If one is not too critical there is a good deal of pleasure to be got out of Halleck’s volume.—National Magazine(1852).Dana, Halleck and Bryant rose together on steady wings and gave voices to the solitude; Dana with a broad, grave undertone like that of the sea; Bryant with a sound as of the wind in summer woods, and the fall of waters in mountain dells; and Halleck with strains blown from a silver trumpet, breathing manly fire and courage.—Bayard Taylor.
If one is not too critical there is a good deal of pleasure to be got out of Halleck’s volume.—National Magazine(1852).
Dana, Halleck and Bryant rose together on steady wings and gave voices to the solitude; Dana with a broad, grave undertone like that of the sea; Bryant with a sound as of the wind in summer woods, and the fall of waters in mountain dells; and Halleck with strains blown from a silver trumpet, breathing manly fire and courage.—Bayard Taylor.
The world is bright before thee,Its summer flowers are thine,Its calm, blue sky is o’er thee,Thy bosom pleasure’s shrine;And thine the sunbeam given,To nature’s morning hour,Pure, warm, as when from heavenIt burst on Eden’s bower.There is a song of sorrow,The death-dirge of the gay,That tells, ere dawn of morrow,These charms may melt away,That sun’s bright beam be shaded,That sky be blue no more,The summer flowers be faded,And youth’s warm promise o’er.Believe it not, though lonelyThy evening home may be;Though beauty’s bark can onlyFloat on a summer sea;Though time thy bloom is stealing,There’s still beyond his artThe wild-flower wreath of feeling,The sunbeam of the heart.
The world is bright before thee,Its summer flowers are thine,Its calm, blue sky is o’er thee,Thy bosom pleasure’s shrine;And thine the sunbeam given,To nature’s morning hour,Pure, warm, as when from heavenIt burst on Eden’s bower.There is a song of sorrow,The death-dirge of the gay,That tells, ere dawn of morrow,These charms may melt away,That sun’s bright beam be shaded,That sky be blue no more,The summer flowers be faded,And youth’s warm promise o’er.Believe it not, though lonelyThy evening home may be;Though beauty’s bark can onlyFloat on a summer sea;Though time thy bloom is stealing,There’s still beyond his artThe wild-flower wreath of feeling,The sunbeam of the heart.
The world is bright before thee,Its summer flowers are thine,Its calm, blue sky is o’er thee,Thy bosom pleasure’s shrine;And thine the sunbeam given,To nature’s morning hour,Pure, warm, as when from heavenIt burst on Eden’s bower.
The world is bright before thee,
Its summer flowers are thine,
Its calm, blue sky is o’er thee,
Thy bosom pleasure’s shrine;
And thine the sunbeam given,
To nature’s morning hour,
Pure, warm, as when from heaven
It burst on Eden’s bower.
There is a song of sorrow,The death-dirge of the gay,That tells, ere dawn of morrow,These charms may melt away,That sun’s bright beam be shaded,That sky be blue no more,The summer flowers be faded,And youth’s warm promise o’er.
There is a song of sorrow,
The death-dirge of the gay,
That tells, ere dawn of morrow,
These charms may melt away,
That sun’s bright beam be shaded,
That sky be blue no more,
The summer flowers be faded,
And youth’s warm promise o’er.
Believe it not, though lonelyThy evening home may be;Though beauty’s bark can onlyFloat on a summer sea;Though time thy bloom is stealing,There’s still beyond his artThe wild-flower wreath of feeling,The sunbeam of the heart.
Believe it not, though lonely
Thy evening home may be;
Though beauty’s bark can only
Float on a summer sea;
Though time thy bloom is stealing,
There’s still beyond his art
The wild-flower wreath of feeling,
The sunbeam of the heart.
Green be the turf above thee,Friend of my better days!None knew thee but to love thee,Nor named thee but to praise.Tears fell when thou wert dying,From eyes unused to weep,And long, where thou art lying,Will tears the cold turf steep.When hearts whose truth was proven,Like thine, are laid in earth,There should a wreath be wovenTo tell the world their worth;And I, who woke each morrowTo clasp thy hand in mine,Who shared thy joy and sorrow,Whose weal and woe were thine,—It should be mine to braid itAround thy faded brow,But I’ve in vain essayed it,And feel I cannot now.While memory bids me weep thee,Nor thoughts nor words are free,The grief is fixed too deeplyThat mourns a man like thee.
Green be the turf above thee,Friend of my better days!None knew thee but to love thee,Nor named thee but to praise.Tears fell when thou wert dying,From eyes unused to weep,And long, where thou art lying,Will tears the cold turf steep.When hearts whose truth was proven,Like thine, are laid in earth,There should a wreath be wovenTo tell the world their worth;And I, who woke each morrowTo clasp thy hand in mine,Who shared thy joy and sorrow,Whose weal and woe were thine,—It should be mine to braid itAround thy faded brow,But I’ve in vain essayed it,And feel I cannot now.While memory bids me weep thee,Nor thoughts nor words are free,The grief is fixed too deeplyThat mourns a man like thee.
Green be the turf above thee,Friend of my better days!None knew thee but to love thee,Nor named thee but to praise.
Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell when thou wert dying,From eyes unused to weep,And long, where thou art lying,Will tears the cold turf steep.
Tears fell when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.
When hearts whose truth was proven,Like thine, are laid in earth,There should a wreath be wovenTo tell the world their worth;
When hearts whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;
And I, who woke each morrowTo clasp thy hand in mine,Who shared thy joy and sorrow,Whose weal and woe were thine,—
And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine,—
It should be mine to braid itAround thy faded brow,But I’ve in vain essayed it,And feel I cannot now.
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I’ve in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.
While memory bids me weep thee,Nor thoughts nor words are free,The grief is fixed too deeplyThat mourns a man like thee.
While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.
There are some happy moments in this loneAnd desolate world of ours, that well repayThe toil of struggling through it, and atoneFor many a long, sad night and weary day.They come upon the mind like some wild airOf distant music, when we know not where,Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power,Though brief, is boundless.
There are some happy moments in this loneAnd desolate world of ours, that well repayThe toil of struggling through it, and atoneFor many a long, sad night and weary day.They come upon the mind like some wild airOf distant music, when we know not where,Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power,Though brief, is boundless.
There are some happy moments in this lone
And desolate world of ours, that well repay
The toil of struggling through it, and atone
For many a long, sad night and weary day.
They come upon the mind like some wild air
Of distant music, when we know not where,
Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power,
Though brief, is boundless.
Among the first to make a creditable appearance in the field of American literature was Richard Henry Dana, the last of the writers of his generation who achieved success both in prose and verse, and won the right to be ranked among the most vigorous authors of the first half of the present century.—James Grant Wilson.
Among the first to make a creditable appearance in the field of American literature was Richard Henry Dana, the last of the writers of his generation who achieved success both in prose and verse, and won the right to be ranked among the most vigorous authors of the first half of the present century.—James Grant Wilson.
From “THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL.”
Turn with me from pining thoughtAnd all the inward ills that sin has wrought;Come, send abroad a love for all who live,And feel the deep content in turn they give.Kind wishes and good deeds—they make not poor;They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door.The streams of love flow back where they begin;For springs of outward joys lie deep within.E’en let them flow, and make the places gladWhere dwell thy fellow-men, shouldst thou be sad,And earth seems bare, and hours, once happy, pressUpon thy thoughts, and make thy lonelinessMore lonely for the past, thou then shalt hearThe music of those waters running near;And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,That now upon the water dances. Now,Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwellThe power that wrought so beautiful a spell?In thine own bosom, brother? Then, as thine,Guard with a reverent fear this power divine,And if, indeed, ’tis not the outward state,But temper of the soul, by which we rateSadness or joy, e’en let thy bosom moveWith noble thoughts, and wake thee into love;And let each feeling in thy breast be givenAn honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven,And springing into act, new life imparts,Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.The earth is full of life; the living handTouched it with life; and all its forms expandWith principles of being made to suitMan’s varied powers, and raise from the brute.And shall the earth of higher ends be full,—Earth which thou tread’st,—and thy poor mind be dull,Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leapForth to the day, and let the fresh air blowThro’ thy soul’s shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou knowSomething of what is life, shake off this death;Have thy soul feel the universal breathWith which all nature’s quick, and learn to beSharer in all thou dost touch or see;Break from thy body’s grasp, thy spirit’s trance;Give to thy soul air, thy faculties expanse;Love, joy, e’en sorrow—yield thyself to all!They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall,Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bindTo dust and sense, and set at large the mind;Then move in sympathy with God’s great whole;And be, like man at first, A Living Soul!
Turn with me from pining thoughtAnd all the inward ills that sin has wrought;Come, send abroad a love for all who live,And feel the deep content in turn they give.Kind wishes and good deeds—they make not poor;They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door.The streams of love flow back where they begin;For springs of outward joys lie deep within.E’en let them flow, and make the places gladWhere dwell thy fellow-men, shouldst thou be sad,And earth seems bare, and hours, once happy, pressUpon thy thoughts, and make thy lonelinessMore lonely for the past, thou then shalt hearThe music of those waters running near;And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,That now upon the water dances. Now,Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwellThe power that wrought so beautiful a spell?In thine own bosom, brother? Then, as thine,Guard with a reverent fear this power divine,And if, indeed, ’tis not the outward state,But temper of the soul, by which we rateSadness or joy, e’en let thy bosom moveWith noble thoughts, and wake thee into love;And let each feeling in thy breast be givenAn honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven,And springing into act, new life imparts,Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.The earth is full of life; the living handTouched it with life; and all its forms expandWith principles of being made to suitMan’s varied powers, and raise from the brute.And shall the earth of higher ends be full,—Earth which thou tread’st,—and thy poor mind be dull,Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leapForth to the day, and let the fresh air blowThro’ thy soul’s shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou knowSomething of what is life, shake off this death;Have thy soul feel the universal breathWith which all nature’s quick, and learn to beSharer in all thou dost touch or see;Break from thy body’s grasp, thy spirit’s trance;Give to thy soul air, thy faculties expanse;Love, joy, e’en sorrow—yield thyself to all!They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall,Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bindTo dust and sense, and set at large the mind;Then move in sympathy with God’s great whole;And be, like man at first, A Living Soul!
Turn with me from pining thoughtAnd all the inward ills that sin has wrought;Come, send abroad a love for all who live,And feel the deep content in turn they give.Kind wishes and good deeds—they make not poor;They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door.The streams of love flow back where they begin;For springs of outward joys lie deep within.
Turn with me from pining thought
And all the inward ills that sin has wrought;
Come, send abroad a love for all who live,
And feel the deep content in turn they give.
Kind wishes and good deeds—they make not poor;
They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door.
The streams of love flow back where they begin;
For springs of outward joys lie deep within.
E’en let them flow, and make the places gladWhere dwell thy fellow-men, shouldst thou be sad,And earth seems bare, and hours, once happy, pressUpon thy thoughts, and make thy lonelinessMore lonely for the past, thou then shalt hearThe music of those waters running near;And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,That now upon the water dances. Now,Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.
E’en let them flow, and make the places glad
Where dwell thy fellow-men, shouldst thou be sad,
And earth seems bare, and hours, once happy, press
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near;
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,
And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,
That now upon the water dances. Now,
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.
Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwellThe power that wrought so beautiful a spell?In thine own bosom, brother? Then, as thine,Guard with a reverent fear this power divine,And if, indeed, ’tis not the outward state,But temper of the soul, by which we rateSadness or joy, e’en let thy bosom moveWith noble thoughts, and wake thee into love;And let each feeling in thy breast be givenAn honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven,And springing into act, new life imparts,Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.
Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell
The power that wrought so beautiful a spell?
In thine own bosom, brother? Then, as thine,
Guard with a reverent fear this power divine,
And if, indeed, ’tis not the outward state,
But temper of the soul, by which we rate
Sadness or joy, e’en let thy bosom move
With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love;
And let each feeling in thy breast be given
An honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven,
And springing into act, new life imparts,
Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.
The earth is full of life; the living handTouched it with life; and all its forms expandWith principles of being made to suitMan’s varied powers, and raise from the brute.And shall the earth of higher ends be full,—Earth which thou tread’st,—and thy poor mind be dull,Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!
The earth is full of life; the living hand
Touched it with life; and all its forms expand
With principles of being made to suit
Man’s varied powers, and raise from the brute.
And shall the earth of higher ends be full,—
Earth which thou tread’st,—and thy poor mind be dull,
Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!
Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leapForth to the day, and let the fresh air blowThro’ thy soul’s shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou knowSomething of what is life, shake off this death;Have thy soul feel the universal breathWith which all nature’s quick, and learn to beSharer in all thou dost touch or see;Break from thy body’s grasp, thy spirit’s trance;Give to thy soul air, thy faculties expanse;Love, joy, e’en sorrow—yield thyself to all!They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall,Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bindTo dust and sense, and set at large the mind;Then move in sympathy with God’s great whole;And be, like man at first, A Living Soul!
Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leap
Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow
Thro’ thy soul’s shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou know
Something of what is life, shake off this death;
Have thy soul feel the universal breath
With which all nature’s quick, and learn to be
Sharer in all thou dost touch or see;
Break from thy body’s grasp, thy spirit’s trance;
Give to thy soul air, thy faculties expanse;
Love, joy, e’en sorrow—yield thyself to all!
They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall,
Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind
To dust and sense, and set at large the mind;
Then move in sympathy with God’s great whole;
And be, like man at first, A Living Soul!
Ye daisies gay,This fresh spring dayClosed gathered here together,To play in the light,To sleep all the night,To abide through the sullen weather;Ye creatures bland,A simple band,Ye free ones, linked in pleasure,And linked when your formsStoop low in the storms,And the rain comes down without measure;When the wild clouds flyAthwart the sky,And ghostly shadows, glancing,Are darkening the gleamOf the hurrying stream,And your close, bright heads gayly dancing;Though dull awhile,Again ye smile;For, see, the warm sun breaking;The stream’s going glad,There’s nothing now sad,And the small bird his song is waking.The dew-drop sipWith dainty lip!The sun is low descended,And moon, softly fallOn troops true and small;Sky and earth in one kindly blended.And, morning! spreadTheir jewelled bedWith lights in the east sky springing;And, brook! breathe aroundThy low murmured sound!May they move, ye birds, to your singing;For in their playI hear them say,Here, man, thy wisdom borrow;In heart be a child,In words, true and mild;Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow.
Ye daisies gay,This fresh spring dayClosed gathered here together,To play in the light,To sleep all the night,To abide through the sullen weather;Ye creatures bland,A simple band,Ye free ones, linked in pleasure,And linked when your formsStoop low in the storms,And the rain comes down without measure;When the wild clouds flyAthwart the sky,And ghostly shadows, glancing,Are darkening the gleamOf the hurrying stream,And your close, bright heads gayly dancing;Though dull awhile,Again ye smile;For, see, the warm sun breaking;The stream’s going glad,There’s nothing now sad,And the small bird his song is waking.The dew-drop sipWith dainty lip!The sun is low descended,And moon, softly fallOn troops true and small;Sky and earth in one kindly blended.And, morning! spreadTheir jewelled bedWith lights in the east sky springing;And, brook! breathe aroundThy low murmured sound!May they move, ye birds, to your singing;For in their playI hear them say,Here, man, thy wisdom borrow;In heart be a child,In words, true and mild;Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow.
Ye daisies gay,This fresh spring dayClosed gathered here together,To play in the light,To sleep all the night,To abide through the sullen weather;
Ye daisies gay,
This fresh spring day
Closed gathered here together,
To play in the light,
To sleep all the night,
To abide through the sullen weather;
Ye creatures bland,A simple band,Ye free ones, linked in pleasure,And linked when your formsStoop low in the storms,And the rain comes down without measure;
Ye creatures bland,
A simple band,
Ye free ones, linked in pleasure,
And linked when your forms
Stoop low in the storms,
And the rain comes down without measure;
When the wild clouds flyAthwart the sky,And ghostly shadows, glancing,Are darkening the gleamOf the hurrying stream,And your close, bright heads gayly dancing;
When the wild clouds fly
Athwart the sky,
And ghostly shadows, glancing,
Are darkening the gleam
Of the hurrying stream,
And your close, bright heads gayly dancing;
Though dull awhile,Again ye smile;For, see, the warm sun breaking;The stream’s going glad,There’s nothing now sad,And the small bird his song is waking.
Though dull awhile,
Again ye smile;
For, see, the warm sun breaking;
The stream’s going glad,
There’s nothing now sad,
And the small bird his song is waking.
The dew-drop sipWith dainty lip!The sun is low descended,And moon, softly fallOn troops true and small;Sky and earth in one kindly blended.
The dew-drop sip
With dainty lip!
The sun is low descended,
And moon, softly fall
On troops true and small;
Sky and earth in one kindly blended.
And, morning! spreadTheir jewelled bedWith lights in the east sky springing;And, brook! breathe aroundThy low murmured sound!May they move, ye birds, to your singing;
And, morning! spread
Their jewelled bed
With lights in the east sky springing;
And, brook! breathe around
Thy low murmured sound!
May they move, ye birds, to your singing;
For in their playI hear them say,Here, man, thy wisdom borrow;In heart be a child,In words, true and mild;Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow.
For in their play
I hear them say,
Here, man, thy wisdom borrow;
In heart be a child,
In words, true and mild;
Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow.
Bryant’s writings transport us into the depths of the solemn, primeval forest, to the shores of the lonely lakes, the banks of the wild, nameless stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like a promontory from amidst a wild ocean of foliage; while they shed around us the glory of a climate fierce in its extremes, but splendid in its vicissitudes.—Washington Irving.His soul is charity itself—in all respects generous and noble.—Edgar A. Poe.We may have had elsewhere as faithful citizens; as industrious journalists; as ripe scholars, and poets, it may be, equally gifted and inspired, but where have we had another who has combined in his own person all these? In him a rare combination of extraordinary qualities was united; strength and gentleness, elevation of thought and childlike simplicity, genius, common-sense, and practical wisdom. Where there were controverted questions, whether men agreed with him or not, they never for an instant doubted his nobleness of purpose.—Rev. R. C. Waterston.
Bryant’s writings transport us into the depths of the solemn, primeval forest, to the shores of the lonely lakes, the banks of the wild, nameless stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like a promontory from amidst a wild ocean of foliage; while they shed around us the glory of a climate fierce in its extremes, but splendid in its vicissitudes.—Washington Irving.
