I'M ■''' .'■■: u:^;:;o!;-^ .-(••■; >l-;:^i:' '>i', ■V <>. J ./ '^ ^.ffe'^ -.,.'^, 'y C- o>- •"-^r dbnt, New York. — W. H. Hayne: " A Cyclone at Sea; " Sarah P. McLean Greene : " The Lamp ; " Maurice Thompson : " The Lion's Cub." Mr. p. J. Kenedy. New York. — Father Ryau's Poems. The Ladies' Home Journal, Philadelphia. — Virginia W. Cloud : " The Mother's Song." Mk. Edwin Ruthven Lamson, Boston. — Ednah P. Clarke : An Opal. Mkssr^. Lee & Shepard. — S. W. Foss : Dreams in Homespun. Mrs. Frank Leslie. — E. A. U. Valentine: " The Spirit of the Wheat." The J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. — L. J. Block : Dramatic Sketches and Poems* G. H. Boker : Plays and Poems ; Bobert Loveman : His Poems ; H. S. Morris : Madonna and Other Poems ; Henry Peterson : Poems ; Edward Pollock : Poems ; Margaret J. Preston : Old ?iongs and New ; C. F. Bichardson : The Cross ; T. B. Bead : Poetical Works ; F. O. Ticknnr : Poems ; A. B. Paine : " The Little Child." Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., Boston. — A. 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From " Wide Awake," — Clara D. Bates : " Thistle Down ;"" Henrietta B. Eliot : " Why it was Cold in May." Messrs. Luckhardt & Belder, New York. — W. H. Gardner : " When Love Comes Knocking." The Macmlllan Company, New York. — Hamlin Garland : The Trail of the Goldseekers, 1899, — Prairie Songs ; Ella Higginson : When the Birds go North again, 1898 ; Sophie Jewett : The Pilgrim, and Other Poems, 1896 ; William Winter : Wanderers, 1892, — Brown Heath and Blue Bells, 1895 ; G. E. Woodberry : Wild Eden, 1899. Messrs. Maynard, Merrill & Co., New York. — " Yale Verse." The Morningsede, New York. — John Erskine : " The Song ; " Jeannette B. Gillespy : " Forgiven," — "A Valentine." Messrs. John P. Morton & Co., Louisville. — Madison Cawein : The Garden of Dreams. Mr. David McKay, Philadelphia. — D. L. Dawson : The Seeker of the Marshes, and Other Poems. Mr. Charles Wells Modlton, Buffalo. — Augusta C. Bristol : The Web of Life ; J. B. Kenyon : At the Gate of Dreams; H. L. Koopman : Orestes, and Other Poems ; Walter Malone: Sjngs of Dusk and Dawn. COPYRIGHT NOTICE The New England Publishing Co., Boston. — Hezekiah Butterworth : Songs of History. Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. — L. J. Block : The New World ; Madison Cawein : Myth and Romance, — Intimations of the Beautiful ; C H. Cra ndall : Wayside Music ; Danske Dandridge : Joy, and Other Poems ; Elaine Goodale Eastman : Apple Blossoms ; Arthur Grissom : Beaux and Belles ; Grace D. Litchfield : Mimosa Leaves ; J- S- Morse : Summer Haven Songs; Joseph O^ Connor: Poems; Frederick Peterson: In the Shade of Ygdrasil ; R. C. Rogers : The Wind in the Clearing, — For the King ; Alice Wellington Rollins : The Ring of Amethyst ; John Lancaster Spalding : America, and Other Poems, — T.he Poet's Praise ; H. J. Stockard : Fugitive Lines ; S. H. Thayer : Songs of Sleepy Hollow. The a. D. F. Randolph Company, New York. — Elisabeth G. Crane : Sylva ; S. W- Buffield : Warp and Woof ; Harriet M. Kimball : Poems ; Mary A. Mason : With the Seasons ; -4. -D. F. Randolph : Hopefully Waiting, and Other Verses ; Katrina Trask : Sonnets and Lyrics. Mk. George H. Richmond, New York. — Caroline Duer and Alice Duer Miller: Poems. Messrs. Rogers & Eastman, Cleveland. — Amy E. Leigh : " If I but Knew." Messrs. J. N. Rosbnkbrg & J. M. Proskaubr, New York. — " Columbia Verse." The RoYCROFTERS, East Aurora. — L. H. Foote : On the Heights. From "The Philistine," — Irving Browne : " At Shakespeare's Grave ; " J. J. Rooney : " The Rabat," " A Beam of Light." Rudder Publishing Company, New York. — T. F. Day : Songs of Sea and Sail. Mr. R. H. Russell, New York. — R. B. Wilson : The Shadows of the Trees. G. Sohibmer, New York. — Peyton Van Rensselaer: "At Twilight;" Harry B. Smith: " The Armorer's Song," "Song of the Turnkey." Messrs. Charles Soribner's Sons, New York. — Anne R. Aldrich : Songs about Life, Love and Death ; H. H. Boyesen : Idyls of Norway ; H. C. Bunner : Poems ; Charles de Kay : Hesperus ; Mary Mapes Dodge : Along the Way ; Julia C. R. Dorr : Poems ; Eugene Field : W^ritings ; Oliver Herford : The Bashful Earthquake ; J. G. Holland : Poetical Writings ; Sidney Lanier : Poems ; G. P. Lathrop : Dreams and Days ; G. C. Lodge : Songs of the Wave ; C. H. Luders: The Dead Nymph ; E. S. Martin : Little Brother of the" Rich ; Ernest McGaffey : Poems of Gun and Rod ; G. P. Morris : Poems ; F. J. O^Brien : Poems and Stories : T. N. Page : Befo' de War ; Edith M. Thomas : A Winter Swallow ; W. C. Wilkinson : Poems ; W. B. Wright : The Brook. From " Scribner's Magazine," — Alice L. Bunner : " Separation ; " Arthur Colton : " A Song with a Discord," " To Faustine ; " Mrs. Margaret G. George Davidson : " Moritrra ; " l^Udred Howells : " A Moral in Sevres ; " Marguerite Merington : " Hey Nonny No;" Mrs. Miller : "Stevenson's Birthday;" J. H. Morse: " The Wild Geese," "His State- ment of the Case ; " Lizette W. Reese : " Tears ; " V. T. Sutphen : " Deep Waters ; " Marie van Vorst : " Sing Again ; " Edith Wharton : " Experience." Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston. — ^ Herbert Bates : Songs of Exile ; James Buckham : The Heart of Life ; Richard Burton : Dumb in June, — Memorial Day, — Lyrics of Brother- hood ; Grace E. Channing Stetson : Sea Drift ; J. V. Cheney : Out of the Silence ; Zitella Cocke : A Doric Reed ; Stephen Crane : The Black Riders ; Ernest Crosby : Plain Talk ; Richard Hovey : Songs from Vagabondia, — Birth of Galahad, — Taliesin, — Along the Trail ; M. A. D. Howe : Shadows ; William Lindsey : Apples of Istakhar ; Josephine P. Peabody : The Wayfarers ; Lilla Cabot Perry: Impressions; P. H. Savage: First Poems, — Poems; Evaleen Stein: One Way to the Woods ; Charlotte P. Stetson : In this Our World ; Father Tabb : Poems, — Lyrics, — Child Verse ; F. R. Torrence : The House of a Hundred Lights ; Walt Whitman : Leaves of Grass. The Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York. — G. A. Baker : Point Lace and Diamonds ; J. V. Cheney : Thisile Drift, — Wood Blooms; Stephen Crane: War is Kind; Mary B. C. Hansbrough : Lyrics of Love and Nature ; W. H. Hayne : Sylvan Lyrics ; Walter Learned : Between Times ; S. M. Peck : Cap and Bells, — Rings and Love Knots, — Rhymes and Roses ; F. D. Sherman : Madrigals and Catches. Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Co., Chicago. — Mary M. Adams : The Choir Visible ; F. F. Browne : Volunteer Grain ; Helen Hay : Some Verses ; R. K. Munkittrick : The Acrobatic Muse ; George Santayana: Sonnets, and Other Poems. From "The Chap Book," — John Bennett: " God Bless You, Dear, To-Day ; " Julian Hawthorne : " Were-Wolf ; " Beatrix D. Lloyd : " Love and Time ; " J. W. Palmer : " The Fight at San Jacinto." The Clayton F. Summy Co., Chicago. — Theron Brown: " His Majesty." Mr. James H. West, Boston. — J. W. Chadwick : Power and Use. The Whitaker and Ray Company, San Francisco, Cal. — Herbert Bashford : Songs from Puget Sea ; Joaquin Miller : Complete Poetical Works. The White-Smith Music Publishing Company, Boston. — R. H. Buck: "Kentucky Babe ; " Hattie Whitney : " A Little Dutch Garden." COPYRIGHT NOTICE Mr. Thomas Whittaker, New York. — C. F. Johnson : What can I do for Brady, and Other Verse. Messrs. M. Witmark & Sons, New York. — E. D. Barker : " Go Sleep My Honey." Mr. Willis Woodward, New York. — Hattie Starr : " Little Alabama Coon." The Youth's Companion, Boston. — O. F. Adams ; " On a Grave in Christehurch, Hants ; " H. H. Bennett : " The Flag Goes By." n All rights on poems in this work accredited to any one of the authors whose names are sub- joined, — except in those cases already specifically mentioned in the preceding section of this copyright notice, — are vested in the said author, — or in his or her legal representatives, as noted within parentheses, — and are reserved by the holder or holders of the copyright. Publishers of " AN AMERICAN ANTHOLOGY." 1900 Henry Abbey ; John Albee ; Anne R. Aldrich (Mrs. Helen M. Reeve Aldrich) ; Elizabeth Akers Allen ; 0. C. Auringer ; Charlotte F. Bates ; Katharine L. Bates ; H. A. Beers ; Joel Benton ; R. M. Bell ; C. L. Betts ; Ambrose Bierce ; H. A. Blood ; Mary E. Bradley (Heirs of) ; Mary G. Brainard ; John Burroughs ; Mary F. Butts ; G. W. Cable ; Amelia W. Carpenter ; R. W. Chambers ; J. I. C. Clarke ; T. M. Coan ; T. S. Collier ; Rose Terry Cooke (RoUin H. Cooke) ; W. A. Croffut ; Mary K. Dallas (Miss Kyle) ; R. E. Day ; Grace A. Dennen ; Mary A. DeVere ; C. M. Dickinson ; Margaret E. Easter ; Elaine Goodale Eastman ; A. W. Eaton ; G. T. Elliot ; E. W. Ellsworth ; Julia N. Finch ; Maybury Fleming ; Margaret W. Fuller ; W. P. Garrison ; Dora R. Goodale ; A. C. Gordon ; G. F. Gouraud ; David Gray (David Gray, Jr.) ; Homer Greene ; E. E. Hale ; A. S. Hardy ; W. W. Harney ; T. L. Harris ; Clarence Hawkes; J. R. Hayes; J. L. Heaton ; H. W. Herbert (Mrs. Margaret H. Mather) ; Chauncey Hickox ; Mary Thacher Higginson ; C. L. Hildreth (Mrs. Hildreth) ; George Horton ; Winifred Howells (William D. Howells) ; Edward Howland (Marie Howland) ; W. R. Hunting- ton ; Lawrence Hutton ; J. J. Ingalls ; J. H. Ingham ; J. H. Jackson ; Margaret T. Janvier ; Rossiter Johnson; D. S. Jordan; Charles A. Keeler ; J. B. Kenyon ; Frederick Keppel ; Hannah P. Kimball ; F. L. Knowles ; H. L. Koopman ; Wilbur I^arremore ; W. C. Lawton ; Walter Learned ; Julie M. Lippmann ; Albert Mathews ; Brander Matthews ; W. G. MeCabe ; L. E. Mitchell ; Harriet Monroe ; G. E. Montgomery (Mrs. Mary C. Montgomery) ; R. H. Newell ; J. B. O'Reilly (James F. Murphy, executor and trustee) ; S. D. Osborne ; Ray Palmer (Dr. Charles Ray Palmer) ; Caroline W. Fellowes Paradise ; W. M. Payne ; George Pellew (Mr. Henry Pellew) ; Arthur Peterson ; C. H. Phelps ; Elisabeth Pullen ; J. R. Randall ; J. E. Rankin; Annie D. Robinson; E. A. Robinson; Lucy Robinson; J. J. Rooney ; Bertha B. Runkle ; F. S. Saltus (F. H. Saltus) ; F. B. Sanborn ; Frank Sewall ; Milicent W. Shinn ; D. B. Sickels ; H, B. Smith ; Harriet P. Spofford ; Annie R. Stillman ; C. W. Stoddard ; Maurice Thompson ; Vance Thompson ; G. A. Townsend ; Horace L. Traubel ; Annie E. Trumbull ; Clarence Urmy ; W. H. Ward ; E. F. Ware ; L. D. Warner; J. E. Wayland ; G. M. Whicher ; E. L. White ; E. R. White ; William Youn^. To CYRUS OSBORNE BAKER INTRODUCTION The reader will comprehend at once that this book was not designed as a Trea- sury of imperishable American poems. To make a rigidly eclectic volume would be a diversion, and sometimes I have thought to spend a few evenings in obtaining two thirds of it from pieces named in the critical essays to which the present exhibit is supplementary. In fact, more than one projector of a handbook upon the lines of Palgrave's little classic has adopted the plan suggested, and has paid a like compliment to the texts revised by the editors of " A Library of American Literature." But no "Treasury," however well conceived, would forestall the purpose of this compilation. It has been made, as indicated upon the title-page, in illustration of my review of the poets and poetry of our own land. It was undertaken after frequent suggestions from readers of " Poets of America," and bears to that vol- ume the relation borne by " A Victorian Anthology " to " Victorian Poets." The companion anthologies, British and American, are meant to contain the choicest and most typical examples of the poetry of the English tongue during the years which they cover. The efEective rise of American poetry was coincident with that of the Anglo- Victorian. It has been easy to show a preliminary movement, by fairly representing the modicum of verse, that has more than a traditional value, earlier than Bryant's and not antedating the Republic. Again, as the foreign volume was enlarged by the inclusion of work produced since the "Jubilee Year," 80 this one extends beyond the course surveyed in 1885, and to the present time. This should make it, in a sense, the breviary of our national poetic legacies from the nineteenth century to the twentieth. Now that it is finished, it seems, to the compiler at least, to afford a view of the successive lyrical motives and results of our first hundred years of song, from which the critic or historian may derive conclusions and possibly extend his lines into the future. When entering upon my task, I cheerfully assumed that it would be less diffi- cult than the one preceding it ; for I had traversed much of this home-field in prose essays, and once again, — aided by the fine judgment of a colleague, — xvi INTRODUCTION while examining the whole range of American literature before 1890. Many poets, however, then not essential to our purpose, are quoted here. More space has been available in a work devoted to verse alone. Other things being equal, I naturally have endeavored, though repeating lyrics established by beauty or asso- ciation, to make fresh selections^ While verse of late has decreased its vogue as compared with that of imaginative prose, yet never has so much of it, good and bad, been issued here as within the present decade ; never before were there so many rhythmical aspirants whose volumes have found publishers willing to bring them out attractively, and never have these tasteful ventures had more assurance of a certain, if limited, distribution. The time required for some acquaintance with them has not seemed to me misspent ; yet the work of selection was slight compared with that of obtaining privileges from authors and book-houses, insuring correctness of texts and biographical data, and mastering the countless other details of this presentation. My forbearing publishers have derived little comfort from its successive postponements in consequence of these exigencies and of the editor's ill health. The delay, however, has rounded up more evenly my criticism and illustration of English poetry, carrying to the century-'s end this last volume of a series so long ago projected. The anthologist well may follow the worker in mosaic or stained-glass, to better his general effects. Humble bits, low in color, have values of juxtaposition, and often bring out to full advantage his more striking material. The representation of a leading poet is to be considered by itself, and it is a pleasure to obtain for it a prelude and an epilogue, and otherwise to secure a just variety of mood and range. I have allotted many pages to the chiefs reviewed at chapter-length in '" Poets of America," yet even as to these space is not a sure indication of the compiler's own feeling. An inclusion of nearly aU the effective lyrics of Poe, and of enough of Emerson to show his translunary spirit at full height, still left each of these antipodal bards within smaller confines than are given to Longfellow, — the people's " artist of the beautiful " through half a century of steadfast production, or ito Whittier — the born balladist, whose manner and purport could not be set lfoi*th compactly. Similar disproportions may appear in citation from poets less known, the effort being to utilize matter best suited to the general design. Time is the test of all traditions, even those of one's own propagating. We stiU can- onize as our truest poets men who rose to eminence when poetry overtopped other INTRODUCTION literary interests, and whose lives were devoted to its production. Yet there was an innocent tyranny in the extension of the prerogative accorded to the " elder poets " throughout the best days of a worshipful younger generation. The genius of new-comers might have been more compulsive if less overshadowed, and if less subject to the restrictions of an inauspicious period — that of the years immedi- ately before and after the Civil War. Their output I have exhibited somewhat freely, as seemed the due of both the living and the dead. To the latter it may be the last tribute by one of their own kith and kin ; to all, a tribute justly theirs whose choice it was to pursue an art upon which they had been bred and from its chiefs had learned beauty, reverence, aspiration, — but which they practised almost to alien ears. Not only their colleagues, but those that should have been their listeners, had perished, North and Southo To the older members of this circle, — those born in the twenties, and thus faUing within the closing division of the First Period, — even too little space has been allotted : the facts being that not until the Second Period was reached could an estimate be formed of the paging required for the entire book, and that then the selections abeady in type could not be readjusted. A veteran author. Dr. English, recalls an assurance to the editor of American compilations famous in the day of Poe and the " Literati," that " his sins," much as he had incurred the wrath of the excluded, " were not of omission but of com- missiouo" Dr. Griswold performed an historical if not a critical service; he had a measure of conscience withal, else Poe would not have chosen him for a literary executor. But if this anthology were modelled upon his " Poets and Poetry of America " it would occupy a sheK of volumes. I have not hesitated to use any fortunate poem, howsoever unpromising its source. A ruby is a ruby, on the fore- head of a Joss or found in the garment of a pilgrim. Here and there are included verses by masterful personages not writers by profession, and the texts of hymns, patriotic lyrics, and other memorabilia that have quaHty. As befits an anthology, selections mostly are confined to poems in their entirety, but the aim is to repre- sent a poet variously and at his best ; sometimes this cannot be achieved otherwise than by extracts from long poems, — by episodes, or other passages efPective in themselves. The reader will find but a few extended Odes other than Lowell's Commemoration Ode and Stoddard's majestic monody on Lincoln, either of which it would be criminal here to truncate. In the foreign compendium there was little to present in the dramatic form, and that not often of a high order ; from this xviii INTRODUCTION volume dramatic dialogue — regretfully in cases like those of Boker and Taylor — is excluded altogether, with the exception of an essential specimen in the prefa- tory division ; but lyrical interludes from dramas are not infrequent. As to son- nets, one often finds them the most serviceable expression of a minor poet. The sonnets of two or three Americans take rank with the best of their time, but I have tried to avoid those of the everyday grade. Finally, whatsoever a poet's standing or the class of selections, my tests are those of merit and anthological value, and the result should be judged accordingly. There is no reception more distrustful, not to say cynical, than that awarded nowadays to a presentment of the artistic effort of one's own time and people. An editor must look upon this as in the nature of things, happy if he can persuade his readers to use their own glasses somewhat objectiyelyo With regard to a foreign field personal and local equations have less force, and to this no doubt I owe the good fortune that thus far little exception has been taken to the selection and range of material used for " A Victorian Anthology." This brings to mind a departure in the following pages from the divisional arrangement of the last-named compilation. Essaying almost every method of setting forth our own poets, I found it impossible to follow the one which before had worked so aptlyo A chronological system proved to be not merely the best, but seemingly the only one, applicable to my new needs. The ease wherewith the British record permitted a classified arrangement was a pleasure to the orderly mind. It crystallized into groups, each animated by a master, or made distinct by the fraternization of poets with tastes in common. Whether this betokened an advanced or a provincial condition may be debatable, and the test of any " set " doubtless involves the measure of self-consciousness. Surveying the formative portion of the Victorian era it was easy to find the Rois- terers, the Poets of Quality, the several flocks of English, Scottish, and Irish minstrels, the Rhapsodists, the Humanitarians, aU preceding the composite idyllic school — that with Tennyson at its head. With and after Tennyson came the renaissance of the Preraphaelites, and also new balladists, song-writers,, a few dramatists, the makers of v6rse-a-la-mode, and so on to the time's end. From all this, distinct in the receding past^ it was possible to map out a cartograph as logical as the prose survey which it illustrates. But when the latter-day verse- makers were reached, an effort to assort them had to be foregone, and not so INTRODUCTION xix much from lack of perspective as because, with few excej)tions, they revealed more traits in common than in differentiation. It would be too much to expect that subsequent to the Victorian prime and the going out of its chief luminaries there should not be an interval of twilight — with its scattered stars, the Hespers of the past, the Phosphors of a day to come. The earlier groups were discernible, and reviewed by me, in their full activity ; at present, when prose fiction, instead of verse, is the characteristic imaginative product, it is not hard to point out its various orders and working-guilds. A derogatory inference need not be drawn from the failure of attempts to classify the early and later singers of our own land. Poetry led other forms of our literature during at least forty years, — say from 1835 to 1875. Neverthe- less, hke many observers, I found scarcely a group, excej)t that inspired by the Transcendental movement, of more import than an occasional band such as the little set of " Croakers " when New York was in its 'teens. With the exception of Poe, the dii majores, as they have been termed, alike were interpreters of nature, sentiment, patriotism, religion, conviction, though each obtained mark by giving accentuated expression to one or two of these fundamental American notes. With the added exceptions of Whitman and Lanier, and of Lowell in his dialect satire, the leaders' methods and motives have had much in common, and the names excepted were not initiative of " schools." There were a few exemplars, chiefly outside of New England, of the instinct for poetry as an expression of beauty, and of feeling rather than of the convictions which so readily begat didacticism ; yet for decades the choir of minor poets have pursued their art in the spirit of the leaders and have availed themselves of the same measures and diction. Variances of the kind arising from conditions of locality and atmosphere have always been apparent. An approach can be made to a natural arrangement by geographical division somewhat upon the lines of Mr. Piatt's illustrated quarto, in which the lyrics and idylls of the Eastern States, the Middle, the Southern, the regions of the Middle West and the Pacific Slope, are successively exhibited. Until of late, however, the population and literature of the country were so restricted to the Atlantic seaboard that this method excites a sense of dispropor- tion none the less unpleasing for its fidelity to the record. Thus by a process of exclusion the one satisfactory order proved to be the chronological ; this being of the greater value since national evolution is more fully reflected in the poetry of XX INTRODUCTION America than in that of countries, further advanced in the arts, wherein lyrical expression has derived importance from its literary worth rather than from its might as the voice of the people. If it is difficult to assort our poets of any one time into classes it chances that they are significantly classified by generations. The arrangement of this volume thus depends upon its time-divisions, of which the sequence can be traced by a glance at the preliminary Table of Contents. Colonial verse, howsoever witty, learned, and godly, is beyond the purview ; and well it may be, if only in obeisance to the distich of that rare old colonist, Nathaniel Ward, who teUs us in " The Simple Cobbler of Agawam," that " Poetry 's a gift wherein but few excel ; He doth very ill that doth not passing well." Those who wish glimpses of life in New England after the forefathers were mea- surably adjusted to new conditions, may acquaint themselves with the lively eclogues of our first native poet, Ben Tompson. They wiU find nothing else so clever until — a hundred years later — they come upon the verse of Mistress Warren, the measures grave and gay of Francis Hopkinson, the sturdy humor of Trumbull and his fellow-wits. Barlow's " Columbiad " certainly belonged to neither an Homeric nor an Augustan age. Contemporary with its begetter was a true poet, one of nature's lyrists, who had the temperament of a Landor and was much what the Warwick classicist might have been if bred, afar from Oxford, to the life of a pioneer and revolutionist, spending his vital surplusage in action, bellicose journalism, and new-world verse. A few of Freneau's selecter songs and baUads long have been a part of literature, and with additions constitute my first gleanings of what was genuinely poetic in the years before Bryant earned his title as the father of American song. In that preliminary stage, an acting-drama began with Tyler and Dunlap and should have made better progress in the haLE- century ensuing. A dialect-ballad of the time, " The Country-Lovers," by Fes- senden of New Hampshire, though unsuited to this Anthology, is a composition from which Lowell seems to have precipitated the native gold of " The Courtin'." Apart from these I think that sufficient, if not aU, of what the opening years have to show of poetic value or association may be found in the selections from Freneau and others earlier than the First Lyrical Period, — a period which Pierpont, de- spite his birth-record, is entitled to lead ofB, considering the date of his first publi- cations and the relation of his muse to an heroic future. INTRODUCTION Accepting the advent of Bryant and Pierpont.as the outset of a home min- strelsy which never since has failed of maintenance, our course hithei'to divides itself readily into two jjeriods, with the CivU War as a transitional rest between. The First ends with that national metamorphosis of which the impassioned verse of a few writers, giving no uncertain sound, was the prophecy and inspiration. The antecedent struggle was so absorbing that any conception of poetry as an art to be pursued for its own sake was at best not current ; yet beauty was not infre- quent in the strain of even the anti-slavery bards, and meanwhile one American singer was giving it his entire allegiance. Before reverting to these antebellum conditions, it should be noted that a Second Period began with the war olympiad, lasting to a date that enables a compiler to distinguish its stronger representatives until the beginning of the century's final decade. To complete the survey I add a liberal aftermath of verse produced in these last ten years ; for it seems worth while to favor a rather inclusive chartage of the tendencies, even the minor cur- rents and eddies, which the poetry of our younger writers reveals to those who care for it. As to omitted names, I reflect that their bearers well may trust to anthologists of the future, rather than to have lines embalmed here for which in later days they may not care to be held to account. The' sub-divisions of each of the lyrical periods, — covering, as to the First Period, three terms of about fifteen years each, and as to the Second, three of ten years each, represent hterary generations, some of which so overlap one another as to be in a sense contemporary. Finally, the " Additional Selections " at the end of every sub-division, and succeeding the preliminary and supplementary pages, are for the most part chronologically ordered as concerns any specific group of poems. These addenda have afEorded a serviceable means of preserving notable " single poems," and of paying attention to not a few unpretentious writers who, while uttering true notes, have obeyed Wordsworth's, injunction to shine in their places and " be content." Here I wish to set down a few conclusions, not so much in regard to the interest of the whole compilation as to its value in any summary of the later poetry of our English tongue. When I told a New York publisher — a University man, whose judgment is well entitled to respect — that I had this book in mind as the final number of a series and as a companion to the British volume, he replied off-hand : " You INTRODUCTION cannot make it haK so good as the other : we have n't the material." This I was not ready to dispute, yet was aware of having entertained a feeHng, since writing *' Poets of America," that if a native anthology must yield to the foreign one in wealth of choice production, it might prove to be, from an equally vital point of view, the more significant of the two. Now having ended my labor, that feeling has become a belief which possibly may be shared by others willing to consider the grounds of its formation. In demurring to what certainly is a general impression, the first inquiry must be : What then constitutes the significance of a body of rhythmical literature as found in either of these anthologies, each restricted to its own territory, and both cast in the same epoch and language ? Undoubtedly, and first of all, the essen- tial qviality of its material as poetry ; next to this, its quality as an expression and interpretation of the time itself. In many an era the second factor may aiford a surer means of estimate than the first, inasmuch as the purely literary result may be nothing rarer than what the world already has possessed, nor greatly differing from it ; nevertheless, it may be the voice of a time, of a generation, of a people, — all of extraordinary import to the world's future. A new constructive standard was set by Tennyson, with increase rather than reduction of intellectual power, but shortly before the art of the laureate and his school there was little to choose in technical matters between English and American rhythmists, Landor always excepted. Since the Georgian hey-day, imagination of the creative order scarcely has been dominant, nor is it so in any composite and idyllic era. Our own poetry excels as a recognizable voice in utterance of the emotions of a people. The storm and stress of youth have been upon us, and the nation has not lacked its lyric cry ; meanwhile the typical sentiments of piety, domesticity, freedom, have made our less impassioned verse at least sincere. One who underrates the significance of our literature, prose or verse, as both the expression and the stimulant of national feeling, as of import in the past and to the future of America, and therefore of the world, is deficient in that critical insight which can judge even of its own day unwarped by personal taste or deference to public impression. He shuts his eyes to the fact that at times, notably throughout the years resulting in the Civil War, this literature has been a " force." Its verse until the dominance of prose fiction — well into the seventies, let us say — formed the staple of current reading ; and fortunate it was — while pirated foreign writings, sold cheaply everywhere, handicapped the evolution of a native prose school — that the books of the " elder INTRODUCTION xxiii American poets " lay on the centre-tables of our households and were read with zest by young and old. They were not the fosterers of new-world liberty and aspiration solely ; beyond this, in the case of Longfellow for example, the legends read between the lines made his verse as welcome in Great Britain as among his own country-folk. The criterion of poetry is not its instant vogue with the ill- informed classes ; yet when it is the utterance of an ardent people, as in the works of Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson, Lowell, Whittier, it once more assumes its ancient and rightful place as the art originative of belief and deed. Emerson presented such a union of spiritual and civic insight with dithyrambic genius as may not be seen again. His thought is now congenital throughout vast reaches, among new peoples scarcely conscious of its derivation. The transcendentalists, as a whole, for all their lapses into didacticism, made and left an impress. Long- fellow and his pupils, for their part, excited for our people the old-world sense of beauty and romance, until they sought for a beauty of their own and developed a new literary manner — touched by that of the motherland, yet with a difference ; the counterpart of that " national likeness " so elusive, yet so instantly recognized when chanced upon abroad. In Bryant, often pronounced cold and granitic by readers bred to the coj)ious-worded verse of modern times, is found the large imagination that befits a progenitor. It was stirred, as that of no future Ameri- can can be, by his observation of primeval nature. He saw her virgin mountains, rivers, forests, prairies, broadly ; and his vocabulary, scant and doric as it was, proved sufficient — in fact the best — for nature's elemental bard. His master may have been Wordsworth, but the difference between the two is that of the prairie and the moor, Ontario and Windermere, the Hudson and the Wye. From " Thanatopsis " in liis youth to " The Flood of Years " in his hoary age, Bryant was conscious of the overstress of Nature unmodified by human occupation and training. It is not surprising that Whitman — though it was from Emerson he learned to follow his own genius — so often expressed himself as in sympathy with Bryant, above other American poets, on the imaginative side. The elemen- tal quality of the two is what makes them akin ; what differentiates them is not alone their styles, but the advance of Whitman's generation from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. The younger minstrel, to use his own phrase, also saw things en mousse ; but in his day and vision the synthesis of the new world was that of populous hordes surging here and there in the currents of democracy. Bryant is the poet of the ages, Whitman of the generations. The aesthetic note INTRODUCTION of poetry was restored by Longfellow, in his Vergilian office, and by Edgar Poe with surer magic and endurance. Has any singer of our time more demonstrably affected the rhythmical methods of various lands than Poe with his few but haunting paradigms ? He gave a saving grace of melody and illusion to French classicism, to English didactics, — to the romance of Europe from Italy to Scan- dinavia. It is now pretty clear, notwithstanding the popularity of Longfellow in his day, that Emerson, Poe, and Whitman were those of our poets from whom the old world had most to learn ; such is the worth, let the young writer note, of seek- ing inspiration from within, instead of copying the exquisite achievements of mas- ters to whom we all resort for edification, — that is, for our own delight, which is not the chief end of the artist's throes. Our three most individual minstrels are now the most alive, resembling one another only in having each possessed the genius that originates. Years from now, it will be matter of fact that their influ- ences were as lasting as those of any poets of this century. The polemic work of Whittier, Lowell, and their allies, illustrates the applied force of lyrical expression. Their poetry of agitation scarcely found a counterpart on the Southern side until the four-years' conflict began ; yet any study of the causes and conduct of that war confirms our respect for Fletcher's sage who cared to make the ballads of a nation rather than its laws. His saying never applies more shrewdly than at the stage of a nation's formation when the slightest deflection must needs be the equivalent of a vast arc in the circle of its futurity. It is strange to realize that the young now view the Civil War from a distance almost equal to that between their seniors' childhood and the war of 1812 — the veterans of which we watched with kindly humor when their lessening remnant still kept up its musty commemorations. Our youth know the immeasurably larger scope of the mid-century struggle ; they cannot understand from the echo of its trumpet- ings the music of a time when one half of a people fought for a moral sentiment, — the other, for a birthright which pride would not forego. Even the mother- land, though gaining a fresh view from that convulsion and its outcome, formed no adequate understanding of her progeny over sea. Years go by, and the oceans are held in common, and the world is learning that our past foretokened a new domain in art, letters, and accomplishment, of which we have barely touched the oorder. Making every allowance for the gratia hospitum, a recent visitor, Wil- liam Archer, need not fear to stand by what he had the perception to discover and the courage to declare. In his judgment, " the whole world wiU one day come to INTRODUCTION xxv hold Vicksburg and Gettysburg names of larger historic import than Waterloo or Sedan." If this be so, the significance of a literature of all kinds that led up to the " sudden making " of those " splendid names " is not to be gainsaid. Mr. HoweUs aptly has pointed out that war does not often add to great art or poetry, but the white heat of lyric utterance has preceded many a campaign, and never more effectively than in the years before our fight for what Mr. Archer calls " the preservation of the national idea." Therefore an American does not seem to me a laudable reader who does not estimate the following presentation in the full light of aU that his country has been, is, and is to be. Time has not clouded, but cleared, the lenses through which our neophytes regard those distant movements so fully in accord with the modern spirit as Poe's renaissance of art for' beauty's sake, and Whitman's revolt against social and literary traditions. The academic vantage no less held its own with Parsons and Holmes as maintainers, — the former our purest classicist, and a translator equalled only by Bayard Taylor. The stately elegance of Parsons limited his audience, yet perfected the strength of his ode " On a Bust of Dante," than which no finer lyric ennobles this collection. Holmes's grace, humor, contemporaneousness, brought him into favor again and again, and the closing days of a sparkling career were the most zestful for the acknowledged master of new " architects of airy rhyme " on each side of the Atlantic. In Lowell, the many-sided, the best equipped, and withal the most spontaneous, of these worthies, their traits were combined. Never was there a singer at once so learned and so unstudied ; no other American took the range that lies between the truth and feeling of his dialect verse and the height of his national odes. This is not a critical Introduction, and the writer need not dwell upon the shortcomings of our still famous matin choir. These were discussed in commen- taries that differ very little from what they would be if written now, though after this farther lapse of time I might not enter upon such judgments with the glow and interest of the earlier years, when those hoar and laurelled heads still shone benignantly above us. Along the century's midway, a group of somewhat younger poets appeared, whose places of birth or settlement rendered them less subject to the homiletic mood which even LoweU recognized as his own besetting drawback. Taylor, Boker, Stoddard, Read, Story, and their allies, wrote poetry for the sheer love of it. They did much beautiful work, with a cosmopolitan and artistic bent, making xxvi INTRODUCTION it a part of the varied industry of men of letters ; in fact, they were creating a civic Arcadia of their own, — but then came the tempest that sent poets and preachers alike to the storm-cellars, and certainly made roundelays seem inappo- site as the " pleasing of a lute." Yet my expositions of the then current writers, taken with the sheaf of popular war-songs, Northern and Southern, bound up in a single section, prove that the fury of the fight called forth inspiring strains. Some of these were as quickly caught up by the public as were the best known efforts of the laureate of Anglo-Saxon expansion in a recent day. On the whole, the stern and dreadful war for the Union produced its due share of the lays of heroism and endeavor. But then, as oftentimes, pieces that outrivalled others were wont to have the temporal quality that does not make for an abiding place among the little classics of absolute song. As the country slowly emerged from the shadow, its elder bards hung up their clarions, and betook themselves to the music of contentment and peace. Their heirs apparent were few and scattered ; encouragement was small during years of reconstruction, and without the stimulus of a literary " market ; " yet the exhibit in the first division of the post-bellum period shows that song had a share in the awakening of new emotional and aesthetic expression. Fifteen or twenty years more, and a resort to letters as a means of subsistence was well under way, — and like a late spring, vigorous when once it came. Poets, in spite of the proverb, sing best when fed by wage or inheritance. The progress of American journals, magazines, and the book-trade coincided with a wider extension of readers than we had known before. Such a condition may not foster the creative originality that comes at the price of blood and tears, but it has resulted in a hopeful prelude to whatsoever masterwork the next era has in store. The taste, charm, and not infrequent elevation of the verse contained in the three divisions of the second portion of this compilation render that portion, in its own way, a fit companion to the series preceding it. One must forego tradition to recognize this ; in the Hall of Letters, as in Congress and wherever a levelling-up movement has prevailed, talent is less conspicuous by isolation than of old. The main distinction