The volume before us (in whose outward appearance the keen “taste” of genius is evinced with nearly as much precision as in its internal soul) includes, with several brief original pieces, a translation from the Swedish of Tegnér. In attempting (what never should be attempted) a literal version of both the words and the metre of this poem, Professor Longfellow has failed to do justice either to his author or himself. He has striven to do what no man ever did well and what, from the nature of language itself, never _can_ be well done. Unless, for example, we shall come to have an influx of _spondees_ in our English tongue, it will always be impossible to construct an English hexameter. Our spondees, or, we should say, our spondaic words, are rare. In the Swedish they are nearly as abundant as in the Latin and Greek. We have only “_compound_,” “_context_,” “_footfall_,” and a few other similar ones. This is the difficulty; and that it _is_ so will become evident upon reading “The Children of the Lord’s Supper,” where the sole _readable_ verses are those in which we meet with the rare spondaic dissyllables. We mean to say _readable as Hexameters_; for many of them will read very well as mere English Dactylics with certain irregularities. But within the narrow compass now left us we must not indulge in anything like critical comment. Our readers will be better satisfied perhaps with a few brief extracts from the original poems of the volume—which we give for their rare excellence, without pausing now to say in what particulars this excellence exists. And, like the water’s flow Under December’s snow Came a dull voice of woe, From the heart’s chamber. So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. As with his wings aslant Sails the fierce cormorant Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. Down came the storm and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed Then leaped her cable’s length. She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter’s voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother’s voice Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more How in the grave she lies; And with his hard rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.