New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1882-03-25

nosseesed the compCsIrc of high poetic genius
Those who think that lie was passionless,
and that he krew little or nothing of trouble
or sorrow. must have read TO but little purpose
sncb poems as 1.-THE Goblet of Life" The
Light of Stars or the closing chapters OF
"Hyperonn Even his familiar ballad of 1.-The
Bridge" is eloquent of most profound knowi-
edge of grief and if there be in our language
a more absolute poetic note of anguish ana ioru-
tude-wben one considers its bleak isolation and
its mournful signifcance-than his lines called
WEAKNESS" we are not acquainted with 1t.
He was not, of course, Byron. lis poetry
is not the poetry of storm and stress " The
banner, torn but flying" which streams like
Thunderstorm against the wind" is nowhere
unfurled in all his writings. But, if he did
not utter the conflict, he very clearly and very
swcetly uttered the consciousness OF IT, ana
the grand clarion note OF patience anu con-
quest. OF the trials and griefs that are com
mon to humanity, and that can be named ana
known he had his share but also he had the
experience which the poetic nature invariably
and inevitably draws upon itself. He bad felt
all chat Burns felt, in writing 10 Mary I'D
Heaven" He had felt al that Goethe felt, Ill
writing that wonderful passage OF Faust
which ends with the curse on patience as the
worst of our human Affections. But he would
suffer no shock OF sorrow to turn his HE mo
a delirium. He would meet every trouble rs II
man ought to meet it who believes IN the I'M
mortal destiny of the human soul. When he
lost, under circumstances so pathetic ana even
tragical, twenty years ago, the wife whom ne
so entirely loved Chat beautiful and
stately lady, whom to remember is to
wonder that so much loneliness and
worth could take mortal shapeA he
took the terrible anguish into the silent
chambers of his own heart, he bore it with
unhinching and accomplishing fOrtitude. and
from that day to this, no reader of his writ
incs has been visited with one complaining
murmur, one plea for sympathy, one wall OF
personal loneliness or dependency or mlsan-
thropical bitterness All that was ever shown
of that misery was the simple grandeur OF en-
durance combined with even a more wlstiu
and reader and deeper sympathy with the
sorrows of mankind.
There are many poets, and good ones too,
| who seem never to get beyond the necessity
Of utterance for its own sake. LOngfellOw was
not an egOtist. He thought of others; and the
permanent value of his writings consists In
this-that he helped to utter the emotions OF
the universal human heart 1t is when a
writer speaks for us what were else unspoken
setting our minds free and giving us strength
to meet the cares of life and the hour OF
deith-that he first becomes of any real
value. LongfellOw has done this for thou
sands of human beings, and done it in
that language of perfect simplicity-never
bald, never insipd never failing to exalt The
sub;ect-which IS at once the most beautiful
and the most difficult of all the elements OF
literature And the high thoughts and tender
feelings that he has thus spoken, the limpid,
soft and tranquil strain Of his music-brcath-
inc out so truly the loves of home, the sorrow
for those that are dead and gone the trust
that we all would cherish in a happy future
beyond the grave, the purpose to work nobly
and endure Jravcly while we liye-will sound
on in the ears Of the world, long after every
Land and heart that honOrs him or grleyes
for him to-day is Wondering in the dust