grandeurs, 30 Caesar, we who are about to die
salute you'll" 1t is magnificent regret, but
the close is inspired with nobler faith, and
Mr.. Longfellow has himself proved his phil
osophy by writing in his old age poem which
would have been impossible to him in youth.
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky Is filed with stars invisible by day.
WE SEE THAT Mr.. Voorhees,, of Indiana. is