WITH what regularly-progressive steps HENRY W. LONGFELLOW has trod the path of fame! We can scarcely call to mind an American writer who has exhibited the industry of patient acquisition, the increasing refinement of taste, the expansion of fancy, and the enhanced delicacy of execution, which have distinguished the literary career of the author of the volume before us. Nor in depth of thought, and power of expression, have Mr. LONGFELLOW'S writings fallen behind those of any of his contemporaries; while in that winning sympathy with humanity, which finds a response in every bosom, it would be difficult to name his superior. It is not however for this Magazine--which has been the source through which the best and most voluminous portions of Mr. LONGFELLOW'S poetical writings have been given to the public--to praise that which our readers know is its own best commendation. Nor can we, from the scores of pencilled and dog's-eared pages of the beautiful volume under notice, select a tithe of the passages which we indicated as we read, rather with the _hope_ than the _expectation_ of being able to find space for them in our crowded pages. For the beautiful story, we shall, in justice to the publishers and the author, refer our readers to the volume which contains it and its accessories, unmutilated; yet in the mean time we cannot resist an extract or two, as a sample of the execution of the verse. It is enough to 'make lovers of us all,' to read the annexed dialogue between the enamoured PRECIOSA and VICTORIAN: PREC. Dost thou remember when first we met? VIC. It was at Cordova, In the Cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain. PREC. 'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. The priests were singing, and the organ sounded, And then anon the great Cathedral bell. It was the elevation of the Host. We both of us fell down upon our knees, Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. I never had been happy, till that moment. VIC. Thou blessed angel! PREC. And when thou wast gone I felt an aching here. I did not speak To any one that day. VIC. Sweet Preciosa! I loved thee even then, though I was silent! PREC. I thought I ne'er should see thy face again. Thy farewell had to me a sound of sorrow. VIC. That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone. If any doubt that WORDSWORTH'S 'comfort in the strength of love' can be exaggerated, let him or her 'inwardly digest' the following picture of the power of this passion, drawn by VICTORIAN: