GREAT POETS OF AMERICA.

GREAT POETS OF AMERICA.WELL KNOWN AMERICAN POETSN. P. WILLISTHOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH • WALT WHITMANRICHARD HENRY STODDARDRICHARD WATSON GILDER •COL.JOHN HAY(‡ decoration)WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.THE POET OF NATURE.IT is said that “genius always manifests itself before its possessor reaches manhood.” Perhaps in no case is this more true than in that of the poet, and William Cullen Bryant was no exception to the general rule. The poetical fancy was early displayed in him. He began to write verses at nine, and at ten composed a little poem to be spoken at a public school, which was published in a newspaper. At fourteen a collection of his poems was published in 12 mo. form by E. G. House of Boston. Strange to say the longest one of these, entitled “The Embargo” was political in its character setting forth his reflections on the Anti-Jeffersonian Federalism prevalent in New England at that time. But it is said that never after that effort did the poet employ his muse upon the politics of the day, though the general topics of liberty and independence have given occasion to some of his finest efforts. Bryant was a great lover of nature. In the Juvenile Collection above referred to were published an “Ode to Connecticut River” and also the lines entitled “Drought” which show the characteristic observation as well as the style in which his youthful muse found expression. It was written July, 1807, when the author was thirteen years of age, and will be found among the succeeding selections.“Thanatopsis,” one of his most popular poems, (though he himself marked it low) was written when the poet was but little more than eighteen years of age. This production is called the beginning of American poetry.William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, HampshireCo.,Mass., November3rd, 1784. His father was a physician, and a man of literary culture who encouraged his son’s early ability, and taught him the value of correctness and compression, and enabled him to distinguish between true poetic enthusiasm and the bombast into which young poets are apt to fall. The feeling and reverence with which Bryant cherished the memory of his father whose life was“Marked with some act of goodness every day,”is touchingly alluded to in several of his poems and directly spoken of with pathetic eloquence in the “Hymn to Death” written in 1825:Alas! I little thought that the stern powerWhose fearful praise I sung, would try me thusBefore the strain was ended. It must cease—For he is in his grave who taught my youthThe art of verse, and in the bud of lifeOffered me to the Muses. Oh, cut offUntimely! when thy reason in its strength,Ripened by years of toil and studious searchAnd watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taughtThy hand to practise best the lenient artTo which thou gavest thy laborious days,And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earthReceived thee, tears were in unyielding eyes,And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skillDelayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned paleWhen thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thouShalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all I haveTo offer at thy grave—this—and the hopeTo copy thy example.Bryant was educated at Williams College, but left with an honorable discharge before graduation to take up the study of law, which he practiced one year at Plainfield and nine years at Great Barrington, but in 1825 he abandoned law for literature, and removed to New York where in 1826 he began to edit the “Evening Post,” which position he continued to occupy from that time until the day of his death. William Cullen Bryant and the “Evening Post” were almost as conspicuous and permanent features of the city as the Battery and Trinity Church.In 1821Mr.Bryant married Frances Fairchild, the loveliness of whose character is hinted in some of his sweetest productions. The one beginning“O fairest of the rural maids,”was written some years before their marriage; and “The Future Life,” one of the noblest and most pathetic of his poems, is addressed to her:—“In meadows fanned by Heaven’s life-breathing wind,In the resplendence of that glorious sphereAnd larger movements of the unfettered mind,Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?“Will not thy own meek heart demand me there,—That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?”Among his best-known poems are “A Forest Hymn,” “The Death of the Flowers,” “Lines to a Waterfowl,” and “The Planting of the Apple-Tree.” One of the greatest of his works, though not among the most popular, is his translation of Homer, which he completed when seventy-seven years of age.Bryant had a marvellous memory. His familiarity with the English poets wassuch that when at sea, where he was always too ill to read much, he would beguile the time by reciting page after page from favorite authors. However long the voyage, he never exhausted his resources. “I once proposed,” says a friend, “to send for a copy of a magazine in which a new poem of his was announced to appear. ‘You need not send for it,’ said he, ‘I can give it to you.’ ‘Then you have a copy with you?’ said I. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I can recall it,’ and thereupon proceeded immediately to write it out. I congratulated him upon having such a faithful memory. ‘If allowed a little time,’ he replied, ‘I could recall every line of poetry I have ever written.’”His tenderness of the feelings of others, and his earnest desire always to avoid the giving of unnecessary pain, were very marked. “Soon after I began to do the duties of literary editor,” writes an associate, “Mr.Bryant, who was reading a review of a little book of wretchedly halting verse, said to me: ‘I wish you would deal very gently with poets, especially the weaker ones.’”Bryant was a man of very striking appearance, especially in age. “It is a fine sight,” says one writer, “to see a man full of years, clear in mind, sober in judgment, refined in taste, and handsome in person.... I remember once to have been at a lecture whereMr.Bryant sat several seats in front of me, and his finely-sized head was especially noticeable.... The observer of Bryant’s capacious skull and most refined expression of face cannot fail to read therein the history of a noble manhood.”The grand old veteran of verse died in New York in 1878 at the age of eighty-four, universally known and honored. He was in his sixth year when George Washington died, and lived under the administration of twenty presidents and had seen his own writings in print for seventy years. During this long life—though editor for fifty years of a political daily paper, and continually before the public—he had kept his reputation unspotted from the world, as if he had, throughout the decades, continually before his mind the admonition of the closing lines of “Thanatopsis” written by himself seventy years before.(‡ decoration)THANATOPSIS.¹The following production is called the beginning of American poetry.That a young man not yet 19 should have produced a poem so lofty in conception, so full of chaste language and delicate and striking imagery, and, above all, so pervaded by a noble and cheerful religious philosophy, may well be regarded as one of the most remarkable examples of early maturity in literary history.¹The following copyrighted selections fromWm.Cullen Bryant are inserted by permission of D. Appleton &Co., the publishers of his works.TO him who, in the love of Nature, holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—Go forth, under the open sky, and listTo Nature’s teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice.—Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again;And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements,To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hillsRock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods,—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, pour’d round all,Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no soundSave its own dashings,—yet—the dead are there,And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one, as before, will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glides away, the sons of men—The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—Shall, one by one, be gather’d to thy side,By those who in their turn shall follow them.So live that, when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, which movesTo that mysterious realm where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustain’d and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.WAITING BY THE GATE.BESIDES the massive gateway built up in years gone by,Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet wood and lea,I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze’s flight,A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more,And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o’er.Behold the portals open and o’er the threshold, now,There steps a wearied one with pale and furrowed brow;His count of years is full, his♦allotted task is wrought;He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the hourOf human strength and action, man’s courage and his power.I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day,And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throwsA look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and fair.Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays!Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze!Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless airScatters a moment’s sweetness and flies we know not where.I grieve for life’s bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn;But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds sing on;And I again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate,In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go out,The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strewsIts fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!So from every region, so enter side by side,The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride,Steps of earth’s greatest, mightiest, between those pillars gray,And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away.And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,And some whose temples brighten with joy are drawing near,As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eyeOf Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my heart,Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea,I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.♦‘alloted’ replaced with ‘allotted’“BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.”ODEEM not they are blest aloneWhose lives a peaceful tenor keep;The Power who pities man has shownA blessing for the eyes that weep.The light of smiles shall fill againThe lids that overflow with tears;And weary hours of woe and painAre promises of happier years.There is a day of sunny restFor every dark and troubled night;And grief may bide an evening guest,But joy shall come with early light.And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low bier,Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,Hope that a brighter, happier sphereWill give him to thy arms again.Nor let the good man’s trust depart,Though life its common gifts deny,—Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,And spurned of men, he goes to die.For God hath marked each sorrowing day,And numbered every secret tear,And heaven’s long age of bliss shall payFor all his children suffer here.THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.HERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines,That stream with gray-green mosses; here the groundWas never touch’d by spade, and flowers spring upUnsown, and die ungather’d. It is sweetTo linger here, among the flitting birdsAnd leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and windsThat shake the leaves, and scatter as they passA fragrance from the cedars thickly setWith pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades—Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,Back to the earliest days of Liberty.O Freedom!thou art not, as poets dream,A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,And wavy tresses gushing from the capWith which the Roman master crown’d his slave,When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,Arm’d to the teeth, art thou: one mailed handGrasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr’dWith tokens of old wars; thy massive limbsAre strong and struggling. Power at thee has launch’dHis bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven.Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep,And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound,The links are shiver’d, and the prison wallsFall outward; terribly thou springest forth,As springs the flame above a burning pile,And shoutest to the nations, who returnThy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.Thy birth-right was not given by human hands:Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him,To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,And teach the reed to utter simple airs.Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,His only foes: and thou with him didst drawThe earliest furrows on the mountain side,Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself,The enemy, although of reverend look,Hoary with many years, and far obey’d,Is later born than thou; and as he meetsThe grave defiance of thine elder eye,The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,But he shall fade into a feebler age;Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares,And spring them on thy careless steps, and clapHis wither’d hands, and from their ambush callHis hordes to fall upon thee. He shall sendQuaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien,To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful wordsTo charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread,That grow to fetters; or bind down thy armsWith chains conceal’d in chaplets. Oh! not yetMayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay byThy sword, nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lidsIn slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps.And thou must watch and combat, till the dayOf the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou restAwhile from tumult and the frauds of men,These old and friendly solitudes inviteThy visit. They, while yet the forest treesWere young upon the unviolated earth,And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.TO A WATERFOWL.WHITHER, ’midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly limn’d upon the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fann’d,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o’er thy shelter’d nest.Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heavenHath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.ROBERT OF LINCOLN.MERRILY swinging on brier and weed,Near to the nest of his little dame,Over the mountain-side or mead,Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Snug and safe is that nest of ours,Hidden among the summer flowers.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,Wearing a bright black wedding coat;White are his shoulders and white his crest,Hear him call in his merry note:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Look what a nice new coat is mine,Sure there was never a bird so fine.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife,Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,Passing at home a patient life,Broods in the grass while her husband sings,Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Brood, kind creature; you need not fearThieves and robbers, while I am here.Chee, chee, chee.Modest and shy as a nun is she,One weak chirp is her only note,Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,Pouring boasts from his little throat:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Never was I afraid of man;Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can.Chee, chee, chee.Six white eggs on a bed of hay,Flecked with purple, a pretty sightThere as the mother sits all day,Robert is singing with all his might:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nice good wife, that never goes out,Keeping house while I frolic about.Chee, chee, chee.Soon as the little ones chip the shellSix wide mouths are open for food;Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,Gathering seed for the hungry brood.Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;This new life is likely to beHard for a gay young fellow like me.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln at length is madeSober with work and silent with care;Off is his holiday garment laid,Half-forgotten that merry air,Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nobody knows but my mate and IWhere our nest and our nestlings lie.Chee, chee, chee.Summer wanes; the children are grown;Fun and frolic no more he knows;Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone;Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;When you can pipe that merry old strain,Robert of Lincoln, come back again.Chee, chee, chee.DROUGHT.PLUNGED amid the limpid waters,Or the cooling shade beneath,Let me fly the scorching sunbeams,And the southwind’s sickly breath!Sirius burns the parching meadows,Flames upon the embrowning hill,Dries the foliage of the forest,And evaporates the rill.Scarce is seen the lonely floweret,Save amid the embowering wood;O’er the prospect dim and dreary,Drought presides in sullen mood!Murky vapours hung in ether,Wrap in gloom, the sky serene;Nature pants distressful—silenceReigns o’er all the sultry scene.Then amid the limpid waters,Or beneath the cooling shade,Let me shun the scorching sunbeamsAnd the sickly breeze evade.THE PAST.No poet, perhaps, in the world is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant.He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors. The following poem is a fair specimen of his deep vein in his chosen serious themes. Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of melancholy in his treatment is always pleasing.THOU unrelenting Past!Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,And fetters, sure and fast,Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.Far in thy realm withdrawnOld empires sit in sullenness and gloom,And glorious ages goneLie deep within the shadow of thy womb.Childhood, with all its mirth,Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,And, last, Man’s Life on earth,Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.Thou hast my better years,Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the kind,Yielded to thee with tears,—The venerable form—the exalted mind.My spirit yearns to bringThe lost ones back;—yearns with desire intense,And struggles hard to wringThy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.In vain:—thy gates denyAll passage save to those who hence depart;Nor to the streaming eyeThou giv’st them back,—nor to the broken heart.In thy abysses hideBeauty and excellence unknown;—to theeEarth’s wonder and her prideAre gather’d, as the waters to the sea;Labors of good to man,Unpublish’d charity, unbroken faith,—Love, that midst grief began,And grew with years, and falter’d not in death.Full many a mighty nameLurks in thy depths, unutter’d, unrevered;With thee are silent fame,Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear’d.Thine for a space are they:—Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;Thy gates shall yet give way,Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!All that of good and fairHas gone into thy womb from earliest time,Shall then come forth, to wearThe glory and the beauty of its prime.They have not perish’d—no!Kind words, remember’d voices once so sweet,Smiles, radiant long ago,And features, the great soul’s apparent seat,All shall come back; each tieOf pure affection shall be knit again;Alone shall Evil die,And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.And then shall I beholdHim by whose kind paternal side I sprung,And her who, still and cold,Fills the next grave,—the beautiful and young.THE MURDERED TRAVELER.WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around,Brought bloom and joy again;The murdered traveler’s bones were found,Far down a narrow glen.The fragrant birch, above him, hungHer tassels in the sky;And many a vernal blossom sprung,And nodded careless by.The red bird warbled, as he wroughtHis hanging nest o’erhead;And fearless, near the fatal spot,Her young the partridge led.But there was weeping far away,And gentle eyes, for him,With watching many an anxious day,Were sorrowful and dim.They little knew, who loved him so,The fearful death he met,When shouting o’er the desert snow,Unarmed and hard beset;Nor how, when round the frosty pole,The northern dawn was red,The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stoleTo banquet on the dead;Nor how, when strangers found his bones,They dressed the hasty bier,And marked his grave with nameless stones,Unmoistened by a tear.But long they looked, and feared, and wept,Within his distant home;And dreamed, and started as they slept,For joy that he was come.Long, long they looked—but never spiedHis welcome step again.Nor knew the fearful death he diedFar down that narrow glen.THE BATTLEFIELD.Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza♦beginning—“Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,”—said: “Mr.Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each beyond a king’s ransom.”♦‘begining’ replaced with ‘beginning’ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,And fiery hearts and armed handsEncounter’d in the battle-cloud.Ah! never shall the land forgetHow gush’d the life-blood of her brave,—Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet,Upon the soil they fought to save.Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,Alone the chirp of flitting bird,And talk of children on the hill,And bell of wandering kine, are heard.No solemn host goes trailing byThe black-mouth’d gun and staggering wain;Men start not at the battle-cry:Oh, be it never heard again!Soon rested those who fought; but thouWho minglest in the harder strifeFor truths which men receive not now,Thy warfare only ends with life.A friendless warfare! lingering longThrough weary day and weary year;A wild and many-weapon’d throngHang on thy front, and flank, and rear.Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,And blench not at thy chosen lot;The timid good may stand aloof,The sage may frown—yet faint thou not,Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;For with thy side shall dwell, at last,The victory of endurance born.Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise again;The eternal years of God are hers;But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,And dies among his worshippers.Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,When they who help’d thee flee in fear,Die full of hope and manly trust,Like those who fell in battle here.Another hand thy sword shall wield,Another hand the standard wave,Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peal’dThe blast of triumph o’er thy grave.THE CROWDED STREETS.LET me move slowly through the street,Filled with an ever-shifting train,Amid the sound of steps that beatThe murmuring walks like autumn rain.How fast the flitting figures come;The mild, the fierce, the stony face—Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, and someWhere secret tears have left their trace.They pass to toil, to strife, to rest—To halls in which the feast is spread—To chambers where the funeral guestIn silence sits beside the bed.And some to happy homes repair,Where children pressing cheek to cheek,With mute caresses shall declareThe tenderness they cannot speak.And some who walk in calmness here,Shall shudder as they reach the doorWhere one who made their dwelling dear,Its flower, its light, is seen no more.Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame,And dreams of greatness in thine eye,Go’st thou to build an early name,Or early in the task to die?Keen son of trade, with eager brow,Who is now fluttering in thy snare,Thy golden fortunes tower they now,Or melt the glittering spires in air?Who of this crowd to-night shall treadThe dance till daylight gleams again?To sorrow o’er the untimely dead?Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?Some, famine struck, shall think how longThe cold, dark hours, how slow the light;And some, who flaunt amid the throng,Shall hide in dens of shame to night.Each where his tasks or pleasure call,They pass and heed each other not;There is one who heeds, who holds them allIn His large love and boundless thought.These struggling tides of life that seemIn wayward, aimless course to tend,Are eddies of the mighty streamThat rolls to its appointed end.NOTICE OF FITZ-GREEN HALLECK.As a specimen ofMr.Bryant’s prose, of which he wrote much, and also as a sample of his criticism, we reprint the following extract from a Commemorative Address which he delivered before the New York Historical Society in February 1869. This selection is also valuable as a character sketch and a literary estimate ofMr.Halleck.WHEN I look back upon Halleck’s literary life, I cannot help thinking that if his death had happened forty years earlier, his life would have been regarded as a bright morning prematurely overcast. Yet Halleck’s literary career may be said to have ended then. All that will hand down his name to future years had already been produced. Who shall say to what cause his subsequent literary inaction was owing? It was not the decline of his powers; his brilliant conversation showed that it was not. Was it then indifference to fame? Was it because he put an humble estimate on what he had written, and therefore resolved to write no more? Was it because he feared lest what he might write would be unworthy of the reputation he had been so fortunate as to acquire?“I have my own way of accounting for his literary silence in the latter half of his life. One of the resemblances which he bore to Horace consisted in the length of time for which he kept his poems by him, that he might give them the last and happiest touches. Having composed his poems without committing them to paper, and retaining them in his faithful memory, he revised them in the same manner, murmuring them to himself in his solitary moments, recovering the enthusiasm with which they were first conceived, and in this state of mind heightening the beauty of the thought or of the expression....“In this way I suppose Halleck to have attained the gracefulness of his diction, and the airy melody of his numbers. In this way I believe that he wrought up his verses to that transparent clearness of expression which causes the thought to be seenthrough them without any interposing dimness, so that the thought and the phrase seem one, and the thought enters the mind like a beam of light. I suppose that Halleck’s time being taken up by the tasks of his vocation, he naturally lost by degrees the habit of composing in this manner, and that he found it so necessary to the perfection of what he wrote that he adopted no other in its place.”A CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.From “The Letters of a Traveler.”In 1843, duringMr.Bryant’s visit to the South, he had the pleasure of witnessing one of those antebellum southern institutions known as a Corn-Shucking—one of the ideal occasions of the colored man’s life, to which both men and women were invited. They were free to tell all the jokes, sing all the songs and have all the fun they desired as they rapidly shucked the corn. Two leaders were usually chosen and the company divided into two parties which competed for a prize awarded to the first party which finished shucking the allotted pile of corn.Mr.Bryant thus graphically describes one of these novel occasions:Barnwell District,South Carolina, March 29, 1843.BUT you must hear of the corn-shucking. The one at which I was present was given on purpose that I might witness the humors of the Carolina negroes. A huge fire oflight-woodwas made near the corn-house. Light-wood is the wood of the long-leaved pine, and is so called, not because it is light, for it is almost the heaviest wood in the world, but because it gives more light than any other fuel.The light-wood-fire was made, and the negroes dropped in from the neighboring plantations, singing as they came. The driver of the plantation, a colored man, brought out baskets of corn in the husk, and piled it in a heap; and the negroes began to strip the husks from the ears, singing with great glee as they worked, keeping time to the music, and now and then throwing in a joke and an extravagant burst of laughter. The songs were generally of a comic character; but one of them was set to a singularly wild and plaintive air, which some of our musicians would do well to reduce to notation. These are the words:Johnny come down de hollow.Oh hollow!Johnny come down de hollow.Oh hollow!De nigger-trader got me.Oh hollow!De speculator bought me.Oh hollow!I’m sold for silver dollars.Oh hollow!Boys, go catch the pony.Oh hollow!Bring him round the corner.Oh hollow!I’m goin’ away to Georgia.Oh hollow!Boys, good-by forever!Oh hollow!The song of “Jenny gone away,” was also given, and another, called the monkey-song, probably of African origin, in which the principal singer personated a monkey, with all sorts of odd gesticulations, and the other negroes bore part in the chorus, “Dan, dan, who’s the dandy?” One of the songs commonly sung on these occasions, represents the various animals of the woods as belonging to some profession or trade. For example—De cooter is de boatman—The cooter is the terrapin, and a very expert boatman he is.De cooter is de boatman.John John Crow.De red-bird de soger.John John Crow.De mocking-bird de lawyer.John John Crow.De alligator sawyer.John John Crow.The alligator’s back is furnished with a toothed ridge, like the edge of a saw, which explains the last line.When the work of the evening was over the negroes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. One of them took his place as musician, whistling, and beating time with two sticks upon the floor. Several of the men came forward and executed various dances, capering, prancing, and drumming with heel and toe upon the floor, with astonishing agility and perseverance, though all of them had performed their daily tasks and had worked all the evening, and some had walked from four to seven miles to attend the corn-shucking. From the dances a transition was made to a mock military parade, a sort of burlesque of our militia trainings, in which the words of command and the evolutions were extremely ludicrous. It became necessary for the commander to make a speech, and confessing his incapacity for public speaking, he called upon a huge black man named Toby to address the company in his stead. Toby, a man of powerful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto stood leaning against the wall, looking upon the frolic with an air of superiority. He consented, came forward, demanded a bit of paper to hold in his hand, and harangued the soldiery. It was evident that Toby had listened to stump-speeches in his day. He spoke of “de majority of Sous Carolina,” “de interests of de state,” “de honor of ole Ba’nwell district,” and these phrases he connected by various expletives, and sounds of which we could make nothing. At length he began to falter, when the captain with admirable presence of mind came to his relief, and interrupted and closed the harangue with an hurrah from the company. Toby was allowed by all the spectators, black and white, to have made an excellent speech.CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