His soul is charity itself—in all respects generous and noble.—Edgar A. Poe.
We may have had elsewhere as faithful citizens; as industrious journalists; as ripe scholars, and poets, it may be, equally gifted and inspired, but where have we had another who has combined in his own person all these? In him a rare combination of extraordinary qualities was united; strength and gentleness, elevation of thought and childlike simplicity, genius, common-sense, and practical wisdom. Where there were controverted questions, whether men agreed with him or not, they never for an instant doubted his nobleness of purpose.—Rev. R. C. Waterston.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven’s own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night,—Thou comest not when violets leanO’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple drest,Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,When woods are bare, and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged year is near its end.Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue, blue, as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven’s own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night,—Thou comest not when violets leanO’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple drest,Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,When woods are bare, and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged year is near its end.Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue, blue, as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven’s own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night,—
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven’s own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night,—
Thou comest not when violets leanO’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple drest,Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.
Thou comest not when violets lean
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,When woods are bare, and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged year is near its end.
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,
When woods are bare, and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue, blue, as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.
I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
* * * But when now, at length,The twelfth day came, the ever-living godsReturned together to the Olympian mountWith Jove, their leader. Thetis kept in mindHer son’s desire, and, with the early morn,Emerging from the depths of ocean, climbedTo the great heaven and the high mount, and foundAll-seeing Jove, who, from the rest apart,Was seated on the loftiest pinnacleOf many-peaked Olympus. She sat downBefore the son of Saturn, clasped his kneesWith her left arm, and lifted up her rightIn supplication to the Sovereign One:“O Jupiter, my father, if amongThe immortals I have ever given thee aidBy word or act, deny not my request.Honor my son, whose life is doomed to endSo soon; for Agamemnon, king of men,Hath done him shameful wrong: he takes from himAnd keeps the prize he won in war. But thou,Olympian Jupiter, supremely wise,Honor him now, and give the Trojan hostThe victory, until the humbled GreeksHeap large increase of honors on my son.”She spake, but cloud-compelling JupiterAnswered her not; in silence long he sat.But Thetis, who had clasped his knees at first,Clung to them still, and prayed him yet again:—“O promise me, and grant my suit; or elseDeny it,—for thou need’st not fear,—and IShall know how far below the other godsThou holdest me in honor.” As she spake,The cloud-compeller, sighing heavily,Answered her thus: “Hard things dost thou require,And thou wilt force me into new disputesWith Juno, who will anger me againWith contumelious words; for ever thus,In presence of the immortals, doth she seekCause of contention, charging that I aidThe Trojans in their battles. Now depart,And let her not perceive thee. Leave the restTo be by me accomplished; and that thouMayst be assured, behold, I give the nod;For this, with me, the immortals know, portendsThe highest certainty: no word of mineWhich once my nod confirms can be revoked,Or prove untrue, or fail to be fulfilled.”As thus he spake, the son of Saturn gaveThe nod with his dark brows. The ambrosial curlsUpon the Sovereign One’s immortal headWere shaken, and with them the mighty mountOlympus trembled. Then they parted, shePlunging from bright Olympus to the deep,And Jove returning to his palace home;Where all the gods, uprising from their thrones,At sight of the Great Father, waited notFor his approach, but met him as he came.And now upon his throne the Godhead tookHis seat, but Juno knew—for she had seen—That Thetis of the silver feet, and childOf the gray Ancient of the Deep, had heldClose counsel with her consort. Therefore sheBespake the son of Saturn harshly, thus:—“O crafty one, with whom, among the gods,Plottest thou now? Thus hath it ever beenThy pleasure to devise, apart from me,Thy plans in secret; never willinglyDost thou reveal to me thy purposes.”Then thus replied the Father of the godsAnd mortals: “Juno, do not think to knowAll my designs, for thou wilt find the taskToo hard for thee, although thou be my spouse.What fitting is to be revealed, no oneOf all the immortals or of men shall knowSooner than thou; but when I form designsApart from all the gods, presume thou notTo question me or pry into my plans.”Juno, the large-eyed and august, rejoined:—“What words, stern son of Saturn, hast thou said!It never was my wont to question theeOr pry into thy plans, and thou art leftTo form them as thou wilt; yet now I fearThe silver-footed Thetis has contrived—That daughter of the Ancient of the Deep—To o’erpersuade thee, for, at early prime,She sat before thee and embraced thy knees;And thou hast promised her, I can not doubt,To give Achilles honor and to causeMyriads of Greeks to perish by their fleet.”Then Jove, the cloud-compeller, spake again:—“Harsh-tongued! thou ever dost suspect me thus,Nor can I act unwatched; and yet all thisProfits thee nothing, for it only servesTo breed dislike, and is the worse for thee.But were it as thou deemest, ’tis enoughThat such has been my pleasure. Sit thou downIn silence, and obey, lest all the godsUpon Olympus, when I come and layThese potent hands on thee, protect thee not.”He spake, and Juno, large-eyed and august,O’erawed, and curbing her high spirit, satIn silence; meanwhile all the gods of heavenWithin the halls of Jove were inly grieved.
* * * But when now, at length,The twelfth day came, the ever-living godsReturned together to the Olympian mountWith Jove, their leader. Thetis kept in mindHer son’s desire, and, with the early morn,Emerging from the depths of ocean, climbedTo the great heaven and the high mount, and foundAll-seeing Jove, who, from the rest apart,Was seated on the loftiest pinnacleOf many-peaked Olympus. She sat downBefore the son of Saturn, clasped his kneesWith her left arm, and lifted up her rightIn supplication to the Sovereign One:“O Jupiter, my father, if amongThe immortals I have ever given thee aidBy word or act, deny not my request.Honor my son, whose life is doomed to endSo soon; for Agamemnon, king of men,Hath done him shameful wrong: he takes from himAnd keeps the prize he won in war. But thou,Olympian Jupiter, supremely wise,Honor him now, and give the Trojan hostThe victory, until the humbled GreeksHeap large increase of honors on my son.”She spake, but cloud-compelling JupiterAnswered her not; in silence long he sat.But Thetis, who had clasped his knees at first,Clung to them still, and prayed him yet again:—“O promise me, and grant my suit; or elseDeny it,—for thou need’st not fear,—and IShall know how far below the other godsThou holdest me in honor.” As she spake,The cloud-compeller, sighing heavily,Answered her thus: “Hard things dost thou require,And thou wilt force me into new disputesWith Juno, who will anger me againWith contumelious words; for ever thus,In presence of the immortals, doth she seekCause of contention, charging that I aidThe Trojans in their battles. Now depart,And let her not perceive thee. Leave the restTo be by me accomplished; and that thouMayst be assured, behold, I give the nod;For this, with me, the immortals know, portendsThe highest certainty: no word of mineWhich once my nod confirms can be revoked,Or prove untrue, or fail to be fulfilled.”As thus he spake, the son of Saturn gaveThe nod with his dark brows. The ambrosial curlsUpon the Sovereign One’s immortal headWere shaken, and with them the mighty mountOlympus trembled. Then they parted, shePlunging from bright Olympus to the deep,And Jove returning to his palace home;Where all the gods, uprising from their thrones,At sight of the Great Father, waited notFor his approach, but met him as he came.And now upon his throne the Godhead tookHis seat, but Juno knew—for she had seen—That Thetis of the silver feet, and childOf the gray Ancient of the Deep, had heldClose counsel with her consort. Therefore sheBespake the son of Saturn harshly, thus:—“O crafty one, with whom, among the gods,Plottest thou now? Thus hath it ever beenThy pleasure to devise, apart from me,Thy plans in secret; never willinglyDost thou reveal to me thy purposes.”Then thus replied the Father of the godsAnd mortals: “Juno, do not think to knowAll my designs, for thou wilt find the taskToo hard for thee, although thou be my spouse.What fitting is to be revealed, no oneOf all the immortals or of men shall knowSooner than thou; but when I form designsApart from all the gods, presume thou notTo question me or pry into my plans.”Juno, the large-eyed and august, rejoined:—“What words, stern son of Saturn, hast thou said!It never was my wont to question theeOr pry into thy plans, and thou art leftTo form them as thou wilt; yet now I fearThe silver-footed Thetis has contrived—That daughter of the Ancient of the Deep—To o’erpersuade thee, for, at early prime,She sat before thee and embraced thy knees;And thou hast promised her, I can not doubt,To give Achilles honor and to causeMyriads of Greeks to perish by their fleet.”Then Jove, the cloud-compeller, spake again:—“Harsh-tongued! thou ever dost suspect me thus,Nor can I act unwatched; and yet all thisProfits thee nothing, for it only servesTo breed dislike, and is the worse for thee.But were it as thou deemest, ’tis enoughThat such has been my pleasure. Sit thou downIn silence, and obey, lest all the godsUpon Olympus, when I come and layThese potent hands on thee, protect thee not.”He spake, and Juno, large-eyed and august,O’erawed, and curbing her high spirit, satIn silence; meanwhile all the gods of heavenWithin the halls of Jove were inly grieved.
* * * But when now, at length,
The twelfth day came, the ever-living gods
Returned together to the Olympian mount
With Jove, their leader. Thetis kept in mind
Her son’s desire, and, with the early morn,
Emerging from the depths of ocean, climbed
To the great heaven and the high mount, and found
All-seeing Jove, who, from the rest apart,
Was seated on the loftiest pinnacle
Of many-peaked Olympus. She sat down
Before the son of Saturn, clasped his knees
With her left arm, and lifted up her right
In supplication to the Sovereign One:
“O Jupiter, my father, if among
The immortals I have ever given thee aid
By word or act, deny not my request.
Honor my son, whose life is doomed to end
So soon; for Agamemnon, king of men,
Hath done him shameful wrong: he takes from him
And keeps the prize he won in war. But thou,
Olympian Jupiter, supremely wise,
Honor him now, and give the Trojan host
The victory, until the humbled Greeks
Heap large increase of honors on my son.”
She spake, but cloud-compelling Jupiter
Answered her not; in silence long he sat.
But Thetis, who had clasped his knees at first,
Clung to them still, and prayed him yet again:—
“O promise me, and grant my suit; or else
Deny it,—for thou need’st not fear,—and I
Shall know how far below the other gods
Thou holdest me in honor.” As she spake,
The cloud-compeller, sighing heavily,
Answered her thus: “Hard things dost thou require,
And thou wilt force me into new disputes
With Juno, who will anger me again
With contumelious words; for ever thus,
In presence of the immortals, doth she seek
Cause of contention, charging that I aid
The Trojans in their battles. Now depart,
And let her not perceive thee. Leave the rest
To be by me accomplished; and that thou
Mayst be assured, behold, I give the nod;
For this, with me, the immortals know, portends
The highest certainty: no word of mine
Which once my nod confirms can be revoked,
Or prove untrue, or fail to be fulfilled.”
As thus he spake, the son of Saturn gave
The nod with his dark brows. The ambrosial curls
Upon the Sovereign One’s immortal head
Were shaken, and with them the mighty mount
Olympus trembled. Then they parted, she
Plunging from bright Olympus to the deep,
And Jove returning to his palace home;
Where all the gods, uprising from their thrones,
At sight of the Great Father, waited not
For his approach, but met him as he came.
And now upon his throne the Godhead took
His seat, but Juno knew—for she had seen—
That Thetis of the silver feet, and child
Of the gray Ancient of the Deep, had held
Close counsel with her consort. Therefore she
Bespake the son of Saturn harshly, thus:—
“O crafty one, with whom, among the gods,
Plottest thou now? Thus hath it ever been
Thy pleasure to devise, apart from me,
Thy plans in secret; never willingly
Dost thou reveal to me thy purposes.”
Then thus replied the Father of the gods
And mortals: “Juno, do not think to know
All my designs, for thou wilt find the task
Too hard for thee, although thou be my spouse.
What fitting is to be revealed, no one
Of all the immortals or of men shall know
Sooner than thou; but when I form designs
Apart from all the gods, presume thou not
To question me or pry into my plans.”
Juno, the large-eyed and august, rejoined:—
“What words, stern son of Saturn, hast thou said!
It never was my wont to question thee
Or pry into thy plans, and thou art left
To form them as thou wilt; yet now I fear
The silver-footed Thetis has contrived—
That daughter of the Ancient of the Deep—
To o’erpersuade thee, for, at early prime,
She sat before thee and embraced thy knees;
And thou hast promised her, I can not doubt,
To give Achilles honor and to cause
Myriads of Greeks to perish by their fleet.”
Then Jove, the cloud-compeller, spake again:—
“Harsh-tongued! thou ever dost suspect me thus,
Nor can I act unwatched; and yet all this
Profits thee nothing, for it only serves
To breed dislike, and is the worse for thee.
But were it as thou deemest, ’tis enough
That such has been my pleasure. Sit thou down
In silence, and obey, lest all the gods
Upon Olympus, when I come and lay
These potent hands on thee, protect thee not.”
He spake, and Juno, large-eyed and august,
O’erawed, and curbing her high spirit, sat
In silence; meanwhile all the gods of heaven
Within the halls of Jove were inly grieved.
A man of true genius.—Edgar A. Poe.A man’s heart beats in his every line.—George Gilfillan.Of all our poets Longfellow best deserves the title of artist.—Griswold.They (Longfellow’s poems) appear to me more beautiful than on former readings, much as I then admired them. The exquisite music of your verses dwells more agreeably than ever on my ear, and more than ever am I affected by their depth of feeling and their spirituality, and the creative power with which they set before us passages from the great drama of life.—William Cullen Bryant in letter to Longfellow.
A man of true genius.—Edgar A. Poe.
A man’s heart beats in his every line.—George Gilfillan.
Of all our poets Longfellow best deserves the title of artist.—Griswold.
They (Longfellow’s poems) appear to me more beautiful than on former readings, much as I then admired them. The exquisite music of your verses dwells more agreeably than ever on my ear, and more than ever am I affected by their depth of feeling and their spirituality, and the creative power with which they set before us passages from the great drama of life.—William Cullen Bryant in letter to Longfellow.
Whene’er a noble deed is wrought,Whene’er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts, in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.The tidal wave of deeper soulsInto our inmost being rolls,And lifts us unawaresOut of all meaner cares.Honor to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our daily needs,And by their overflowRaise us from what is low!Thus thought I, as by night I readOf the great army of the dead,The trenches cold and damp,The starved and frozen camp,—The wounded from the battle-plain,In dreary hospitals of pain,The cheerless corridors,The cold and stony floors.Lo! in that house of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloom,And flit from room to room.And slow, as in a dream of bliss,The speechless sufferer turns to kissHer shadow, as it fallsUpon the darkening walls.As if a door in heaven should beOpened and then closed suddenly,The vision came and went,The light shone and was spent.On England’s annals, through the longHereafter of her speech and song,That light its rays shall castFrom portals of the past.A Lady with a Lamp shall standIn the great history of the land,A noble type of good,Heroic womanhood.Nor even shall be wanting hereThe palm, the lily, and the spear,The symbols that of yoreSaint Filomena bore.
Whene’er a noble deed is wrought,Whene’er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts, in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.The tidal wave of deeper soulsInto our inmost being rolls,And lifts us unawaresOut of all meaner cares.Honor to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our daily needs,And by their overflowRaise us from what is low!Thus thought I, as by night I readOf the great army of the dead,The trenches cold and damp,The starved and frozen camp,—The wounded from the battle-plain,In dreary hospitals of pain,The cheerless corridors,The cold and stony floors.Lo! in that house of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloom,And flit from room to room.And slow, as in a dream of bliss,The speechless sufferer turns to kissHer shadow, as it fallsUpon the darkening walls.As if a door in heaven should beOpened and then closed suddenly,The vision came and went,The light shone and was spent.On England’s annals, through the longHereafter of her speech and song,That light its rays shall castFrom portals of the past.A Lady with a Lamp shall standIn the great history of the land,A noble type of good,Heroic womanhood.Nor even shall be wanting hereThe palm, the lily, and the spear,The symbols that of yoreSaint Filomena bore.
Whene’er a noble deed is wrought,Whene’er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts, in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.
Whene’er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene’er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper soulsInto our inmost being rolls,And lifts us unawaresOut of all meaner cares.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our daily needs,And by their overflowRaise us from what is low!
Honor to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow
Raise us from what is low!
Thus thought I, as by night I readOf the great army of the dead,The trenches cold and damp,The starved and frozen camp,—
Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp,—
The wounded from the battle-plain,In dreary hospitals of pain,The cheerless corridors,The cold and stony floors.
The wounded from the battle-plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,
The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloom,And flit from room to room.
Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss,The speechless sufferer turns to kissHer shadow, as it fallsUpon the darkening walls.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should beOpened and then closed suddenly,The vision came and went,The light shone and was spent.
As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,
The light shone and was spent.
On England’s annals, through the longHereafter of her speech and song,That light its rays shall castFrom portals of the past.
On England’s annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.
A Lady with a Lamp shall standIn the great history of the land,A noble type of good,Heroic womanhood.
A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.
Nor even shall be wanting hereThe palm, the lily, and the spear,The symbols that of yoreSaint Filomena bore.
Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear,
The symbols that of yore
Saint Filomena bore.
There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that Northern land—almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream; and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass; you sneeze, and they cry, “God bless you!” The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the flagrant tips of fir boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travelers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and brings you her heavy silver spoons—an heirloom—to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before, or bread with anise-seed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark.
Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travelers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and, hanging around their necks in front, a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank-notes of the country, as large as your two hands. You meet, also, groups of Dalekarlian peasant-women, traveling homeward or townward in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of their foot, and soles of birch bark.
Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church steps and con their psalm-books. Others are coming down the road with their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and harvests, and of the parable of the sower, that went forth to sow. He leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of the spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no other throne than the church pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good man’s words. But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their number being an indication of the wearer’s wealth. It may end in a wedding.
Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the Northern clime. There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blossom one by one; no long and lingering autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves and the glow of Indian summers. But winter and summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when winter from the folds of trailing clouds sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Erelong the sun hardly rises above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel-shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells.
If you borrow my books do not mark them, for I shall not be able to distinguish your marks from my own, and the pages will become like the doors in Bagdad, marked by Morgiana’s chalk.
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.