between the two Periods is a matter of dynamics ; the second has had less to do with pub- lic tendencies and events. It has had none the less a force of its own : that of the beauty and enlightenment which shape the ground for larger offices hereafter,, by devotees possibly no more gifted than their forbears, yet farther up the altar steps. In its consistency, tested by what went before, it stands comparison as reasonably INTRODUCTION as the product of the later Victorian artificers, when gauged by that of Tennyson, Arnold, the Brownings, and their colleagues. It is not my province to specify the chief wi'itei'S of this Period, so many of whom are still with us. As the country has grown, the Eastern song-helt has widened, and other divisions have found voice. The middle West quickly had poets to depict its broad and plenteous security ; and more lately very original notes have come from territory bordering upon the Western Lakes. The Pacific coast and the national steppes and ranges as yet scarcely have found adequate utterance, though not without a few open-air minstrels. Dialect and folk-lore verse represents the new South ; its abundant talent has been concerned otherwise with prose romance ; yet the song of one woman, in a border State, equals in beauty that of any recent lyrist. American poets stiU inherit longevity. Since the premature death of the thrice-lamented Taylor — at a moment when he was ready to begin the life of Goethe which none could doubt would be a consummate work — a few others have gone that should have died hereafter. Sill was a sweet and wise diviner, of a type with Clough and Arnold. O'Reilly is zealously remembered, both the poet and the man. In Emma Lazarus a star went out, the western beacon of her oriental race. When Sidney Lanier died, not only the South that bore him, but the country and our English rhythm underwent the loss of a rare being — one who was seeking out the absolute harmony, and whose ex- periments, incipient as they were, were along the pathways of discovery. Eugene Field's departure lessened our laughter, wit, and tears. In tlie present year. Hovey, whom the new century seemed just ready to place among its choristers, was forbidden to outlive the completion of the intensely lyrical " Taliesin," his melodious swan-song. To end this retrospect, it may be said that the imaginative faculty, of which both the metrical and the prose inventions alike were termed poetry by the ancients, has not lain dormant in the century's last quarter ; although certain conditions, recognized in the opening chapter of " Victorian Poets " as close at hand, have obtained beyond doubt. The rhythm of verse is less essayed than that of prose — now the vehicle of our most favored craftsmen. Already books are written to show how an evolution of the novel has succeeded to that of the poem, which is true — and in what wise prose fiction is the higher form of litera- ture, which is not yet proved. The novelist has outsped the poet in absorbing a new ideality conditioned by the advance of science ; again, he has cleverly xxviii INTRODUCTION adjusted his work to the facilities and drawbacks of modern journalism. It is not strange that there should be a distaste for poetic illusion in an era when eco- nomics, no longer the dismal science, becomes a more fascinating study than letters, while its teachers have their fill of undergraduate hero-worship. At last a change is perceptible at the universities, a strengthening in the faculties of Eng- lish, a literary appetite that grows by what it feeds on. Letters, and that consen- sus of poetry and science foreseen by Wordsworth, may well be taken into account in any vaticination of the early future. Meanwhile, what do we have ? Here as abroad — and even if for the moment there appears no one of those excepted mas- ters who of themselves re-create their age — there continues an exercise of the poet's art by many whose trick of song persists under all conditions. Our after- glow is not discouraging. We have a twilight interval, with minor voices and their tentative modes and tones ; stiU, the dusk is not silent, and rest and shadow with music between the dawns are a part of the liturgy of life, no less than passion and achievement. The reader will hardly fail to observe special phases of the middle and later portions of this compilation. In my reviews of the home-school a tribute was paid to the high quality of the verse proffered by our countrywomen. This brought out a witticism to the effect that such recognition would savor less of gal- lantry if more than a page or two, in so large a volume, had been reserved for expatiation upon the tuneful sisterhood. That book was composed of essays upon a group of elder poets, among whom no woman chanced to figure. A single chapter embraced a swift characterization of the choir at large, and in this our female poets obtained proportional attention as aforesaid. The tribute was honest, and must be rendered by any one who knows the field. A succession of rarely endowed women-singers, that began — not to go back to the time of Maria Brooks — near the middle of the century, still continues unbroken. Much of their song has been exquisite, some of it strong as sweet ; indeed, a notable portion of our treasure-trove would be missing if their space in the present volume were other- wise filled. Not that by force of numbers and excellence women bear off the chief trophies of poetry, prose fiction, and the other arts ; thus far the sex's achievements, in a time half seriously styled " the woman's age," are still more evident elsewhere. It cannot yet be said of the Parnassian temple, as of the Church, that it would have no parishioners, and the service no participants, if it INTRODUCTION were not for women. The work of their brother poets is not emasculate, and will not be while grace and tenderness fail to make men cowards, and beauty remains the flower of strength. Yet for assurance of the fact that their contribution to the song of America is remarkable, and even more so than it has been — leaving out the work of Elizabeth Browning — to that of Great Britain, one need only examine its representation in this anthology. I am not so adventurous as to mention names, but am confident that none will be ungrateful for my liberal selections from the verse upon the quahty of which the foregoing statement must stand or fall. Poetry being a rhythmical expression of emotion and ideaHty, its practice as a kind of artistic finesse is rightly deprecated, though even this may be approved in the young composer unconsciously gaining his mastery of technique. Our recent verse has been subjected to criticism as void of true passion, nice but fickle in expression, and having nothing compulsive to express. An international journal declares that " our poets are not thinking of what they shall say, for that lies close at hand, but of how they shall say it." On the whole, I suspect this to be more true abroad than here : our own metrists, if the less dexterous, are not without motive. There was said to be a lack of vigorous lyrics on the occasion of our war with Spain. The world-changing results of the war wUl find their artistic equivalent at sudden times when the observer, Uke Keats's watcher of the skies, sees the " new planet swim into his ken " — or at least finds this old planet made anew. Anglo-Saxon expansion or imperialism, call it as we wiU, has inspired one British poet, yet he is so much more racial than national that America claims a share in him. As for our poetry of the Spanish war, I think that sufiicient wiU be found in my closing pages to indicate that our quickstep was enlivened by a reasonable measure of prosody. The Civil War was a different matter — pre- ceded by years of excitement, and at last waged with gigantic conflicts and count- less tragic interludes, until every home was desolate. North or South. Men and women still survive who — with Brownell, Willson, and others of the dead — made songs and ballads that, as I have said, were known the world over. Why should these veteran celebrants decline upon lesser themes, or not stand aside and let the juniors have their chance ? The latter had scarcely tuned their strings when the Spanish fight was over. Still more to the point is the fact that poets of all time have been on the side of revolt. Our own, however patriotic, when there was so little of tragedy and the tug of war to endure, felt no exultation in chant- ing a feeble enemy's deathsong. INTRODUCTION In any intermediary lyrical period its effect upon the listener is apt to be ont of experiment and vacillation. It is true that much correct verse is written with- out inspiration, and as an act of taste. The makers seem artists, rather thar poets : they work in the spirit of the graver and decorator ; even as idyllists theii appeal is to the bodily eye ; they are over-careful of the look of words, and nol only of their little pictures, but of the frames that contain them, — book-cover, margin, paper, adornment. That lyrical compositions should go forth in attrac- tive guise is delectable, but not the one thing needful for the true poet, whose I strength lies in that which distinguishes him from other artists, not in what is common to all. While making a fair presentation of the new modes and tenden- cies of the now somewhat timorous art of song, a guess at what may come out of them is far more difficult than were the prognostications of thirty years ago. Each phase has its own little grace or effect, like those of the conglomerate modern piano-music. Among those less rational than others I class attempts to introduce values absolutely exotic. The contention for a broad freedom in the chief of arts is sound. It may prove all things, and that which is good will stay. Owing to our farther remove from the European continent, foreign methods are essayed with us less sedulously than by the British minor poets. Both they and we were suc- cessful in a passing adoption of the " French forms," which, pertaining to con- struction chiefly, are common to various literatures. In attempting to follow the Gallic cadences and linguistic effects our kinsmen were bound to fail. Our own* craftsmen even less have been able to capture graces quite inseparable from the specific rhythm, color, diction, that constitute the highly sensuous beauty of the modern French school. A painter, sculptor, or architect — his medium of expres- sion being a universal one — can utilize foreign methods, if at a loss for some- thing of his own. But there has not been an English-speaking captive to the bewitchment of the French rhythm and symbolism who has not achieved far less than if he had held fast to the resources of his native tongue. Literatures lend things of worth to one another, but only as auxiliaries and by gradual stages. Between the free carol of the English lyric, from the Elizabethan to the Victorian, and the noble variations of English blank verse in its every age and vogue, our poets have liberties enow, and will rarely go afield except under suspicion of rein- forcing barren invention with a novel garniture. The technique of the lyrical Sym- bolists, for instance, is at best a means rather than an end. Though pertinent to the French language and spirit, it is apt, even in France and Belgium, to substitute INTRODUCTION xxxi poetic material for creative design. That very language is so constituted that we cannot transmute its essential genius ; tiiose who think otherwise do not think in French, and even an imperfect appreciation of the tongue, and of its graces and limitations, should better inform them. Titles also are misleading : every poet is a symbolist in the radical sense, but not for the sake of the symbol. The glory of English poetry lies in its imagination and in its strength of thought and feeling. Deliberate artifices chill the force of spontaneity ; but at the worst we have the certainty of their automatic correction by repeated failures. Even as concerns the homely, shghted shepherd's trade, there is a gain in having our escape from provincialism indicated by distrust of inapt models, and through an appeal to our own constituency rather than to the outer world. The intermingling of peoples has qualified Binney Wallace's saying that " a foreign nation is a kind of contemporaneous posterity." The question as to a British or American production now must be. What is the verdict of the Enghsh-speaking world ? To that vast jury the United States now contributes the largest contin- gent of intelligent members. Our poets who sing for their own countrymen will not go far wrong, whether or not they bear in mind the quest for " local color,"- -" as to which it can be averred that our elder group honestly expressed the nature life, sentiment, of its seacoast habitat, the oldest and therefore most Amerii aii portion of this country. Younger settlements have fallen into line, with new i '^'1 unmistakable qualities of diction, character, atmosphere. Our kinsmen, in tl ■ pursuit of local color, more or less deceive themselves ; with all its human zest ■;- is but a secondary value in art, though work surcharged with it is often good its kind, while higher efforts are likely to fall short. When found, we sometin fail to recognize it, or care no more for it than for those provincial newspap' which are so racy to native readers and so tedious to the sojourner. What for- eigners really long for is something radically new and creative. In any case, praise or dispraise from abroad is now of less import than the judgment of that land in which a work is produced. The method and spirit peculiar to a region make for " an addition to literature," but a work conveying them must have the universal cast to be enduring, though its author waits the longer for recognition. But this was always so ; the artist gains his earliest satisfaction from the compre- hension of his own guild. Time and his measure of worth may do the rest for him. A public indifference to the higher forms of poetry is none the less hard to xxxii INTRODUCTION bear. A collective edition of an admired poet's lifework, with not a line in its volumes that is not melodious, or elegant, or imaginative, or aU combined, and to which he has applied his mature and fastidious standards, appears without being made the subject of gratulation or extended review. A fresh and noble lyric, of some established order, gains small attention, while fetching trifles are taken up l?y the press. If a fair equivalent of the " Ode to a Nightingale " were now to come into print, a reviewer of the magazine containing it doubtless might content himself with saying : " There is also a poem by Mr. ." But this, after aU, in its stolid fashion may betoken a preference for something revelatory of the infinite unexplored domain of poetic values ; a sense that we have a sufficiency of verse which, however fine, is conformed to typical masterpieces ; a desire for variants in creative beauty to stimulate us until they each, in turn, shall also pass into an academic grade. In offering this final volume of a series that has diverted me from projects more in the humor of the hour, I feel a touch of that depression which follows a long task, and almost ask whether it has been worth completion. Would not the labor have been better expended, for example, upon criticism of our prose fiction .'' The muse sits neglected, if not forspent, in the hemicycle of the arts : — " Dark Science broods in Fancy's hermitage, The rainbow fades, — and hushed they say is Song With those high bards who lingering charmed the age Ere one by one they joined the statued throng." Yet after this verification of my early forecast, why should not the subsidiary prediction — that of poesy's return to dignity and favor — no less prove true ? As it is, having gone too far to change for other roads, I followed the course whether lighted by the setting or the rising sun. Concerning the nature and survival of poetry much is said in view of the apparent condition. Song is conceded to be the language of youth, the voice of primitive races, — whence an inference that its service in the English tongue is near an end. But surely poetry is more than the analogue of even those folk-songs to which composers recur in aftertime and out of them frame masterpieces. Its function is continuous with the rhythm to which emotion, age after age, must resort for a supreme delivery, — the vibration that not only delights the soul of infancy, but quavers along the heights of reason and intelligence. INTRODUCTION If the word " lost " can be applied to any one of the arts, it is to poetry last of all. Not so long ago it was linked with sculpture, now the crowning triumph of a world's exposition. We must be slow to claim for any century supereminence as the poetic age. Our own country, to return, has not been that of a primitive people, colonial or under the republic ; and among all peoples once emerged from childhood modes of expression shift in use and favor, and there are many rounds of youth, prime, and decadence. Spring comes and goes and comes again, while each season has its own invention or restoration. The new enlightenment must be taken above aU into account. The world is too interwelded to afford many more examples of a decline hke Spain's, — in whose case the comment that a nation of lute-players could never whip a nation of machinists was not a cynicism but a study in ethnology. Her lustration probably was essential to a new departure ; while as for America, she has indeed her brawn and force, but is only entering upon her song, nor does a brood of minor poets imply that she has passed a cli- macteric. It will be long before our people need fear even the springtime ener- vation of their instinctive sense of beauty, now more in evidence with every year. More likely they have not yet completed a single round, inasmuch as there has been thus far so little of the indubitably dramatic in our rhythmical production. The poetic drama more than once has marked a culmination of imaginative liter- ature. Constructively, it is the highest form of poetry, because it includes aU others metrical or recitative ; psychologically, stiU the highest, going beyond the epic presentment of external life and action : not only rendering deeds, but set- ting bare the workings of the soul. I believe that, later than Shakespeare's day, the height of utterance in his mode and tongue is not of the past, but still to be attained by us. Thus poetry is indeed the spirit and voice of youth, but the thought of sages, and of every age. Our own will have its speech again, and as much more quickly than after former periods of disuse as the processes of action and reaction speed swiftlier than of old. To one bred to look before and after this talk of atrophy seems childish, when he bears in mind what lifeless stretches preceded the Miltonic and the Georgian outbursts. A patise, a rest, has been indicated, at this time especially innocuous and the safeguard against cloying ; meantime our new-fledged genius has not been listless, but testing the wing in fields outside the lyric hedgerows. In the near future the world, and surely its alertest and most aspiring country, will not lack for poets. Whatsoever the prog- nosis, one thing is to be gained from a compilation of the songs of many : this or INTRODUCTION that singer may be humble, an everyday personage among his fellows, but in his verse we have that better part of nature which overtops the evil in us all, and by the potency of which a race looks forward that else would straggle to the rear. Compact Biographical N otes upon all the poets represented, as in " A Victorian Anthology," follow the main text of this book. They have been prepared by various hands, and revised by the editor — occasionally with a brief comment upon some name too recent to be found in the critical volume, " Poets of Amer- ica." For texts I have depended upon piy own shelves, the public libraries, and the private stores of Mr. R. H. Stoddard and other colleagues. Acknowledgment is made to Mr. C. Alexander Nelson, of Columbia University, and to Mr. Robert Bridges, for repeated courtesies. Important aid has been derived from the Librarian of Brown University, Mr. Harry Lyman Koopman, and from the Harris- Anthony collection of American poetry within his charge. There is an enviable opportu- nity for the friends of this notable collection to place it beyond rivalry by filling in many of its gaps, and by making copious additions from the output of the last twenty years. Throughout two years occupied with the main portion of the compilation, a time of frequent disability, I have owed much to the unstinted and competent service of Miss Ella M. Boult, B. L., who has been in every sense my assistant-editor, — not only as to matters of routine, but in the exercise of literary judgment. In correspondence, proof-reading, and textual revision, Miss Laura Stedman has been a zealous subordinate, and has paid special attention to the Biographical Notes. Many of the latter have been written by Miss Lucy C BuU (now Mrs. Robinson) and Miss Beatrix D. Lloyd. At the inception of my task, I was aided by Miss Mary Stuart McKinney and Miss Louise Boynton, A. B. Miss McKinney, who had previous experience in connection with the Victorian Anthology, was the valued assistant-editor of the opening division of the present collection. The attention of compilers and others is directed to the list of proprietary books and writings, under the copyright notices which foUow the title-page. This anthology could not be issued without the friendly cooperation of American pub- lishers, and pains has been taken to canserve their rights by legal specification at the outset, and in some instances by notices elsewhere. Where it has been doubt- ful whether rights exist, and, if so, under what ownership, the editor relies upon the indulgence of all concerned. My thanks are due to living authors, and to the heirs of the dead, for placing works at my disposal without restriction as to the character or extent of citations. The verse of one American writer, now living abroad, has been omitted at his own request. One or two Canadian poets, whose residence and service are now on this side of the border, are justly in such favor that I would seek to represent them here were not their songs and ballads already a choice portion of a Colonial division in the British compilation. E. C. S. Lawkence Park, Bronxvillk, New York, August, 1900. TABLE OF CONTENTS I. EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION (the quarter-century preceding BRYANT AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES) |)f)Uip JFrencatt ' The Fading Eose " - In " Female Frail- EuTAw Springs Epitaph — From Song op Thyrsis TY " The Wild Honeysuckle . The Indian Burying-Grotjnd Death's Epitaph — From " The House OP Night " The Parting Glass . . . • On the Ruins of a Country Inn . On a Travelling Speculator The Scurrilous Scribe To a Caty-Did To A Honey Bee .... Plato to Theon ^titl)or SEnfottnU The Yankee Man-ojf-War The Smooth Divine . . . . Love to the Church Days op my Youth . . . . Darby and Joan .... PAGE 3 ElejcanUcr Wilson iman's Hymn Bird .... The Fisherman's Hymn The Blue-Bird . To Sally. The Lip and the Heart . 10 10 11 12 12 18 13 ^Tosepl^ |)opfeinson Hail Columbia Song Sleighing Song Clement Clarke ifloore A Visit from St. Nicholas iFrancis ^cott Eep The Star-Spangled Banner ^famefii Uivkt IJattlUins The Old Man's Carousal America to Great Britain Rosalie On the Late S. T. Coleridge . CI)Dmas ^astinffs The Latter Day In Sorrow Exhortation .... Samuel Woati)3i(iXt)) The Bucket . Loves she like me ? PAQB , 14 14 15 15 16 17 18 18 18 19 19 19 20 20 EtcbarU ^enrp ^ana The Little Beach-Bird . . .21 Immortality 21 The Chanting , Cherubs — A Group BY Greenough 22 The Moss supplicateth for the Poet 22 XXXVl TABLE OF CONTENTS ^aral) 2rosep|)a |)ale Alice Ray . . . . . The Watcher . . . . 23 24 The Demon-Lovek — From "Hadad" 24 EicbarU ^cnrj> Wiltit Stanzas 21 A Farewell to America. . . 27 To the Mocking-Bird . . . .27 SHjUittonal Selections (chosen PKOM AMERICAN VERSE OF THE TIME) On Snow-Flakes melting on his Lady's Breast .... 28 William Martin Johnson On the Death of my Son Charles . 28 • DAjrasL Webster Privatb Devotion Phoebe Hinsdale Brown 28 Hymn for the Dedication of a Church 29 Andrews Norton Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 29 Emma Hart Willard The Soul's Defiance . Lavinia Stoddard A Name in the Sand Hannah Flago Gould My Brigantine James Fenimore Coopeb 29 30 30 II. FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD (in three divisions) DIVISION I (PlERPONT, HaLLECK, BrYANT, DrAKE, Mrs. BroOKS, AND OTHERS) Sobn IJierpont The Fugitive Slave's Apostrophe to the North Star .... Warren's Address to the American Soldiers The Ballot The Exile at Rest .... The Pilgrim Fathers .... My Child . ^ 33 34 34 34 35 35 iFit^=(25teene |)allecfe Marco Bozzaris 36 On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 37 Alnwick Castle 37 Burns 39 Red Jacket 40 ^ojiepl^ EnUman ^rafee From " The Culprit Fay " The Fay's Sentence ... 42 The First Quest 43 The Second Quest .... 44 Elfin Song 45 The American Flag .... 46 (Halleck and Drake) The National Paintings — Colonel Trumbull's " The Declaration of Independence " 46 Joseph Rodman Drake The Man who frets at Worldly Strife 47 Joseph Rodman Drake Ode to Fortune ..... 47 Halleck and Drake IjUia |)ttntlej> ^tffotimej Columbus 47 TABLE OF CONTENTS xxxvu The Indian's Welcome to the Pil- GKiM Fathers The Retukn op Napoleon fbom St. Helena C!)arle6 ^prafftte From "Curiosity" The News Fiction ...... The Winged Worshippers The Brothers 3roI)n Beal Men of the North Music of the Night 48 50 50 51 51 52 52 ^i'illiam Cullen ^rpant Thanatopsis 53 To a Waterfowl 54 " Fairest of the Rural Maids " 54 A Forest Hymn 55 June 56 The Death of the Flowers . . 57 The Past 57 '•'The Evening Wind . . . .58 To THE Fringed Gentian . . 59 The Hunter of the Prairies . . 59 The Battle-Fibld .... 60 From " An Evening Revery " . .60 The Antiquity of Freedom . . 61 America 62 The Planting of the Apple-Tree 62 " The May Sun sheds an Amber Light " 63 The Conqueror's Grave ... 63 The Poet 64 My Autumn Walk .... 65 The Death of Slavery . . .66 In Memory of John Lothrop Motley 67 The Flood op Years ... 67 ^Tamcs (Satts |)ercibal Elegiac . The Coral Grove New England 70 70 70 [Haria (^otocn ^rooltfi ("Mabia del OccmBNTE") From " Zophiel " Palace of the Gnomes The Respite . Song op Egla Farewell to Cuba . 71 72 73 73 William Stttpsttts fSlnW^^tx^ i would not live alway Heaven's Magnificence . 74 75 3fo|)n (^arUiner CalMns ^rainarti Mr. Merry's Lament for "Long Tom" 75 The Deep 75 Epithalamium 76 0corg;e 5^a6l)in5tan T>unz Evening 76 Robin Redbreast 76 William ^ottme ©liber |peaiio5p Lament op Anastasius ... 76 9(^mo£i ^roTiBion 9tIcott Channing 77 Emerson 77 Margaret Fuller . . . .78 Thoreau 78 Hawthorne . , . . , .78 Bartol 78 Wendell Phillips . . . .79 Garrison 79 The Eclipse op Faith . . . .79 'Mitxt (Norton (Greene The Baron's Last BAifQUET . . 80 ©Btoara Coate |)infenej> A Health 81 Song 81 A Serenade 82 Votive Song 82 (Stavst |Jope iflnrtis Woodman, spare that Tree ! . .82 We were Boys together . . 82 Near the Lake 83 My Mother's Bible .... 83 Where Hudson's Wave . . .83 Jeannie Marsh 84 0tax^t T>tnmn prentice Memories . . ' . , . .84 New England 84 TABLE OF CONTENTS auuitional Selections (VAEIOUS POEMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) Home, Sweet Home ! . . . .85 John Howard Patne Exhortation to Prayer ... 85 Makgaret Mekcer Forgiveness op Sins a Joy unknown TO Angels 86 Augustus Lucas Hillhouse The Crossed Swords ... 