PEN AND PENCIL PICTURES FROM THE POETS.

The Spirit of Poetry.

LONGFELLOW.

HERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows;
Where, underneath the white thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid

The silent majesty of these deep woods,

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,-

The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope at evening goes,-

Groves, through whose broken roofs the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains,-and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating

Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it

As a bright image of the light and beauty

That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms

We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues

That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye

The heaven of April, with its changing light,

And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,

And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair

Is like the summer tresses of the trees,

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,

It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes

Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy

To have it round us,-and her silver voice

Is the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

The Wedding Procession of Alden
and Priscilla.

LONGFELLOW.

ROM a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla,

Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand of

its master,

Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils,
Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle,
She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the

noonday;

Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant.
Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others,

Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband,
Gaily, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey.

"Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, "but the distaff; Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha !"

Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation,
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together.

Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest,
Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom,
Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses.
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendours,
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended,
Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree,
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol.
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive pastoral ages,
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers.

So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession.