hand in mine.

"And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes.
Like the stars, so still and saint-like.
Looking downward from the skies.

"Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer.
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended.
Breathing from her lips of air.

"Oh, though oft depressed and lonely
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died."

In 1868 he went to England with his family. His fame in England was as
great now as that of any English poet. He was received in London with
the greatest love and hospitality; he met the queen, and received a
doctor's degree from the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. His
reception by the literary classes was not more warm than the
appreciative interest which was shown by the people. He had become
the poet of the English homes, and was as greatly read as the
Laureate.

I met the poet under most pleasant circumstances, in the beginning of
his beautiful old age. I was a young editor; I was called to make an
address before a church literary society on the historic places of
Boston, and I wrote to Professor Longfellow in regard to the history
of the poem "I Stood on the Bridge at Midnight." I received a note
from him in his well-known hand, saying that if I would visit him some
evening at his home, it would give him pleasure not only to give me
the history of the writing of this poem, but of any of his poems in
which I might take an interest. I accepted the invitation, and one
misty February night found me at his door, feeling as poor Phillis
Wheatly must have felt when she stood at the same door after the
invitation from Washington.

I well recall the night. The slow opening of the door by the quiet
servant, the dim hall that seemed haunted by the shadows of the past,
the great reception-room walled with books and pictures!

The poet was alone--he was a lonely man in his old age. He rose from
his table, and came to meet me, a kindly light in his face, his
flowing hair as white as snow. He saw that I was awed by his presence,
and his gracious dignity changed at once into a friendly sympathy. "I
have here some things that may interest you," he said; "here is
Coleridge's inkstand; there is Tom Moore's waste-paper basket; and
there," he added, in a reverent tone, "is a piece of Dante's coffin."
The last relic was enclosed in a solid glass, and he pro