WELL KNOWN AMERICAN POETSN. P. WILLISTHOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH • WALT WHITMANRICHARD HENRY STODDARDRICHARD WATSON GILDER •COL.JOHN HAY

WELL KNOWN AMERICAN POETS

N. P. WILLISTHOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH • WALT WHITMANRICHARD HENRY STODDARDRICHARD WATSON GILDER •COL.JOHN HAY

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THE POET OF NATURE.

IT is said that “genius always manifests itself before its possessor reaches manhood.” Perhaps in no case is this more true than in that of the poet, and William Cullen Bryant was no exception to the general rule. The poetical fancy was early displayed in him. He began to write verses at nine, and at ten composed a little poem to be spoken at a public school, which was published in a newspaper. At fourteen a collection of his poems was published in 12 mo. form by E. G. House of Boston. Strange to say the longest one of these, entitled “The Embargo” was political in its character setting forth his reflections on the Anti-Jeffersonian Federalism prevalent in New England at that time. But it is said that never after that effort did the poet employ his muse upon the politics of the day, though the general topics of liberty and independence have given occasion to some of his finest efforts. Bryant was a great lover of nature. In the Juvenile Collection above referred to were published an “Ode to Connecticut River” and also the lines entitled “Drought” which show the characteristic observation as well as the style in which his youthful muse found expression. It was written July, 1807, when the author was thirteen years of age, and will be found among the succeeding selections.

“Thanatopsis,” one of his most popular poems, (though he himself marked it low) was written when the poet was but little more than eighteen years of age. This production is called the beginning of American poetry.

William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, HampshireCo.,Mass., November3rd, 1784. His father was a physician, and a man of literary culture who encouraged his son’s early ability, and taught him the value of correctness and compression, and enabled him to distinguish between true poetic enthusiasm and the bombast into which young poets are apt to fall. The feeling and reverence with which Bryant cherished the memory of his father whose life was

“Marked with some act of goodness every day,”

is touchingly alluded to in several of his poems and directly spoken of with pathetic eloquence in the “Hymn to Death” written in 1825:

Alas! I little thought that the stern powerWhose fearful praise I sung, would try me thusBefore the strain was ended. It must cease—For he is in his grave who taught my youthThe art of verse, and in the bud of lifeOffered me to the Muses. Oh, cut offUntimely! when thy reason in its strength,Ripened by years of toil and studious searchAnd watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taughtThy hand to practise best the lenient artTo which thou gavest thy laborious days,And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earthReceived thee, tears were in unyielding eyes,And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skillDelayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned paleWhen thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thouShalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all I haveTo offer at thy grave—this—and the hopeTo copy thy example.

Alas! I little thought that the stern power

Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus

Before the strain was ended. It must cease—

For he is in his grave who taught my youth

The art of verse, and in the bud of life

Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off

Untimely! when thy reason in its strength,

Ripened by years of toil and studious search

And watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taught

Thy hand to practise best the lenient art

To which thou gavest thy laborious days,

And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth

Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes,

And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill

Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale

When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou

Shalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all I have

To offer at thy grave—this—and the hope

To copy thy example.

Bryant was educated at Williams College, but left with an honorable discharge before graduation to take up the study of law, which he practiced one year at Plainfield and nine years at Great Barrington, but in 1825 he abandoned law for literature, and removed to New York where in 1826 he began to edit the “Evening Post,” which position he continued to occupy from that time until the day of his death. William Cullen Bryant and the “Evening Post” were almost as conspicuous and permanent features of the city as the Battery and Trinity Church.

In 1821Mr.Bryant married Frances Fairchild, the loveliness of whose character is hinted in some of his sweetest productions. The one beginning

“O fairest of the rural maids,”

was written some years before their marriage; and “The Future Life,” one of the noblest and most pathetic of his poems, is addressed to her:—

“In meadows fanned by Heaven’s life-breathing wind,In the resplendence of that glorious sphereAnd larger movements of the unfettered mind,Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?“Will not thy own meek heart demand me there,—That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?”

“In meadows fanned by Heaven’s life-breathing wind,

In the resplendence of that glorious sphere

And larger movements of the unfettered mind,

Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

“Will not thy own meek heart demand me there,—

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?

My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?”

Among his best-known poems are “A Forest Hymn,” “The Death of the Flowers,” “Lines to a Waterfowl,” and “The Planting of the Apple-Tree.” One of the greatest of his works, though not among the most popular, is his translation of Homer, which he completed when seventy-seven years of age.

Bryant had a marvellous memory. His familiarity with the English poets wassuch that when at sea, where he was always too ill to read much, he would beguile the time by reciting page after page from favorite authors. However long the voyage, he never exhausted his resources. “I once proposed,” says a friend, “to send for a copy of a magazine in which a new poem of his was announced to appear. ‘You need not send for it,’ said he, ‘I can give it to you.’ ‘Then you have a copy with you?’ said I. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I can recall it,’ and thereupon proceeded immediately to write it out. I congratulated him upon having such a faithful memory. ‘If allowed a little time,’ he replied, ‘I could recall every line of poetry I have ever written.’”

His tenderness of the feelings of others, and his earnest desire always to avoid the giving of unnecessary pain, were very marked. “Soon after I began to do the duties of literary editor,” writes an associate, “Mr.Bryant, who was reading a review of a little book of wretchedly halting verse, said to me: ‘I wish you would deal very gently with poets, especially the weaker ones.’”

Bryant was a man of very striking appearance, especially in age. “It is a fine sight,” says one writer, “to see a man full of years, clear in mind, sober in judgment, refined in taste, and handsome in person.... I remember once to have been at a lecture whereMr.Bryant sat several seats in front of me, and his finely-sized head was especially noticeable.... The observer of Bryant’s capacious skull and most refined expression of face cannot fail to read therein the history of a noble manhood.”

The grand old veteran of verse died in New York in 1878 at the age of eighty-four, universally known and honored. He was in his sixth year when George Washington died, and lived under the administration of twenty presidents and had seen his own writings in print for seventy years. During this long life—though editor for fifty years of a political daily paper, and continually before the public—he had kept his reputation unspotted from the world, as if he had, throughout the decades, continually before his mind the admonition of the closing lines of “Thanatopsis” written by himself seventy years before.

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THANATOPSIS.¹

The following production is called the beginning of American poetry.

That a young man not yet 19 should have produced a poem so lofty in conception, so full of chaste language and delicate and striking imagery, and, above all, so pervaded by a noble and cheerful religious philosophy, may well be regarded as one of the most remarkable examples of early maturity in literary history.

¹The following copyrighted selections fromWm.Cullen Bryant are inserted by permission of D. Appleton &Co., the publishers of his works.

TO him who, in the love of Nature, holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—Go forth, under the open sky, and listTo Nature’s teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice.—Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again;And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements,To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hillsRock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods,—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, pour’d round all,Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no soundSave its own dashings,—yet—the dead are there,And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one, as before, will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glides away, the sons of men—The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—Shall, one by one, be gather’d to thy side,By those who in their turn shall follow them.So live that, when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, which movesTo that mysterious realm where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustain’d and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

O him who, in the love of Nature, holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language; for his gayer hours

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

Into his darker musings with a mild

And healing sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—

Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—

Comes a still voice.—Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,

The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills

Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between;

The venerable woods,—rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, pour’d round all,

Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings

Of morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound

Save its own dashings,—yet—the dead are there,

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw

In silence from the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come

And make their bed with thee. As the long train

Of ages glides away, the sons of men—

The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes

In the full strength of years, matron and maid,

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—

Shall, one by one, be gather’d to thy side,

By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live that, when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan, which moves

To that mysterious realm where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustain’d and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

WAITING BY THE GATE.

BESIDES the massive gateway built up in years gone by,Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet wood and lea,I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze’s flight,A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more,And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o’er.Behold the portals open and o’er the threshold, now,There steps a wearied one with pale and furrowed brow;His count of years is full, his♦allotted task is wrought;He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the hourOf human strength and action, man’s courage and his power.I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day,And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throwsA look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and fair.Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays!Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze!Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless airScatters a moment’s sweetness and flies we know not where.I grieve for life’s bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn;But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds sing on;And I again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate,In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go out,The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strewsIts fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!So from every region, so enter side by side,The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride,Steps of earth’s greatest, mightiest, between those pillars gray,And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away.And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,And some whose temples brighten with joy are drawing near,As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eyeOf Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my heart,Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea,I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.

ESIDES the massive gateway built up in years gone by,

Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,

While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.

The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze’s flight,

A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;

I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more,

And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o’er.

Behold the portals open and o’er the threshold, now,

There steps a wearied one with pale and furrowed brow;

His count of years is full, his♦allotted task is wrought;

He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the hour

Of human strength and action, man’s courage and his power.

I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throws

A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;

A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,

Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and fair.

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze!

Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air

Scatters a moment’s sweetness and flies we know not where.

I grieve for life’s bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn;

But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds sing on;

And I again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate,

In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go out,

The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.

Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strews

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So from every region, so enter side by side,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride,

Steps of earth’s greatest, mightiest, between those pillars gray,

And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy are drawing near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye

Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my heart,

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;

And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.

♦‘alloted’ replaced with ‘allotted’

“BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.”

ODEEM not they are blest aloneWhose lives a peaceful tenor keep;The Power who pities man has shownA blessing for the eyes that weep.The light of smiles shall fill againThe lids that overflow with tears;And weary hours of woe and painAre promises of happier years.There is a day of sunny restFor every dark and troubled night;And grief may bide an evening guest,But joy shall come with early light.And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low bier,Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,Hope that a brighter, happier sphereWill give him to thy arms again.Nor let the good man’s trust depart,Though life its common gifts deny,—Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,And spurned of men, he goes to die.For God hath marked each sorrowing day,And numbered every secret tear,And heaven’s long age of bliss shall payFor all his children suffer here.

DEEM not they are blest alone

Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;

The Power who pities man has shown

A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again

The lids that overflow with tears;

And weary hours of woe and pain

Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night;

And grief may bide an evening guest,

But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low bier,

Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere

Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man’s trust depart,

Though life its common gifts deny,—

Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,

And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day,

And numbered every secret tear,

And heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay

For all his children suffer here.

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

HERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines,That stream with gray-green mosses; here the groundWas never touch’d by spade, and flowers spring upUnsown, and die ungather’d. It is sweetTo linger here, among the flitting birdsAnd leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and windsThat shake the leaves, and scatter as they passA fragrance from the cedars thickly setWith pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades—Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,Back to the earliest days of Liberty.O Freedom!thou art not, as poets dream,A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,And wavy tresses gushing from the capWith which the Roman master crown’d his slave,When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,Arm’d to the teeth, art thou: one mailed handGrasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr’dWith tokens of old wars; thy massive limbsAre strong and struggling. Power at thee has launch’dHis bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven.Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep,And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound,The links are shiver’d, and the prison wallsFall outward; terribly thou springest forth,As springs the flame above a burning pile,And shoutest to the nations, who returnThy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.Thy birth-right was not given by human hands:Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him,To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,And teach the reed to utter simple airs.Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,His only foes: and thou with him didst drawThe earliest furrows on the mountain side,Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself,The enemy, although of reverend look,Hoary with many years, and far obey’d,Is later born than thou; and as he meetsThe grave defiance of thine elder eye,The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,But he shall fade into a feebler age;Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares,And spring them on thy careless steps, and clapHis wither’d hands, and from their ambush callHis hordes to fall upon thee. He shall sendQuaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien,To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful wordsTo charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread,That grow to fetters; or bind down thy armsWith chains conceal’d in chaplets. Oh! not yetMayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay byThy sword, nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lidsIn slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps.And thou must watch and combat, till the dayOf the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou restAwhile from tumult and the frauds of men,These old and friendly solitudes inviteThy visit. They, while yet the forest treesWere young upon the unviolated earth,And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

ERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines,

That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground

Was never touch’d by spade, and flowers spring up

Unsown, and die ungather’d. It is sweet

To linger here, among the flitting birds

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds

That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass

A fragrance from the cedars thickly set

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades—

Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—

My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,

Back to the earliest days of Liberty.

O Freedom!thou art not, as poets dream,

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap

With which the Roman master crown’d his slave,

When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,

Arm’d to the teeth, art thou: one mailed hand

Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,

Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr’d

With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs

Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has launch’d

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;

They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven.

Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep,

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,

Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound,

The links are shiver’d, and the prison walls

Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth,

As springs the flame above a burning pile,

And shoutest to the nations, who return

Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

Thy birth-right was not given by human hands:

Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,

While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him,

To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,

And teach the reed to utter simple airs.

Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,

Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,

His only foes: and thou with him didst draw

The earliest furrows on the mountain side,

Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself,

The enemy, although of reverend look,

Hoary with many years, and far obey’d,

Is later born than thou; and as he meets

The grave defiance of thine elder eye,

The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,

But he shall fade into a feebler age;

Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares,

And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap

His wither’d hands, and from their ambush call

His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send

Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien,

To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words

To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,

Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread,

That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms

With chains conceal’d in chaplets. Oh! not yet

Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by

Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids

In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps.

And thou must watch and combat, till the day

Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou rest

Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men,

These old and friendly solitudes invite

Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees

Were young upon the unviolated earth,

And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,

Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

TO A WATERFOWL.

WHITHER, ’midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly limn’d upon the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fann’d,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o’er thy shelter’d nest.Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heavenHath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.

HITHER, ’midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler’s eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,

As, darkly limn’d upon the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek’st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—

The desert and illimitable air,—

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann’d,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,

And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,

Soon, o’er thy shelter’d nest.

Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heaven

Hath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heart

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

MERRILY swinging on brier and weed,Near to the nest of his little dame,Over the mountain-side or mead,Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Snug and safe is that nest of ours,Hidden among the summer flowers.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,Wearing a bright black wedding coat;White are his shoulders and white his crest,Hear him call in his merry note:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Look what a nice new coat is mine,Sure there was never a bird so fine.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife,Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,Passing at home a patient life,Broods in the grass while her husband sings,Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Brood, kind creature; you need not fearThieves and robbers, while I am here.Chee, chee, chee.Modest and shy as a nun is she,One weak chirp is her only note,Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,Pouring boasts from his little throat:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Never was I afraid of man;Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can.Chee, chee, chee.Six white eggs on a bed of hay,Flecked with purple, a pretty sightThere as the mother sits all day,Robert is singing with all his might:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nice good wife, that never goes out,Keeping house while I frolic about.Chee, chee, chee.Soon as the little ones chip the shellSix wide mouths are open for food;Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,Gathering seed for the hungry brood.Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;This new life is likely to beHard for a gay young fellow like me.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln at length is madeSober with work and silent with care;Off is his holiday garment laid,Half-forgotten that merry air,Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nobody knows but my mate and IWhere our nest and our nestlings lie.Chee, chee, chee.Summer wanes; the children are grown;Fun and frolic no more he knows;Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone;Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,Spink, spank, spink;When you can pipe that merry old strain,Robert of Lincoln, come back again.Chee, chee, chee.

ERRILY swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,

Hidden among the summer flowers.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding coat;

White are his shoulders and white his crest,

Hear him call in his merry note:

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look what a nice new coat is mine,

Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings,

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear

Thieves and robbers, while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she,

One weak chirp is her only note,

Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,

Pouring boasts from his little throat:

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Never was I afraid of man;

Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can.

Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight

There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might:

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,

Keeping house while I frolic about.

Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell

Six wide mouths are open for food;

Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,

Gathering seed for the hungry brood.

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work and silent with care;

Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half-forgotten that merry air,

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nobody knows but my mate and I

Where our nest and our nestlings lie.

Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown;

Fun and frolic no more he knows;

Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone;

Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain,

Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

DROUGHT.

PLUNGED amid the limpid waters,Or the cooling shade beneath,Let me fly the scorching sunbeams,And the southwind’s sickly breath!Sirius burns the parching meadows,Flames upon the embrowning hill,Dries the foliage of the forest,And evaporates the rill.Scarce is seen the lonely floweret,Save amid the embowering wood;O’er the prospect dim and dreary,Drought presides in sullen mood!Murky vapours hung in ether,Wrap in gloom, the sky serene;Nature pants distressful—silenceReigns o’er all the sultry scene.Then amid the limpid waters,Or beneath the cooling shade,Let me shun the scorching sunbeamsAnd the sickly breeze evade.

LUNGED amid the limpid waters,

Or the cooling shade beneath,

Let me fly the scorching sunbeams,

And the southwind’s sickly breath!

Sirius burns the parching meadows,

Flames upon the embrowning hill,

Dries the foliage of the forest,

And evaporates the rill.

Scarce is seen the lonely floweret,

Save amid the embowering wood;

O’er the prospect dim and dreary,

Drought presides in sullen mood!

Murky vapours hung in ether,

Wrap in gloom, the sky serene;

Nature pants distressful—silence

Reigns o’er all the sultry scene.

Then amid the limpid waters,

Or beneath the cooling shade,

Let me shun the scorching sunbeams

And the sickly breeze evade.

THE PAST.

No poet, perhaps, in the world is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant.

He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors. The following poem is a fair specimen of his deep vein in his chosen serious themes. Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of melancholy in his treatment is always pleasing.

THOU unrelenting Past!Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,And fetters, sure and fast,Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.Far in thy realm withdrawnOld empires sit in sullenness and gloom,And glorious ages goneLie deep within the shadow of thy womb.Childhood, with all its mirth,Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,And, last, Man’s Life on earth,Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.Thou hast my better years,Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the kind,Yielded to thee with tears,—The venerable form—the exalted mind.My spirit yearns to bringThe lost ones back;—yearns with desire intense,And struggles hard to wringThy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.In vain:—thy gates denyAll passage save to those who hence depart;Nor to the streaming eyeThou giv’st them back,—nor to the broken heart.In thy abysses hideBeauty and excellence unknown;—to theeEarth’s wonder and her prideAre gather’d, as the waters to the sea;Labors of good to man,Unpublish’d charity, unbroken faith,—Love, that midst grief began,And grew with years, and falter’d not in death.Full many a mighty nameLurks in thy depths, unutter’d, unrevered;With thee are silent fame,Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear’d.Thine for a space are they:—Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;Thy gates shall yet give way,Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!All that of good and fairHas gone into thy womb from earliest time,Shall then come forth, to wearThe glory and the beauty of its prime.They have not perish’d—no!Kind words, remember’d voices once so sweet,Smiles, radiant long ago,And features, the great soul’s apparent seat,All shall come back; each tieOf pure affection shall be knit again;Alone shall Evil die,And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.And then shall I beholdHim by whose kind paternal side I sprung,And her who, still and cold,Fills the next grave,—the beautiful and young.

HOU unrelenting Past!

Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,

And fetters, sure and fast,

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn

Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,

And glorious ages gone

Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,

Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,

And, last, Man’s Life on earth,

Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,

Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the kind,

Yielded to thee with tears,—

The venerable form—the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring

The lost ones back;—yearns with desire intense,

And struggles hard to wring

Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain:—thy gates deny

All passage save to those who hence depart;

Nor to the streaming eye

Thou giv’st them back,—nor to the broken heart.

In thy abysses hide

Beauty and excellence unknown;—to thee

Earth’s wonder and her pride

Are gather’d, as the waters to the sea;

Labors of good to man,

Unpublish’d charity, unbroken faith,—

Love, that midst grief began,

And grew with years, and falter’d not in death.

Full many a mighty name

Lurks in thy depths, unutter’d, unrevered;

With thee are silent fame,

Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear’d.

Thine for a space are they:—

Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;

Thy gates shall yet give way,

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

All that of good and fair

Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,

Shall then come forth, to wear

The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perish’d—no!

Kind words, remember’d voices once so sweet,

Smiles, radiant long ago,

And features, the great soul’s apparent seat,

All shall come back; each tie

Of pure affection shall be knit again;

Alone shall Evil die,

And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold

Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung,

And her who, still and cold,

Fills the next grave,—the beautiful and young.

THE MURDERED TRAVELER.

WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around,Brought bloom and joy again;The murdered traveler’s bones were found,Far down a narrow glen.The fragrant birch, above him, hungHer tassels in the sky;And many a vernal blossom sprung,And nodded careless by.The red bird warbled, as he wroughtHis hanging nest o’erhead;And fearless, near the fatal spot,Her young the partridge led.But there was weeping far away,And gentle eyes, for him,With watching many an anxious day,Were sorrowful and dim.They little knew, who loved him so,The fearful death he met,When shouting o’er the desert snow,Unarmed and hard beset;Nor how, when round the frosty pole,The northern dawn was red,The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stoleTo banquet on the dead;Nor how, when strangers found his bones,They dressed the hasty bier,And marked his grave with nameless stones,Unmoistened by a tear.But long they looked, and feared, and wept,Within his distant home;And dreamed, and started as they slept,For joy that he was come.Long, long they looked—but never spiedHis welcome step again.Nor knew the fearful death he diedFar down that narrow glen.

HEN spring, to woods and wastes around,

Brought bloom and joy again;

The murdered traveler’s bones were found,

Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung

Her tassels in the sky;

And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.

The red bird warbled, as he wrought

His hanging nest o’erhead;

And fearless, near the fatal spot,

Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,

And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,

Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,

The fearful death he met,

When shouting o’er the desert snow,

Unarmed and hard beset;

Nor how, when round the frosty pole,

The northern dawn was red,

The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole

To banquet on the dead;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,

They dressed the hasty bier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones,

Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,

Within his distant home;

And dreamed, and started as they slept,

For joy that he was come.

Long, long they looked—but never spied

His welcome step again.

Nor knew the fearful death he died

Far down that narrow glen.

THE BATTLEFIELD.

Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza♦beginning—“Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,”—said: “Mr.Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each beyond a king’s ransom.”

♦‘begining’ replaced with ‘beginning’

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,And fiery hearts and armed handsEncounter’d in the battle-cloud.Ah! never shall the land forgetHow gush’d the life-blood of her brave,—Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet,Upon the soil they fought to save.Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,Alone the chirp of flitting bird,And talk of children on the hill,And bell of wandering kine, are heard.No solemn host goes trailing byThe black-mouth’d gun and staggering wain;Men start not at the battle-cry:Oh, be it never heard again!Soon rested those who fought; but thouWho minglest in the harder strifeFor truths which men receive not now,Thy warfare only ends with life.A friendless warfare! lingering longThrough weary day and weary year;A wild and many-weapon’d throngHang on thy front, and flank, and rear.Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,And blench not at thy chosen lot;The timid good may stand aloof,The sage may frown—yet faint thou not,Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;For with thy side shall dwell, at last,The victory of endurance born.Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise again;The eternal years of God are hers;But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,And dies among his worshippers.Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,When they who help’d thee flee in fear,Die full of hope and manly trust,Like those who fell in battle here.Another hand thy sword shall wield,Another hand the standard wave,Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peal’dThe blast of triumph o’er thy grave.

NCE this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,

And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encounter’d in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gush’d the life-blood of her brave,—

Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet,

Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,

Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth’d gun and staggering wain;

Men start not at the battle-cry:

Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou

Who minglest in the harder strife

For truths which men receive not now,

Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year;

A wild and many-weapon’d throng

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot;

The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown—yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;

For with thy side shall dwell, at last,

The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise again;

The eternal years of God are hers;

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,

And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who help’d thee flee in fear,

Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave,

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peal’d

The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.

THE CROWDED STREETS.

LET me move slowly through the street,Filled with an ever-shifting train,Amid the sound of steps that beatThe murmuring walks like autumn rain.How fast the flitting figures come;The mild, the fierce, the stony face—Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, and someWhere secret tears have left their trace.They pass to toil, to strife, to rest—To halls in which the feast is spread—To chambers where the funeral guestIn silence sits beside the bed.And some to happy homes repair,Where children pressing cheek to cheek,With mute caresses shall declareThe tenderness they cannot speak.And some who walk in calmness here,Shall shudder as they reach the doorWhere one who made their dwelling dear,Its flower, its light, is seen no more.Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame,And dreams of greatness in thine eye,Go’st thou to build an early name,Or early in the task to die?Keen son of trade, with eager brow,Who is now fluttering in thy snare,Thy golden fortunes tower they now,Or melt the glittering spires in air?Who of this crowd to-night shall treadThe dance till daylight gleams again?To sorrow o’er the untimely dead?Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?Some, famine struck, shall think how longThe cold, dark hours, how slow the light;And some, who flaunt amid the throng,Shall hide in dens of shame to night.Each where his tasks or pleasure call,They pass and heed each other not;There is one who heeds, who holds them allIn His large love and boundless thought.These struggling tides of life that seemIn wayward, aimless course to tend,Are eddies of the mighty streamThat rolls to its appointed end.

ET me move slowly through the street,

Filled with an ever-shifting train,

Amid the sound of steps that beat

The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

How fast the flitting figures come;

The mild, the fierce, the stony face—

Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, and some

Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest—

To halls in which the feast is spread—

To chambers where the funeral guest

In silence sits beside the bed.

And some to happy homes repair,

Where children pressing cheek to cheek,

With mute caresses shall declare

The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some who walk in calmness here,

Shall shudder as they reach the door

Where one who made their dwelling dear,

Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame,

And dreams of greatness in thine eye,

Go’st thou to build an early name,

Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow,

Who is now fluttering in thy snare,

Thy golden fortunes tower they now,

Or melt the glittering spires in air?

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread

The dance till daylight gleams again?

To sorrow o’er the untimely dead?

Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine struck, shall think how long

The cold, dark hours, how slow the light;

And some, who flaunt amid the throng,

Shall hide in dens of shame to night.

Each where his tasks or pleasure call,

They pass and heed each other not;

There is one who heeds, who holds them all

In His large love and boundless thought.

These struggling tides of life that seem

In wayward, aimless course to tend,

Are eddies of the mighty stream

That rolls to its appointed end.

NOTICE OF FITZ-GREEN HALLECK.

As a specimen ofMr.Bryant’s prose, of which he wrote much, and also as a sample of his criticism, we reprint the following extract from a Commemorative Address which he delivered before the New York Historical Society in February 1869. This selection is also valuable as a character sketch and a literary estimate ofMr.Halleck.

WHEN I look back upon Halleck’s literary life, I cannot help thinking that if his death had happened forty years earlier, his life would have been regarded as a bright morning prematurely overcast. Yet Halleck’s literary career may be said to have ended then. All that will hand down his name to future years had already been produced. Who shall say to what cause his subsequent literary inaction was owing? It was not the decline of his powers; his brilliant conversation showed that it was not. Was it then indifference to fame? Was it because he put an humble estimate on what he had written, and therefore resolved to write no more? Was it because he feared lest what he might write would be unworthy of the reputation he had been so fortunate as to acquire?“I have my own way of accounting for his literary silence in the latter half of his life. One of the resemblances which he bore to Horace consisted in the length of time for which he kept his poems by him, that he might give them the last and happiest touches. Having composed his poems without committing them to paper, and retaining them in his faithful memory, he revised them in the same manner, murmuring them to himself in his solitary moments, recovering the enthusiasm with which they were first conceived, and in this state of mind heightening the beauty of the thought or of the expression....“In this way I suppose Halleck to have attained the gracefulness of his diction, and the airy melody of his numbers. In this way I believe that he wrought up his verses to that transparent clearness of expression which causes the thought to be seenthrough them without any interposing dimness, so that the thought and the phrase seem one, and the thought enters the mind like a beam of light. I suppose that Halleck’s time being taken up by the tasks of his vocation, he naturally lost by degrees the habit of composing in this manner, and that he found it so necessary to the perfection of what he wrote that he adopted no other in its place.”

“I have my own way of accounting for his literary silence in the latter half of his life. One of the resemblances which he bore to Horace consisted in the length of time for which he kept his poems by him, that he might give them the last and happiest touches. Having composed his poems without committing them to paper, and retaining them in his faithful memory, he revised them in the same manner, murmuring them to himself in his solitary moments, recovering the enthusiasm with which they were first conceived, and in this state of mind heightening the beauty of the thought or of the expression....

“In this way I suppose Halleck to have attained the gracefulness of his diction, and the airy melody of his numbers. In this way I believe that he wrought up his verses to that transparent clearness of expression which causes the thought to be seenthrough them without any interposing dimness, so that the thought and the phrase seem one, and the thought enters the mind like a beam of light. I suppose that Halleck’s time being taken up by the tasks of his vocation, he naturally lost by degrees the habit of composing in this manner, and that he found it so necessary to the perfection of what he wrote that he adopted no other in its place.”

A CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

From “The Letters of a Traveler.”

In 1843, duringMr.Bryant’s visit to the South, he had the pleasure of witnessing one of those antebellum southern institutions known as a Corn-Shucking—one of the ideal occasions of the colored man’s life, to which both men and women were invited. They were free to tell all the jokes, sing all the songs and have all the fun they desired as they rapidly shucked the corn. Two leaders were usually chosen and the company divided into two parties which competed for a prize awarded to the first party which finished shucking the allotted pile of corn.Mr.Bryant thus graphically describes one of these novel occasions:

Barnwell District,South Carolina, March 29, 1843.BUT you must hear of the corn-shucking. The one at which I was present was given on purpose that I might witness the humors of the Carolina negroes. A huge fire oflight-woodwas made near the corn-house. Light-wood is the wood of the long-leaved pine, and is so called, not because it is light, for it is almost the heaviest wood in the world, but because it gives more light than any other fuel.The light-wood-fire was made, and the negroes dropped in from the neighboring plantations, singing as they came. The driver of the plantation, a colored man, brought out baskets of corn in the husk, and piled it in a heap; and the negroes began to strip the husks from the ears, singing with great glee as they worked, keeping time to the music, and now and then throwing in a joke and an extravagant burst of laughter. The songs were generally of a comic character; but one of them was set to a singularly wild and plaintive air, which some of our musicians would do well to reduce to notation. These are the words:Johnny come down de hollow.Oh hollow!Johnny come down de hollow.Oh hollow!De nigger-trader got me.Oh hollow!De speculator bought me.Oh hollow!I’m sold for silver dollars.Oh hollow!Boys, go catch the pony.Oh hollow!Bring him round the corner.Oh hollow!I’m goin’ away to Georgia.Oh hollow!Boys, good-by forever!Oh hollow!The song of “Jenny gone away,” was also given, and another, called the monkey-song, probably of African origin, in which the principal singer personated a monkey, with all sorts of odd gesticulations, and the other negroes bore part in the chorus, “Dan, dan, who’s the dandy?” One of the songs commonly sung on these occasions, represents the various animals of the woods as belonging to some profession or trade. For example—De cooter is de boatman—The cooter is the terrapin, and a very expert boatman he is.De cooter is de boatman.John John Crow.De red-bird de soger.John John Crow.De mocking-bird de lawyer.John John Crow.De alligator sawyer.John John Crow.The alligator’s back is furnished with a toothed ridge, like the edge of a saw, which explains the last line.When the work of the evening was over the negroes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. One of them took his place as musician, whistling, and beating time with two sticks upon the floor. Several of the men came forward and executed various dances, capering, prancing, and drumming with heel and toe upon the floor, with astonishing agility and perseverance, though all of them had performed their daily tasks and had worked all the evening, and some had walked from four to seven miles to attend the corn-shucking. From the dances a transition was made to a mock military parade, a sort of burlesque of our militia trainings, in which the words of command and the evolutions were extremely ludicrous. It became necessary for the commander to make a speech, and confessing his incapacity for public speaking, he called upon a huge black man named Toby to address the company in his stead. Toby, a man of powerful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto stood leaning against the wall, looking upon the frolic with an air of superiority. He consented, came forward, demanded a bit of paper to hold in his hand, and harangued the soldiery. It was evident that Toby had listened to stump-speeches in his day. He spoke of “de majority of Sous Carolina,” “de interests of de state,” “de honor of ole Ba’nwell district,” and these phrases he connected by various expletives, and sounds of which we could make nothing. At length he began to falter, when the captain with admirable presence of mind came to his relief, and interrupted and closed the harangue with an hurrah from the company. Toby was allowed by all the spectators, black and white, to have made an excellent speech.CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

Barnwell District,South Carolina, March 29, 1843.

BUT you must hear of the corn-shucking. The one at which I was present was given on purpose that I might witness the humors of the Carolina negroes. A huge fire oflight-woodwas made near the corn-house. Light-wood is the wood of the long-leaved pine, and is so called, not because it is light, for it is almost the heaviest wood in the world, but because it gives more light than any other fuel.

The light-wood-fire was made, and the negroes dropped in from the neighboring plantations, singing as they came. The driver of the plantation, a colored man, brought out baskets of corn in the husk, and piled it in a heap; and the negroes began to strip the husks from the ears, singing with great glee as they worked, keeping time to the music, and now and then throwing in a joke and an extravagant burst of laughter. The songs were generally of a comic character; but one of them was set to a singularly wild and plaintive air, which some of our musicians would do well to reduce to notation. These are the words:

Johnny come down de hollow.Oh hollow!Johnny come down de hollow.Oh hollow!De nigger-trader got me.Oh hollow!De speculator bought me.Oh hollow!I’m sold for silver dollars.Oh hollow!Boys, go catch the pony.Oh hollow!Bring him round the corner.Oh hollow!I’m goin’ away to Georgia.Oh hollow!Boys, good-by forever!Oh hollow!

Johnny come down de hollow.

Oh hollow!

Johnny come down de hollow.

Oh hollow!

De nigger-trader got me.

Oh hollow!

De speculator bought me.

Oh hollow!

I’m sold for silver dollars.

Oh hollow!

Boys, go catch the pony.

Oh hollow!

Bring him round the corner.

Oh hollow!

I’m goin’ away to Georgia.

Oh hollow!

Boys, good-by forever!

Oh hollow!

The song of “Jenny gone away,” was also given, and another, called the monkey-song, probably of African origin, in which the principal singer personated a monkey, with all sorts of odd gesticulations, and the other negroes bore part in the chorus, “Dan, dan, who’s the dandy?” One of the songs commonly sung on these occasions, represents the various animals of the woods as belonging to some profession or trade. For example—

De cooter is de boatman—

The cooter is the terrapin, and a very expert boatman he is.

De cooter is de boatman.John John Crow.De red-bird de soger.John John Crow.De mocking-bird de lawyer.John John Crow.De alligator sawyer.John John Crow.

De cooter is de boatman.

John John Crow.

De red-bird de soger.

John John Crow.

De mocking-bird de lawyer.

John John Crow.

De alligator sawyer.

John John Crow.

The alligator’s back is furnished with a toothed ridge, like the edge of a saw, which explains the last line.

When the work of the evening was over the negroes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. One of them took his place as musician, whistling, and beating time with two sticks upon the floor. Several of the men came forward and executed various dances, capering, prancing, and drumming with heel and toe upon the floor, with astonishing agility and perseverance, though all of them had performed their daily tasks and had worked all the evening, and some had walked from four to seven miles to attend the corn-shucking. From the dances a transition was made to a mock military parade, a sort of burlesque of our militia trainings, in which the words of command and the evolutions were extremely ludicrous. It became necessary for the commander to make a speech, and confessing his incapacity for public speaking, he called upon a huge black man named Toby to address the company in his stead. Toby, a man of powerful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto stood leaning against the wall, looking upon the frolic with an air of superiority. He consented, came forward, demanded a bit of paper to hold in his hand, and harangued the soldiery. It was evident that Toby had listened to stump-speeches in his day. He spoke of “de majority of Sous Carolina,” “de interests of de state,” “de honor of ole Ba’nwell district,” and these phrases he connected by various expletives, and sounds of which we could make nothing. At length he began to falter, when the captain with admirable presence of mind came to his relief, and interrupted and closed the harangue with an hurrah from the company. Toby was allowed by all the spectators, black and white, to have made an excellent speech.

CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

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