MR. LONGFELLOW, son of Mr. STEPHEN LONGJELLOW, an eminent lawyer of that city, was born in Portland, Maine, on the twenty-seventh of February, 1807. When fourteen years of age he entered Bowdoin College, where he graduated in 1825. He soon after commenced the study of the law, but being appointed Frofessor of Modern Languages in the college in which he was educated, he in 1826 sailed for Europe to prepare himself for the duties of his office, and passed three years and a half visiting or residing in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland, and England. When he returned he entered upon the labours of instruction, and in 1831 was married. The professorship of Modern Languages and Literatures in Harvard College was made vacant, in 1835, by he resignation of Mr. TICKNOR. Mr. LONGFELow, being elected his successor, gave up his place n Brunswick, and went a second time to Europe, to make himself more thoroughly acquainted with the subjects of his studies in the northern nations. He passed the summer in Denmark and Sweden; the autumn and winter in Germany-losing in that period his wife, who died suddenly at Heidelberg; and the following spring and summer in the Tyrol and Switzerland. Returning to the United States in October, 1836, he entered upon his duties at Cambridge, where he has since resided.

The earliest of LONGFELLOW's metrical compositions were written for "The United States Literary Gazette," printed in Boston, while he was an undergraduate; and from that period he has been known as a poet, and his effusions, improving as each year added to his scholarship and taste, have been extensively read and admired. While a professor in Brunswick, he wrote several elegant and judicious papers for the "North American Review;" made a translation of Coplas de Manrique ; and published "Outre Mer, or a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea," a collection of agreeable tales and sketches, chiefly written during his first residence abroad. In 1839 appeared his "Hyperion,” a romance, and in 1848 Kavanagh," his last work in prose. In the summer of 1845 he gave to the press "The Poets and Poetry of Europe," the most comprehensive, complete and accurate review of the poetry of the continental nations that has ever appeared in any language.

The first collection of his own poems was published in 1839, under the title of "Voices of the Night." His "Ballads and other Poems" followed in 1841; "The Spanish Student, a Play," in 1843; "Poems on Slavery," in 1844; "The Belfry of Bruges and other Poems," in 1845; Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie," in 1847; "The Seaside and the Fireside," in 1849; "The Golden Legend," in 1851; and "The Song of Hiawatha,"

in 1855. Editions of his collected poetical work appeared in 1845, 1848, and subsequent years.

A considerable portion of Mr. LONGFELLOW's volumes consists of translations. One of the long est and most elaborate of these is the "Children of the Lord's Supper," from the Swedish of ESAIAS TEGNER, a venerable bishop of the Lutheran church, and the most illustrious poet of northern Europe. The genius of TEGNER had already been made known in this country by a learned and elaborate criticism, illustrated by translated passages of great beauty, from his "Frithiof's Saga," contributed by LONGFELLOW to the "North American Review" soon after he came home from his second visit to Europe. The "Children of the Lord's Supper" is little less celebrated than the author's great epic, and the English version of it was among the most difficult tasks to be undertaken, as spondaic words, necessary in the construction of hexameters, and common in the Greek, Latin, and Swedish, are so rare in the English language. Unquestionably the most charming production of LONGFELLOW's genius is "Evangeline," founded on one of the most remarkable and poetical episodes in American history. In this he has admirably displayed not only his finest vein of sentiment, but an exquisite sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a nice ob servation of the changes wrought by the seasons in those latitudes near which he passed his youth. "The Golden Legend," a dramatic poem, recalling the miracle plays of the Middle Ages, was upon the whole an unsuccessful performance. His last work, "The Song of Hiawatha," has surpassed all the rest in popularity, and has probably been more widely read than any other poem of its length within so short a period from its publication. In three months twenty thousand copies were sold in the United States alone. It is an attempt to invest with the attractions of poetry the tradi tions and superstitions of American savage life.

Of all our poets LONGFELLOW best deserves the title of artist. He has studied the principles of verbal melody, and rendered himself master of the mysterious affinities which exist between sound and sense, word and thought, feeling and expression. His tact in the use of language is probably the chief cause of his success. There is an aptitude, a gracefulness, and vivid beauty, in many of his stanzas, which at once impress the memory and win the ear and heart. There is in the tone of his poetry little passion, but much quiet earnestness. It is not so much the power of the instrument, as the skill with which it is managed, that excites our sympathy. His acquaintance with foreign litera. ture has been of great advantage, by rendering him familiar with all the delicate capacities of la..

guage, from the grand symphonic roll of Northern tongue to the "soft, bastard Latin" of the South. His ideas and metaphors are often very striking and poetical; but there is no affluence of imagery, or wonderful glow of emotion, such as take us captive in BYRON or SHELLEY: the claim of LONGFELLOW consists rather in the wise and tasteful use of his materials than in their richness or originality. He has done much for the Art of Poetry in this country

by his example, and in this respect may claim the praise which all good critics of English Poetry have bestowed on GRAY and COLLINS. The spirit of LONGFELLOW's muse is altogether unexceptionable in a moral point of view. He illustrates the gentler themes of song, and pleads for justice, humanity, and particularly the beautiful, with a poet's deep conviction of their eternal claims upon the instinc tive recognition of the man.

NUREMBERG.

Is the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands

Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town

of art and song,

Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng;

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,

That their great imperial city stretch'd its hand through every clime.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band,

Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen CUNIGUNDE's hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days

Sat the poet MELCHIOR singing Kaiser MAXIMILIAN'S praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art,

Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,

By a former age commission'd as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted SEBALD sleeps enshrined his holy dust,

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;

In the church of sainted LAWRENCE stands a pix of sculpture rare,

Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

Here, when art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart,

Lived and labour'd ALBRECHT DURER, the Evangelist of Art,

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,

Like an emigrant he wander'd, seeking for the Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies;

Dead he is not,-but departed,-for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,

That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes,

Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly guild,

Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme,

And the smith his iron measures hammer'd to the anvil's chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom make the

flowers of poesy bloom

In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here HANS SACHS, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft,

Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laugh'd.

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor,

And a garland in the window, and his face above the door,

Painted by some humble artist, as in ADAM PUSCH

MAN'S song,

As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care,

Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair.

Vanish'd is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye

Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard;

But thy painter, ALBRECHT DURER, and HAN SACHS, thy cobbler-bard.