Among scholars, Lowell, next to Emerson, is regarded the profoundest of American poets; and, as the public becomes more generally educated, it is certain that he will grow in popular favor. To those who understand and catch the spirit of the man, noticeable characteristics of his writings are its richness and variety. He is at once, a humorist, a philosopher, and a dialectic verse writer, an essayist, a critic, and a masterful singer of songs of freedom as well as of the most majestic memorial odes. Unlike Longfellow and Holmes, Lowell never wrote a novel; but his insight into character and ability to delineate it would have made it entirely possible for him to assay, successfully, this branch of literature. This power is seen especially in his “Biglow Papers” as well as in other of his character sketches. The last of Lowell’s works published was “Latest Literary Essays and Addresses,” issued in 1892, after his death. * * * * * THE GOTHIC GENIUS. FROM “THE CATHEDRAL.” I SEEM to have heard it said by learned folk, Who drench you with æsthetics till you feel As if all beauty were a ghastly bore, The faucet to let loose a wash of words, That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse; But, being convinced by much experiment How little inventiveness there is in man, Grave copier of copies, I give thanks For a new relish, careless to inquire My pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please―― Nobly I mean, nor renegade to art. The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness, Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained, The one thing finished in this hasty world―― For ever finished, though the barbarous pit, Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout As if a miracle could be encored. But ah! this other, this that never ends, Still climbing, luring Fancy still to climb, As full of morals half divined as life, Graceful, grotesque, with ever-new surprise Of hazardous caprices sure to please; Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern, Imagination’s very self in stone! With one long sigh of infinite release From pedantries past, present, or to come, I looked, and owned myself a happy Goth. Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream, Builders of aspiration incomplete, So more consummate, souls self-confident, Who felt your own thought worthy of record In monumental pomp! No Grecian drop Rebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill, After long exile, to the mother tongue. * * * * * THE ROSE. I.