86 Nathaniel Langdon Feothingham Laee Superior 87 Samuel Geiswold Goodrich The Hour op Peaceful Kest . William Bingham Tappan Song op the Elfin Steersman . George Hill The Daughter op Mendoza . MiEABEAu Bonaparte Lamae The Green Isle of Lovers Robert Charles Sands " The Lonely Bugle grieves " Grenyille Mellen The World I am passing through Lydla Marla Child Evening Hymn .... WlLLUM HEMEY FuENESS DIVISION II (Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, Holmes, and Others) EalpI) ^alUo emerson Each and All 90 The Problem 91 The Khodora 92 The Humble-Bbe .... 92 The Snow-Storm 93 93 93 94 94 94 Forerunners .... Brahma Forbearance .... Character .... Merlin From " Woodnotes " " The Heart of all the Scene " " The Undersong " . " The Mighty Heart " Days The Earth .... Waves Terminus .... Threnody Concord Hymn Ode The Test .... 95 95 96 96 97 97 97 97 100 100 101 l»aral) |)elen WUtvcim Sonnets (from the series relating to Edgar AUan Poe) 101 William llopti (SdLvxmn Liberty for All . Freedom for the Mind jaatbaniel |)ariker Willis Parrhasius Unseen Spirits The Torn Hat To GiuLiA Grisi William (Bilmavt Simma The Swamp Fox . The Lost Pleiad The Decay of a People Song in March . Kalp5 |)opt Old Charles iFenna Hoffman Sparkling and Bright Monterey The Mint Julep TABLE OF CONTENTS x^li Hymn to the Night . . . .111 A Psalm of Life . . . .112 The Skeleton ik Abmor . . . 112 The Village Blacksmith . . 114 Endymion 114 Serenade from "The Spanish Stu- dent " 115 The Arrow and the Song . . . 115 Dante 115 Curfew 116 From " Evangeline " Evangeline in Aeadie . . . 116 On the Atchafalaya . . . .117 The Finding of Gabriel . . .118 From " The Building of the Ship " The Republic 119 From "The Song of Hiawatha" The Death of Minnehaha . . 119 The Warden of the Cinque Ports . 120 My Lost Youth 121 The Children's Hour .... 122 The Cumberland .... 123 The Bells of Lynn .... 123 Chaucer 124 Milton 124 Nature 124 Wapentake — To Alfred Tennyson . 124 A Ballad of the French Fleet . 125 Jugurtha 125 The Tide rises, the Tide falls . 125 My Books 126 eii^abetl) ©afees ^mitl) From " The Sinless Child " The Drowned Mariner 126 127 3roI)tt (BxttxikKl WUttitv Proem . . . . . . . 128 The Farewell 128 ICHABOD 129 ASTR-EA 130 The Barefoot Boy .... 130 Maud Muller 131 Skipper Ieeson's Ride . . . 183 The Swan Song of Parson Avery . 134 The Vanishers 135 The Eternal Goodness . . . 135 From " Snow-Bound " The World Transformed . . 137 Firelight 137 Mother 137 Sister ....... 138 Prophetess . . . . .138 In School-Days 139 The Two Angels .... 139 Centennial Hymn 140 In the "Old South" . . . 140 MULFOBD 141 An Autograph . . . . . 141 William ^atiis (0aUa3;I)er The Cardinal Bird .... 142 Autumn in the West . . . 143 etig;ar ^Uan |)oe To Helen 144 The Raven 144 The Sleeper 146 Lenore 147 To One in Paradise .... 147 The City in the Sea . . . 147 .''IsRAFEL 148 The Haunted Palace . . . 149 The Conqueror Worm. . . . 149 The Bells 150 Annabel Lee 151 Ulalume 151 ^amttel jFraruifi ^mttf) America Faith Eap |)almcr 153 153 ©liber ^entiell palmt^ Old Ironsides 153 The Last Leaf 154 The Height op the Ridiculous . . 154 La Grisettb (" 155 On Lending a Punch-Bowl . . 155 After a Lecture on Keats . . 15(5 The Voiceless 157 The Living Temple .... 157 The Chambered Nautilus . . .158 Bill and Job 158 Under the Violets .... 159 Hymn of Trust 159 Epilogue to the Breakfast-Table Series 159 Dorothy Q 160 Cacobthes Scribendi .... 161 The Strong Heroic Line . . 161 From " The Iron Gate "... 162 jFrancefi Slnne ^tmhlt Lament of a Mocking-Bird . aikrt pifee To the Mocking-Bird . The Widowed Heart Dixie 163 163 164 165 TABLE OF CONTENTS CI)eoti0re parfeet The Higher Good Jesus atli^Khtii) Clementine Einnep To THE Boy who goes Singing The Quakeress Bride . . . . The Blind Psalmist .... A Dream Moonlight in Italy .... 166 166 167 167 168 168 169 jFrances ^arg:ent ©SffDoU To Sleep 169 A Dancing Girl 169 On Sivori's Violin .... 170 Calumny 170 Song 170 On a Dead Poet .... 170 aifreU ^illinfffii i)treet The Settler 171 The Loon 171 C!)ri6topI)er JJearee Cranel) The Bobolinks Stanza from an early Poem , The Pines and the Sea 172 173 173 Sfones ©erp The Idler 173 The New World 174 The Old Road 174 Yourself 174 The Dead 174 The Gifts of God ..... 175 |)enrp -JSecfe piv6t The Fringilla Melodia . The Funeral of Time .... ©pes ^arjent A Life on the Ocean Wave . The Heart's Summer . . . , Eoftert Craill ^pence lotoell The Brave Old Ship, the Orient . The After-Comers . . . , |)enrp Peterson From an " Ode for Decoration Day " 180 Rinaldo 181 175 176 177 177 178 180 ^fames Elmmnii jFtelUfi With Wordsworth at Rydal Common Sense . . . . 181 182 ^enrp £)abiB Cfioreatt Inspiration 182 The Fisher's Boy .... 182 Smoke 183 Mist 183 emilp C|)ttibttcfe SfttUson Watching My Bird 183 184 lONA- artl)ttr ClebelanU Cope •A Memorial of St. Columba 184 Willinm Cllerp C|)anntnfl; From " A Poet's Hope " . . . Hymn of the Earth. The Barren Moors . . . . Tears in Spring — Lament for Tho- BEAU Edith 185 186 186 187 187 iHarp Cli^aiietl) (|)etottt) ^tebbins The Sunflower to the Sun Harold the Valiant . 188 . 188 ^HHttional Selections (VAKIOnS POEMS BELONOING TO THIS DIVISION) Requiem 189 Geoege Lunt New England's Dead . . . 190 Isaac McLellan Washington's Statue .... 190 Henet Theodoee Tuckeeman The Star of Calvary . . 191 Nathaniel Hawthoene The Clouds 192 "William Ceoswell A World Beyond .... 192 Nathaniel Ingeesoll Bowditch TABLE OF It is not Death to die . 192 George Washinoton Bbthtjnb Paraphrase op Lttther's Hymn 192 Fredbkic Henry Hedge Dies Ir^ . . . . . . 193 Abraham Coles Milton's Prayer op Patience 193 Elizabeth Lloyd Howell The Angels' Song. . 194 Edmund Hamilton Sears The Other World . 194 Harriet Elizabeth Beecheb Stotvb m Love Unchangeable .... 195 BuPTJs Dawes Love Unsought 195 Emma Catharine Embury Comb Back 196 Henry William Herbert Song 196 Frederick William Thomas rv A Kemembrance 197 Willis Gaylord Clarke CONTENTS xli A Death-Bed . . . . . 197 James Aldrich Dirge 197 Charles Gamaoe Eastman Florence Vane 197 Philip Pendleton Cooke The Wipe 193 Anna Pbyre Dinnies Blind Louise 198 George Washington Dewey Under the Violets .... 198 Edward Young The Voice op the Grass. . . 199 Sarah Roberts Boyle V A Winter Wish 199 Robert Hinckley Mbssinger A Proem 200 Samuel Ward Horace 200 John Osborne Sargent Chez Brebant 201 Francis Alexander Durivagb The Poet 201 Cornelius Mathews DIVISION III (Lowell, Story, Whitman, Mrs. Howe, Parsons, Boker, Brownell, Read, the Stoddards, Taylor, Mrs. Dorr, Mrs. Cooke, Mrs. Preston, and Others) panics JSttfisell lotoell From " Rhcecus " .... 202 A Stanza on Freedom .... 203 Hebf. 204 She came and went .... 204 From " The Vision op Sir Launpal " 204 From "A Fable for Critics" To his Countrymen .... 205 On Himself 205 From " The Big low Papers " What Mr. Robinson thinks . . 205 The Candidate's Letter . . .206 The Courtin' 207 Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Editor of " The Atlantic Monthly " . . 209 Ode Recited at the Harvard Com- memoration — July 21, 1865 . . 209 The First Snow-Fall . . . 215 International Copyright , . . 215 TABLE OF CONTENTS In a Copt of Omab KhaytAm . 215 auf wiedeksehbn summbr . . 216 Palinode — Autumn .... 216 After the Burial .... 216 In the Twilight . . . .217 An Autograph 218 William Wttmavt i)t0rp Cleopatra 218 lo ViCTis 219 Praxiteles and Phryne . . . 220 STttlia 5^arU |)otoe aitle-Hymn op the Republic . . 220 Our Orders 221 Wtdt ^^itman Beginners 221 Still though the one I sing . . 221 From " The Song of Myself " Myself 221 Leaves of Grass .... 222 Heroes 223 Infinity 224 Give me the Splendid Silent Sun . 225 Mannahatta 226 ■From " Crossing Brooklyn Ferry " . 226 Out of the Cradle endlessly rock- ing 227 To the Man-of-War-Bird . . . 230 The Dalliance of the Eagles . 230 Cavalry crossing a Ford . . . 231 Bivouac on a Mountain Side . . 231 A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray and Dim 231 O Captain ! My Captain ! . .231 After an Interval .... 232 Darest thou now, Soul . . 232 Songs The Old Mm 232 Ben Bolt 233 STofiiia]^ (Gilbert ^oUanti Daniel Gray 233 Babyhood 234 A Christmas Carol .... 235 l^crman f^tMllt The College Colonel . . . 235 The Eagle of the Blub . . . 236 Memorials On the Slain at Chiekamauga . 236 An Uninseribed Monument on one of the Battle-Fields of the Wilderness 236 Crossing the Tropics .... 236 The Enviable Isles .... 237 C|)oma6 l^illiam IJarsons On a Bust of Dante . . 237 Dirge . 238 Mary Booth . 238 Her Epitaph .... . 238 To a Young Girl dying . 239 Into the Noiseless Country . . 239 Andrew . 239 Obituary . 240 To a Lady . 240 "Like as the Lark" . 241 YE Sweet Heavens! . 241 Paradisi Gloria . 241 William Wil^tvidxtt lor» From Worship ..... 242 From " An Ode to England " Keats 243 Wordsworth 243 The Brook 243 On the Defeat of a Great Man . 244 To EosiNA Pico 244 From " The River-Fight " The Burial of the Dane . The Sphinx 245 . 247 247 Ci)eoUore ©'|)ara The Bivouac of the Dead . . 248 iflaria WUtt lotocU Song . . . . . The Morning-Glory . . . 249 . 250 djomasi ^ttc^anan Kealr The Closing Scene . . ... Lines to a Blind Girl Drifting 250 . 252 252 iFranxtg ©rrcrj> STicfenor A Song for the Asking The Virginians op the Valley Little Giffbn .... . 253 253 . 254 i)amtiel ^a^nean The City of God .... Inspiration 254 .254 TABLE OF CONTENTS xliii erastuB Waltm eustoorti) From " What is the Use ? " . The JVLAYFiiOWEB, .... eiiiabetli i)to51iart The Poet's Secbet . novembek .... Unreturning .... In the Still, Star-Lit Night Mercedes On the Campagna A Summer Night Last Days .... 255 256 257 257 258 258 259 259 259 259 d)omaB; ilalte |)atTts California 260 Fledglings 260 Sea-Sleep 261 (Stav^z |)enrp bolter A Ballad of Sir John Franklin . 261 The Ferry 263 To England 263 To My Lady 263 Dirge for a Soldier . .' . . 264 Music in Camp 264 AsHBY 265 STames ;iIHattIjeta Icffatrc Amy 266 Ahab Mohammed 266 To A Lily 267 Ode to a Butterfly . . . . 267 To Doty 268 " The Snowing of the Pines " . . 268 Decoration 268 " Since Cleopatra died "... 269 " Such Stuff as Dreams are made OF" 269 Ctarles (BMvtf lelanU El Capitan-General Thb Two Friends 269 270 ^aparU Caplor Ariel in the Cloven Pine . . . 271 Song 272 Bedouin Song 272 America — From the National Ode, July 4, 1876 272 The Quaker Widow .... 273 The Song of the Camp . . . 274 From "The Sunshine of the Gods" 275 To M. T. . 275 SttUa Caroline Eijplep T>avv The Fallow Field .... 275 Earth ! art thou not weary ? . 276 With a Rose from Conway Castle 276 Two Paths 277 STo^n ^^iUtatnsnn |)almer Stonewall Jackson's Way . . 277 The Fight at the San Jacinto . . 277 The Maryland Battalion . . 278 EicfjarU |)ent:p ^toUUatlr The Witch's Whelp . . . .279 Melodies and Catches Songs 280 The Sea 280 Birds 280 The Sky 281 The Shadow 281 A Catch 281 The Flight of Youth . . . 281 Oriental Songs The Divan 281 Wine and Dew .... 281 The Jar 282 The Falcon 282 Arab Song 282 The Lover (Japan) .... 282 Abraham Lincoln ..... 282 Adsum 285 An Old Song Reversed . . . 285 Mors et Vita 285 A Gazelle 286 The Flight op the Arrow . . 286 ;Plara:aret Sfunfeitt |)refi!ton The Vision of the Snow . . . 286 The Hero of the Commune . . 286 A Grave in Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond (J. R. T.) . . . .287 i)tepi)en Collins iFostcr My Old Kentucky Home, Good-Night 288 Old Folks at Home .... 288 Massa 's in de Cold Ground . . 289 EoEie Cerrp Coolie Segovia and Madrid . . . 289 Arachne ....... 289 xHv TABLE OF Bluebeakd's Closet .... 290 LisE 290 Done for 291 In Vain 291 iFrancis jHUefi ifinclb The Blue and the Gray . . 292 The Vagabonds 292 Midwinter 294 Midsummer 294 ^feremial^ Camcs Eanliin The Word of God to Letden came 295 The Babie 296 (various poems belonging to this division) I Twilight at Sea 296 Amelia Coppuck ■Welby Why thus longing ? . . . . 296 Haeeiet WmsLow Sew all Balder's Wife 297 Alice Caby Nearer Home 297 Phoebe Gary The Master's Invitation . . . 297 Anson Da vies Fitz Randolph To a Young Child .... 298 Eliza Scuddeb The Pilgrim 298 Sarah Hammond Palfrey A Strip op Blue .... 299 Lucy Labcou CONTENTS 'Tis BUT A Little Faded Flower Ellen Clementine Howaeth 300 Olivia . 300 Edward Pollock Under the Snow . . . . . 301 BOBERT COLLYEE Tacking Ship off Shore . Walter Mitchell Antony to Cleopatra . William Haines Lytle The Second Mate Fitz-James O'Beibn To AN Autumn Leaf Albert Mathews Ebb and Flow .... George William Curtis Thalatta ! Thalatta ! Joseph Brownlee Brown Incognita of Raphael William Allen Butler On One who died in May . Clarence Chatham Cook But once Theodore Winthrop Alma Mater's Eoll Edward Everett Hale BOOKRA Charles Dudley Wabneb 302 303 303 305 305 305 306 306 307 307 308 TABLE OF CONTENTS xlv III. SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD (in three divisions) DIVISION I (Mitchell, Timrod, Hayn.e, Mrs. Jackson, Miss Dickinson, Stedman, the Piatts, Mrs. Spofford, Mrs. Moulton, Winter, Aldrich, Howells, Hay, Harte, Sill, Miller, Lanier, and Others) On a Boy's First Reading of " King Henry V " 311 To A Magnolia Flower in the Gar- den of the Armenian Convent at Venice 311 Of one who seemed to have failed 312 The Quaker Graveyard . . . 313 Idleness 313 A Decanter of Madeira, aged 86, TO George Bancroft, aged 86, Greeting 313 ^enrp Ctmrolr The Cotton Boll .... 314 Quatorzain 316 Charleston 316 At Magnolia Cemetery . . . 317 |)attl Hamilton ^apne Aspects of the Pines . . . 317 ViCKSBURG 317 Between the Sunken Sun and the New Moon 318 A Storm in the Distance . . . 318 The Rose and Thorn . . . 319 A little while I fain would linger YET 319 In Harbor 319 ©mil? ^icfein60tt Life Life .320 A Book 320 Utterance , 320 With Flowers 320 Parting 320 CaUedBack 320 Love Choice 321 Constant 321 Heart, we will forget him . . . 321 Nature The Waking Year .... 321 Autumn 321 Beclouded Fringed Gentian Time and Eternity Too Late Chartless . The Battle-Field . Vanished . That such have died The Secret . Eternity . Will Wnllntt ^amep Adonais ■ . The Stab 321 321 322 322 322 322 322 322 322 323 323 ptUn jFislic ^acikfion ("H. H.") Coronation 324 Morn 324 Emigravtt . . . . ■ . . 324 Poppies in the Wheat . . . 325 A Last Prayer . . . , . 325 Habeas Corpus 325 jFranitlitt ^eniamin Sanborn Samuel Hoar. Ariana . SToel Benton At Chappaqua The Scarlet Tanager eii^abetl) mtv6 mm (" Floeencb Peect ") Sea-Birds " My Dearling " . The Last Landlord In a Garret . Rock me to sleep 326 326 326 326 327 327 327 328 329 xlvi TABLE OF CONTENTS Sonnets The Dead Singer . . . .329 Virtuosa 330 At Set of Sun 380 Down the Bayou .... 330 Reserve 330 Her Horoscope .... 330 Embryo 331 A Gbokgia Volctntbek . . ,331 Music and Memory .... 332 A Soldier's Grave .... 332 Landor . 332 Bos'n Hill 332 Dandelions 333 ©UmtinB Clarence •^teUman Song from a Drama . The Discoverer . Pan in Wall Street Kearny at Seven Pines The Hand of Lincoln Salem (a. d. 1692) . Falstaff's Song The World well Lost Helen Keller . Morgan . . . . On a Great Man whose 333 . 333 334 . 335 335 . 336 336 . 337 337 . 338 Mind is clouding . Si Jbunesse savait ! Mors Benefica Quest — From " Corda Concordia " Invocation Craej> Eobinson Song of the Palm Cbarleg ^enrp Wtlh With a Nantucket Shell March Gil, the Toreador .... DuM ViviMus Vigilemus Eic|)arU Eealf Indirection . The Word An Old Man's Idyl ^eorffe ^moia Farewell to Summer Beer 338 338 338 339 339 340 341 342 342 342 343 343 343 344 345 iFrancefi iotttga ^tt£i|)nell World Music 345 Un FULFILMENT 346 In the Dark 346 SlttTiie JFielUs On Waking from a Dreamless Sleep 346 Theocritus .■ 347 Little Guinever .... 347 The Return 347 " Song, to the Gods, is Sweetest Sacrifice " 348 |)arrtet illcetoen ^imbaU The Guest 348 All's Well 348 White Azaleas 349 fo|)n STameB ^iatt The Mower in Ohio . Rose and Root To Abraham Lincoln Farther .... The Child in the Street To A Lady The Guerdon Torch-Light in Autumn Ireland .... Leaves at my Window The Lost Genius Purpose .... |)atriet fJrescDtt ^poffarU Phantoms all Evanescence . Music in the Night A Sigh The Pines . Voice The Hunt . Lotttfiie ClfianUIer iilottlton TO-NlGHT ... A Painted Fan . The Shadow Dance Laus Veneris Laura Sleeping Hic Jacet .... The Last Good-by Were but my Spirit loosed Air We lay us down to Sleep Louisa May Alcott — In Memoriam Love's Resurrection Day upon the 349 350 350 350 351 351 351 351 351 351 352 353 353 354 354 354 354 355 355 355 356 356 356 356 357 357 357 357 358 358 TABLE OF CONTENTS xlvii Willmvx pKvts W^VH To John Grbenleaf Whittier — On THE Death of Lowell . . , 358 The New Cast alia .... 358 My New World . . . . . 359 At Shakespeare's Grave. . . 359 Man's Pillow 360 IttciuB ^arto0oi( iFoote Poetry 360 On the Heights 360 Don Juan 361 El Vaquero 361 The Derelict 361 E^tQ'aaxt Ctltott God save the Nation . CoEUR DB Lion to Berengaria The Flight prom the Convent . Sib Marmadxjke's Musings A Chrysalis In Death Beyond Eecall .... A Spray op Honeysuckle 361 362 362 363 363 363 364 364 The Beautiful The Dead Solomon . . 364 . 364 iFrancefii lattff|)ton fUditt Alcyone 365 William ^enrp tenable The School Girl My Catbird , . 366 ^nna CallcnUer iSracfeett Sonnets In Hades 367 Benedicite 367 C|)arle6 iFteUeticfe ^(i\\Mm The Modern Romans Then and Now . 368 . 368 Celia eD|)aj:tcr Seaward The Sandpiper Song May Morning William Winttx My Queen Asleep The Night Watch On the Verge .... Adelaide Neilson Arthur The Passing Bell at Stratford L H. B Unwritten Poems g>ata]^ Morgan ^rpan |Jiatt After Wings .... My Babes in the Wood . The Witch in the Glass Tradition of Conquest . The Watch op a Swan In Clonmel Parish Churchyard A Call on Sir Walter Raleigh An Irish Wild-Flower . Transfigured .... The Term op Death Envoy 369 369 370 370 371 371 371 371 372 372 373 373 374 374 374 375 375 375 376 376 377 377 377 377 batata (5rap On Lebanon 377 Divided 378 The Cross of Gold .... 378 d)0ma6 -^Satlep '^Vavit^ Appreciation 379 To Hafiz 379 When the Sultan goes to Ispahan . 379 Palabkas Carinosas . . . . 380 Heredity 380 Identity 380 Unguarded Gates 380 Guilielmus Rex 381 Sargent's Portrait of Edwin Booth AT " The Players " . . . .381 Tennyson ,381 A Shadow of the Night . . . 381 Sonnets Enamoured Architect of Airy Rhyme 382 Reminiscence ..... 382 Outward Bound 382 Andromeda 383 The Undiscovered Country . . 383 Sleep 383 xlviii TABLE OF CONTENTS Pbescibncb 383 Memoky 384 Thalia 384 Quatrains Masks 384 Memories . • . . _ . . 384 Circumstance .... 384 On Reading . . . .384 Quits . . . . . .385 An Ode — On the Unveiling of the Shaw Memorial on Boston Common 385 A Petition 385 William ^ean |)atoeUs In Earliest Spring .... 386 The Two Wives .... 386 From Generation to Generation . 386 Change 386 If 387 Hope . . . . . . .387 Vision 387 Judgment Day 387 What shall it profit ? . . . 387 The Old Sergeant • . . . . 388 From " In State " 389 William Eeeti ^ttntinffton Tellus 390 Authority 390 Jflarffaret ©li^abct^ ^auffSter Whittier 391 Awakening 391 |)enrp 9Lme6 ^looU Comrades 391 Shakespeare 391 iflarp f^n^ts £)nliffe The Two Mysteries .... 392 Once Before 393 The Stars 393 Emerson 393 Shadow-Evidence .... 394 William mil WxisU From "The Brook" . 3rof)tt ^ap Liberty The Surrender of Spain . 394 395 396 Christine 396 Pike County Ballads Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle . 396 i Little Breeches . . . . 397 i The Stirrup-Cup 398 ©Una £)ean ^Jroctor From " The Song of the Ancient People " . . . . . .398 Heaven, Lord, I cannot lose . 399 CI)arIotte ifisfee ^ates (Madame Roge) A Character 399 The Clue 400 Delay 400 Woodbines in October. . . . 400 The Living Book .... 400 ^mnt& EpUer EanUall My Maryland 400 John Pelham 401 Why the Robin's Breast was Red . 402 9l6ram ^Tosep^ Kpan The Conquered Banner A Child's Wish 402 403 jFraiwifii -JSrct ^arte At the Hacienda .... 403 Chiquita 403 Grizzly 404 Crotalus 404 "Jim" 405 The Society upon the Stanislaus . 405 The Aged Stranger. . . . 406 Madrono 407 What the Bullet sang . . . 407 ^tepl^en ^cnrp C!)aj>cr EuROPA 407 Poet of Earth 408 The Waiting Chords .... 408 Eojfsiter 3roI)n6on Evelyn 409 A Soldier Poet 409 Slmclia ^alfiiticn Carpenter The Ride to Cherokee . . . 410 Recollection ...... 410 Old Flemish Lace .... 411 TABLE OF CONTENTS xlix 3rol)n lancaster ^palUtnff Believe anb take Heart The Starry Host .... Silence forbpledged From " God and the Soul " Nature and the Child Et Mori Lucrum The Void Between . . • • At the Ninth Hour . 411 411 412 412 412 412 413 413 |)cnrj> ^cmarU Carpenter The Keed 413 Eohert J&ellep WnU Medusa 414 A Song for Lexington . • . 415 Man and Nature 415 f o|)n Wmt C|)atitow{i Tee Making op Man . . • 415 The Golden-Robin's Nest . . . 416 Recognition 416 Starlight 416 The Rise op Man .... 417 His Mother's Jot 417 A Wedding-Song .... 417 ^eorffe ^tlfreU Cotonsenli Army Correspondent's Last Ride In Rama 417 418 eutoarti EotolanU ^ill The Fool's Prayer .... 419 Before Sunijisb in Winter . .419 The Lover's Song .... 420 The Coup de Grace .... 420 Tempted 420 Force 420 A Prayer 421 William (Sovtioxi ^HcCabe Christmas Night of '62 . . . 421 Dreaming in the Trenches . . 422 EitviH ^tittson C-nan A Dream op Flowers .... 422 The Crystal 423 Nihil Humani Alienum . . . 423 iQara |)errp Cressid . The Love-Knot Riding Down Who knows ? . ^fames Herbert piaxat Silence .... Brook Song .... The Wild Geese His Statement of the Case The Wayside Sfoaquin filler Columbus . . . , At the Grave of Walker Westward Ho ! . . . Crossing the Plains . Vaquero ... By the Pacific Ocean Twilight at the Heights Dead in the Sierras Peter Cooper To Russia . The Voice of the Dove JUANITA gosepi) ©'Connor What WAS my Dream? The General's Death C!)arle6 (SooUricI^ ^fiitinff Blub Hills beneath the Haze . The Eagle's Fall .... The Way to Heaven . CI)arIes CUtoarU CarrpI The Song in the Dell . Robinson Crusoe .... 423 424 424 425 425 425 426 426 426 426 427 427 428 428 428 429 429 429 429 429 430 430 431 431 432 432 432 433 l)iUncp lamer Song for " The Jaqubrib " Betrayal 433 The Hound 434 Night and Day 434 The Stirrup-Cup 434 Song of the Chattahoochee . . 434 ' The Marshes of Glynn . . . 435 The Mocking Bird .... 437 The Harlequin of Dreams . . 437 A Ballad of Trees and the Master 437 Sunrise 437 TABLE OF CONTENTS ;|lap Eilep ^mitl) My Uninvited Guest .... 441 Departure 441 Donald 442 Winter Days 442 In Memory of General Grant . . 442 Faith's Vista 443 ambrofic fierce The Death of Grant .... 443 The Bride 443 Another Way 444 Montefiore 444 Presentiment 444 Creation 444 T. A. H 444 CI)arIc£! barren ^toUUarti The Eoyal Mummy to Bohemia . 445 Wind and Wave 445 Albatross 446 The Cocoa-Tree 446 jFvancis jFisIjer ^rotone Vanquished 446 Under the Blue 447 Santa Barbara 447 ;;Jilarj) atnse T)t ^txt ("Madeline Bridges") The Wind-Swept Wheat A Farewell .... Faith Trembling . The Spinner .... When the Most is Said Poet and Lark .... A Breath ..... Friend and Lover . God Keep You . 447 448 . 448 448 . 449 449 . 449 449 . 449 ^UUitional Selections (VARIOUS POEMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) The Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor 450 Hezekiah Butterworth At Marshfield — From "Webster; An Ode " William Cleaver Wilkinson 451 The Cowboy 452 John Antrobus All Quiet along the Potomac Ethel Lynn Beers Sambo's Right to be Kilt Charles Graham Halpinb The Band in the Pines John Esten Cooke _ The Volunteer .... Elbridge Jefferson Cutler Stonewall Jackson Henry Lynden Flash Roll-Call Nathaniel Graham Shepherd " PiCCIOLA " 454 454 455 455 455 456 456 Robert Henry Newell Reveille Farragut Michael O'Connor Carmen Bellicosum Guy Humphreys McMastbr 451 William Tuokey Meredith Driving Home the Cows . Kate Putnam Osgood Negro Spirituals In dat great gittin'-up Mornin' . Stars begin to fall ... Roll, Jordan, Roll Swing low, Sweet Chariot Bright Sparkles in de Churchyard The Pyxidanthera . Augusta Cooper Bristol Yellow Jessamine Constance Penimorb Woolson The Petrified Fern. Mary Bolles Branch 457 457 458 459 459 459 459 460 460 460 461 TABLE OF The Dawning o' the Yeak . . . 461 Mary Elizabeth Blake The Willis 462 David Law Proudfit Two OF A Trade 463 Samuel Willoughby Dupfield V Sonnets An Open Secret .... 463 Reconciliation ..... 463 Caroline Atherton Mason Now 463 Mary Barker Dodge A Living Memory 464 William Augustus Cropput Waiting 464 John BuRROUGHa Dead Love 464 Mary Mathews Adams Disarmed 465 Laura Redden Searing (" Howard Glyndon ") Post-Meridian Afternoon 465 Evening 465 Wendell Phillips Garrison VI Thoreau's Flute 465 Louisa Mat Alcott Opportunity 466 John James Ingails The Condemned . . . . . 466 Edward Howland My Birth 466 Minot Judson Savage The Inevitable 467 Sarah Enowles Bolton Quatrains Time ...... 467 Infallibility 467 CONTENTS Power ... Disappointment . Compensation .... Thomas Stephens Coluee Ancient of Days . William Croswell Doane Little Town of Bethlehem Phillips Brooks 467 467 467 . 468 In Galilee Mary Frances Butts Reincarnation David Banks Sickbls Roll Out, Song .... Frank Sewall Not Knowing . . . , . Mary Gardiner Brainard To St. Mary Magdalen Benjamin Dionysius Hill (Father Edmund, of the Heart of Mary, C. vin Now I Lay me down to sleep Eugene Henry Pullbn One Saturday .... Annie Douglas Kobinson (" Marian Douglas ") My Laddie's Hounds. Marguerite Elizabeth Eastee The Children .... Charles Monroe Dickinson "The Doves of. Venice" Laurence Hutton Mother Goose Sonnets Jack and JiU Simple Simon . Harriet S. Morgridge . 468 469 . 469 469 . 470 P.) 470 . 470 471 . 471 , 472 473 473 A Threnody .... George Thomas Lanigan 473 lii TABLE OF CONTENTS DIVISION II (Gilder, O'Reilly, Maurice Thompson, Father Tabb, Emma Lazarus, Mrs. Cor- Tissoz, Edith Thomas, Eugene Field, Bates, Markham, Whitcomb Riley, Ina CooLBRiTH, R. U. Johnson, and Others) Eic|)at:a Watson (Siltitx 474 475 475 475 475 Ode The Celestial Passion I COUNT MY Time by Times that MEET THEE ..... Songs On THE Life-Mask op Abraham Lin- coln The Sonnet 476 Evening in the Tyringham Valley 476 Sherman 476 Hast thou heard the Nightingale ? 476 The Cello 477 A Child 477 Ah, be not False 477 Of one who neither sees nor hears 477 The Birds of Bethlehem . . 478 NofiL 478 The Song of a Heathen . • • 478 The Heroic Age 478 After-Song 478 eutoarH ^illarU Wnt&ou Absolution 479 From " Wendell Phillips " At Best An Art Master. A Savage . . . . . 480 . 480 . 480 . 480 A White Rose 481 Mayflower 481 eu^aiietl) §)tttart |)I)eIp£i WaVa The Lost Colors The Room's Width Gloucester Harbor 481 482 482 iFrancifii |)otoarlj Williams Electka 483 Walt Whitman . . . •. . 483 Song 483 fSLunxin Cljompsnn The Lion's Cub 483 An Early Bluebird .... 484 Written on a Fly-Leaf of Theocritus 485 A Flight Shot . A Creole Slave Song . A Prophecy — From Grave "... Lincoln's 485 485 illarj* Cf)acl^er ]pisfg:in£ion Changelings . In the Dark Ghost-Flowers Inheritance 486 486 487 487 3roI)tt ^enrp ^antv Poe's Cottage at Fordham . . 487 Remembrance 488 We walked among the Whispering Pines 488 The Light'ood Fire .... 488 ^aU Canister Cab6 Evolution The Water-Lily To Shelley The Sisters Anonymous Clover . The Departed Indian Summer The Druid The Child . Quatrains The Bubble Becalmed Fame . 489 489 489 489 489 490 490 490 490 490 490 ^aralb C|)attncep WotAstf ("Susan Coolidge") Helen 491 Gulp Stream 491 (Stxtxntit Mattit (" Stuart Sterne ") Night after Night . My Father's Child Soul, wherefore fret Thee ? Will Carleton Out of the Old House, Nancy 492 492 492 493 TABLE OF CONTENTS liii ^Tna Coalftrttl) When the Grass shall covek me The Makiposa Lily Fruitionless .... Helen Hunt Jackson . 494 495 495 495 The Sovereigns 496 Milton 496 The Ship 496 To an Old Venetian Wine-Glass . 496 Theseus and Ariadne . . , 496 To the Milkweed .... 497 To A Maple Seed .... 497 Sesostris 497 The Doors , . 497 The Flight 498 Fiat Lux 498 Sfameg ^effrep JSocJje The Kearsargb . . . , . 498 Andromeda 498 My Comrade 499 Tee Skeleton at the Feast . . 499 aiice ^eIling;ton EoIIins The Death op Azron .... 499 Many Things thou hast given me, Dear Heart 500 Vita Benefica 500 The Blazing Heart My Enemy 501 501 W^lttx learneU With a Spray oe Apple Blossoms 502 The Last Keservation . . . 502 On the Fly-Leaf of Manon Lescaut 502 In Explanation 503 To Critics . . . . . .503 |)enrp Stttsttstin ^tzvs Posthumous ...... 503 On a Miniature 504 Biftek aux Champignons . . . 504 Ecce in Deserto .... 505 The Singer of One Song . . . 505 Slrtl)tir ^(lerittrne j^arUp Duality Immortality . Iter Supremum 505 506 506 l^ilUam poung: From " Wishmakers' Town " The Bells 506 The Flower-SeUer .... 506 The Conscience-Keeper . . . 507 The Pawns 507 The Bridal Pair 507 Judith 508 Philomel to Corydon .... 508 Will |)enri> Cfjompsott The High Tide at Gettysburg Come Love or Death . C|)arle6 T)t ^ap Arcana Sylvarum Ulp in Ireland The Tsigane's Canzonet . A Woman's Execution . Thoralf and Synnov ^fncl CI)anlilec |)arrtfit The Plough-Hands' Song . My Honey, My Love 508 509 509 510 511 512 512 513 514 ^aH ©awe C|)enep The Happiest Heart . . . .515 The Strong 515 Every one to his own Way . . 515 Evening Songs 515 The Skilful Listener .... 516 Whither 516 ©, C. aurinffer The Flight op the War-Eagle The Ballad op Oriskany April ©mma lajantd On the Proposal to erect a Monu- ment IN England to Lord Byron Venus op the Louvre The Cranes op Ibycus . . . . The- Banner op the Jew The Crowing of the Red Cock The New Ezekiel . . . . 516 517 518 518 519 519 519 520 520 liv TABLE OF CONTENTS (BxKtt T>mo litcl)ficI5 My Letter To A Hurt Child My Other Me lattra ©li^abctl) Eic^arUs A Song of Two Angels Where Helen sits A Valentine (Stax^t ^ouffl^ton Sandy Hook . The Handsel Eing The Manor Lord . ©ttsene jFtelU Wynken, Blynken, and Nod . Garden and Cradle In the Firelight Nightfall in Dordrecht . The Dinkey-Bird Little Boy Blue . The Lyttel Boy Our Two Opinions The Bibliomaniac's Prayer . Dibdin's Ghost Echoes from the Sabine Farm To the Fountain of Bandusia . To Leueonoe — I To Leueonoe — II . 521 521 521 iFrancis ^altus ^alttts The Andalusian Sereno . . .521 The Sphinx speaks .... 522 The Bayadere 522 Pastel 523 The Ideal 523 (" Owen Innsley") A Dream of Death — Helena . Bondage The Burden of Love . 523 524 524 524 525 525 525 525 526 526 527 527 527 528 528 528 529 529 529 580 530 531 Eobert ^umei WHmxi It is in Winter that we dream of Spring ....... 531 The Dead Player .... 531 To a Crow .531 The Sunrise of the Poor . . ' 532 Such is the Death the Soldier dies 532 Ballad of the Faded Field . . 532 3trIo iSates America — From the " Torch Bear- ers " 533 In Paradise 533 The Cyclamen 533 Conceits Kitty's Laugh .... 534 Kitty's " No " 534 Like to a Coin 534 The Watchers 534 On the Road to Chorrera . . 534 A Winter Twilight .... 535 iFlorence ©arle Coatee Perdita 535 Survival 535 India 535 Tennyson 536 Songs The World is Mine . . . .536 To-Morrow 536 (Stovtit |) arsons lat|)rap The Flown Soul .... 536 South- Wind 537 The Sunshine of thine Eyes . . 537 Remembrance 537 The Voice of the Void . . . 537 The Child's Wish granted . . 537 Keenan's Charge .... 538 Eose |)atotI)onic lat^top Give me not Tears Dorothy A Song before Grief The Clock's Song 539 539 540 540 Cf)arlcs iFrancts Eicl^atison Prayer 540 After Death 541 A Conjecture 541 ©Btoin JRarfel^am The Man with the Hoe My Comrade . Poetry .... A Look into the Gulp The Last Furrow The Whirlwind Road . Joy op the Morning Eic^arU eutotn ^ap England . To Shakespeare 541 542 542 542 542 542 543 543 543 TABLE OF CONTENTS Iv Jflauricc Jrancts ©san Maurice de Guerin He made us Free . The Old Violin . The Shamrock . iQat^an ^aeJiell T)olt Russia To AN Imperilled Traveller A Russian Fantasy . 543 ■544 . 544 544 545 545 545 ^enrp ban T)fkt An Angler's Wish .... 545 The Veery 546 RosLiN AND Hawthornden . . 546 The Lily op Yorrow .... 546 Tennyson 547 Four Things 547 The Fighting Race . CI)arIe6 |)enrp |JI;eIp6 Henry Ward Beecheb Rare Moments .... Yuma 547 548 549 549 Kobert 5anliet:to0oli ^alman From " The Voice of Webster " . 549 As a Bell in a Chime .... 550 The Wistful Days .... 550 In Tesla's Laboratory . . . 550 Browning at Asolo .... 551 The Blossom op the Soul . . . 551 Eicl)ara "ktnUll piunkittxick At the Shrine 551 Ghosts 551 A Bulb 552 To Miguel de Cervantes Saavadra . 552 Craben lanffstrotf) ^ttte The Hollyhocks .... 552 Don Quixote 552 To the MoomFLOWER. . . . 553 €Utn illacltap ^tttcl^inson €ovtma^ Moth-Song 553 Her Picture 553 On Kingston Bridge So wags the World Praise-God Barebones Pamela in Town April Fantasie Quaker Ladies . The Bride's Toilette . A Cry prom the Shore Sea- Way .... Harvest CI)0ma£i JQelson fjaffe Uncle Gabe's White Folks ASHCAKB Samefii WUttamh Silep When she combs Home The Old Man and Jim A Lipe-Lesson The Way the Baby woke The Way the Baby slept . Bereaved Ike Walton's Prayer .... On the Death of Little Mahala Ash- craft ...... Little Okphant Annie DwAiNTE — From " The Flying Islands OF THE Night" . . . ,. Honey dripping from the Comb . A Man by the Name of Bolus Longfellow Love's Prayer 553 554 554 555 555 555 556 556 557 557 557 558 559 , 559 L 5G0 560 561 561 561 561 562 563 563 563 564 /- 564 ^ louts James ^locfe The Garden where there is no Winter 564 Tuberose 565 Fate ; . .565 Work 565 iPlapburp jFIeminfl: To Demeter 566 What though the Green Leaf grow ? 566 To Sleep 566 William Cranston labjton Song, Youth, and Sorrow . . 567 My Fatherland 567 j^atperine ©leanor Contoap The Heaviest Cross of all . 567 Saturninus . . . . ". . 568 Sfrtoin Eussell De Fust Banjo . . . 568 Ivi TABLE OF CONTENTS €HvU6 ieonarli fHooxc To England Fkom the " Book of Day-Debams " Soul unto Soul glooms darkling Disenchantment .... Or ever the Earth was Thou livest, Soul ! . . . Then shall we see euit^ iilatilUa Cljomae The Betrayal of the Rose . The Tears of the Poplars The Quiet Pilgrim . Mother England ... Breath of Hampstead Heath Thefts of the Morning Frost Quatrains The Soul in the Body Insomnia .... To Imagination . A Far Cry to Heaven The Mother who died too Winter Sleep From " The Inverted Torch " When in the First Great Hour TeUme .... If still they live WiU it be so ? . !>amttel jUtintum H^ttt Sassafras . A Southern Girl . The Captain's Feather My Little Girl . 569 570 570 571 571 571 571 572 572 573 573 574 574 574 575 575 575 575 575 576 576 576 576 576 577 577 577 Slrtl^ttr ^cnttonrtl^ |)amiIton ©aton Pray for the Dead . The Egyptian Lotus 578 578 StUtiittonal Selections (various poems belongino to this division) I Little Wild Baby .... 579 Maegabet Thomson Janviee (" Margaret Vandegrift ") ViVEROLS 579 David Starr Jordan He 'd nothing but his Violin . 580 Mary Ktle Dallas What my Lover said . Homer Greens Unless Ella'Dietz Glynes Winter Twilight . George Tracy Elliot Under the Red Cross Chauncey Hickox A Child's Question Emma Huntington Nason . 580 581 , 581 581 . 582 The Mystery 582 Lilian WmTiNO Thomas a Kempis 582 Richard Rogers Bowker ' Kblpius's Hymn . Arthur Peterson m Two Argosies 582 583 Wallace Bruce In the Old Churchyard at Freder- icksburg 583 Frederick Wadsworth LoRma rv The Aztec City Eugene Fitch Ware (" Ironquill ") 584 Weeb-Wolp 585 Julian Hawthorne The Golden Age . . . . Ernest Francisco Fenollosa 585 The Man with the Hoe — A Reply 586 John Vance Cheney VT "Gossamer Weft" Whenever a Little Child is born Agnes Carter Nason 587 TABLE OF CONTENTS Ivii Morning . 587 Only One 588 Emily Dickinson George Cooper Snowflakes .... . 587 Lullaby JosLAH Gilbert Holland 5S8 Mart Mapbs Dodge Why it was cold in May . . 587 Heneietta R. Eliot Thistle-down .... Claka Doty Bates- . 587 vn TlVrPKOMPTUS Written in the Visitors' Book at the Birthplace of Robert Burns . The New Arrival .... 589 589 A Little Boy's Vain Regret . 588 George Washington Cable Edith Matilda Thomas A Mortifying Mistake . Anna M. Peatt . 588 Thoughts on the Commandments George Augustus Baker 589 Early News .... Anna M. Peatt .588 An Ameeican Girl . . . . Beandee Matthews 589 A Million Little Diamonds . 588 To Jessie's Dancing Feet . 590 Makt Frances Butts William De Lancey Ell w anger DIVISION III (Woodberry, Bunner, Mrs. Pullen, Miss Reese, H. S. Morris, Miss Cone, Burton, Sherman, Garland, Miss Monroe, Miss Guiney, and Others) Fkom "Wild Eden" When First I saw her The Secret .... O, Inexpressible as sweet The Rose of Stars Divine Awe . Homeward Bound The Child O, Struck beneath the Laurel So slow to die Seaward .... From "My Country" On a Portrait of Columbus America to England At Gibraltar Love's Rosary . Song of Eros, in "Agathon" . iFrancis barton (Bnmxatxt John Bright . . . ^enrj> Cupler Gunner The Way to Arcady She was a Beauty . 590 590 591 591 591 591 592 592 592 592 593 594 594 594 595 595 595 597 A Pitcher of Mignonette . , . 597 Deaf 597 Les Morts vont vitb .... 598 The Appeal to Harold . . . 598 On Reading a Poet's First Book . 598 Feminine 599 J. B 599 To A June Breeze .... 599 The Chaperon 600 Wilhuv larremote Madam Hickory , Blossom Time . eiisaftet^ (Caija^^a) |)ttllen Her Shadow Alicia's Bonnet Love and Poverty Derelict . The Sea- Weed . IDanicI letois 2)ato6oii The Seeker in the Marshes 600 600 601 601 602 602 603 . 603 Iviii TABLE OF CONTENTS letoifi iFranfe Coafect The Last Fight 604 Sleep 606 His Quest 606 armifiiteali C^ttrcI)iII 0ot:lion Kkee 606 Roses of Memory .... 607 eutoarU ^anfarB iilartin A Girl of Pompeii .... 608 A Little Brother of the Rich . 608 Egotism 608 It^ettc l^ooUtoortl) Ecese Lydia 609 Anne — Sudbury Meeting-House, 1653 609 Daffodils 609 Tears .610 Immortality 610 Thomas a Kempis .... 610 Telling the Bees . . . .611 In Time of Grief .... 611 To a Town Poet 611 Trust 611 A Holiday 612 Keats 612 Reserve 612 William Hamilton |)apne The Southern Snow-Bird . . 612 To A Cherokee Rose .... 612 Quatrains Moonliglit Song of the Mocking-Bird 613 Night Mists 613 An Autumn Breeze .... 613 Exiles 613 A Cyclone at Sea . . . . 613 " Sleep and his Brother Death " 613 The Yule Log 613 England 613 To A Child 614 A Dead Soldier 614 At Night 615 eila WliuUv Wiltaj: Recrimination 615 €Uvh6 iottn |)iltiret|) To an Obscure Poet who lives on MY Hearth 616 Implora Pace At the Mermaid Inn 616 617 Destiny — A. d. 1899 . . . .617 The Lonely-Bird .... 619 A Pine-Tree Buoy . . . .619 Mohammed and Sbid. . . . 619 Walt Whitman 620 Fickle Hope 620 ©mest Crosfaj) Choir Practice 620 The Search 621 The Soul of the- World . . . 621 Ipartrp Cfiurgton |)ecfe Heliotrope 621 Wonderland ...... 622 The Other One 622 iFranli lefabp Stanton One Country 622 A Plantation Ditty .... 623 The Graveyard Rabbit . . . 623 The Mocking-Blrd .... 623 A Little Way . '. . . . 624 Jilatffaret ^clanU Love and Death .... 624 Sent with a Rose to a Young Lady 624 The Clover 624 Love's Wisdom 624 CttUor 3fenfe£i Small and Early 625 The Spirit of the Maine . . 625 Sllite proton Candlemas 626 Trilby 626 Cloistered 626 Life 626 Sleep 627 5^iIUatn iplorton |)apne Incipit Vita Nova " Ej Blot Til Lyst " Tannhauser Lohengkin 627 627 627 628 TABLE OF CONTENTS nx Song and Science " The Twilight of the Poets " . 628 When Almonds bloom .... 629 YosEMiTE — Fkom "The Washington Sequoia" 629 S'amefii benjamin J^enpon Tacita 630 Quatrains The Bedouins of the Skies . . .630 The Two Spirits .... 630 A Challenge 630 Death and Night .... 630 Bring them not back .... 631 Come slowly, Paradise . . . 631 Cljarlcs l^enrj* CranUall Stella 631 The Human Plan . . . .631 With Lilacs 631 Cljarleg |)enrp luUers The Four Winds The Haunts of the Halcyon Heart of Oak . . . . An Old Thought . The Mountebanks ^arp ^Ittsttsta ;Pla6on The Scarlet Tanager . My Little Neighbor Ipcnrp S^crome ^tocfearU Over their Graves As some Mysterious Wanderer THE Skies .... The Mocking-Bikd 632 632 632 632 633 633 633 OF 634 634 634 ^aral) |)ratt iltclean (?5reene The Lamp . De Sheepfol' 634 635 Clarence 5armj> As I came down Mount Tamalpais 63-5 Blondel 635 ^tiuan fUKXv g^palUing; A Song's Worth 636 The Sea's Spell .... 636 Fate 636 Kobert Triases " The Unillumined Verge " . James McCosh . . . . . 637 . 637 William linUsep En Garde, Messieurs The Hundred- Yard Dash . Horace 1. Craubel I SERVED IN A GrEAT CaUSE . If all the Voices op Men . Epicedium £)an6fee 2Danliritifl;c The Dead Moon . The Spirit of the Fall William Koscoe CI)aper (" Paul Hermes ") The Last Hunt Man in Nature . The Violin's Complaint 638 638 639 639 639 640 640 641 641 ptUn (3xKV Cone The Kide to the Lady . . . 642 Arraignment 642 Thisbb 643 The Contrast 643 The Last Cup of Canary . . 643 The Spring Beauties .... 644 Fair England 644 KicJ^arU ^ttrtan The First Song 645 On a Ferry Boat .... 645 Black Sheep . . . ... . 645 The Forefather .... 646 "Extras" 646 Love is Strong 646 An Unpraised Picture . . . 646 The Polar Quest .... 647 In Sleep 647 Eatfjarine lee ^atea Robin's Secret . . . . A Song of Riches The Little Knight in Green (Stav^t pelleto On a Cast from an Antique Death 647 648 648 648 649 k TABLE OF CONTENTS Eobett iWotorp ^ell The Tutelage The Second Volume. 649 649 On a Gbeek Vase 650 To A Rose 650 On Some Buttercups .... 650 The Library 650 Quatrains A Quatrain 651 A Hollyhock 651 Moonrise 651 The Rose's Cup 651 The Shadows 651 At Midnight 651 Sol^n ^all Sfuffbam George Washington Genesis A Summer Sanctuary 652 652 652 parrp Ipmati Eoopman Sea and Shore 652 John Brown 653 Icarus 653 The Satirist 653 Revealed 658 ©scar jFap ^Bamg At Lincoln 653 On a Grave in Christ-Church, Hants 654 ^amlitt Mariana Pioneers 654 In the Grass . 654 The Meadow Lark .... 654 The Massasauga .... . 655 A Tribute op Grasses — To W. W. 655 A Wish 655 The Gift of Water . 655 The Ute Lover. .... 655 Do YOU FEAR THE WiND , 656 The Gol»-Seekers .... 656 The Greeting of the Roses . 656 ^atrffinia ^oalitoarli ClottU The Mother's Song .... 65Y An Old Street 657 Care 657 Youth 658 Clinton ^colIarU Sidney Godolphin .... 658 As I came down from Lebanon . 658 Khamsin 659 Memnon 659 Be ye in love with April-Tide ? . 660 A Bell 660 Harriet JHonroe From the " Commemoration Ode " — World's Columbian Exposition, Chi- cago Washington 660 Lincoln . . . . . . 660 Democracy 661 In the Beginning .... 662 The Fortunate One .... 662 The Night-Blooming Cereus . . 662 A Farewell 662 CI)arUrtte IJeriins Stetson A Common Inference . The Beds of Fleub-de-Lys A Conservative .... 663 668 663 kanm ^Tmoffen (Sttinep Ode for a Master Mariner ashore 664 In Leinster 665 Pax Paganica 665 On first entering Westminster Ab- bey 665 Martyr's Memorial .... 665 A Footnote to a Famous Lyric . 666 The Wild Ride 666 Valse Jeune 666 Of Joan's Youth 666 Sanctuary 667 lilla Cabot |)errp Meeting after Long Absence As she feared it would be . . . 667 As it was ..... 667 Life and Death 667 Art . . . . . • .668 ^annal) |)arfeer ffilimball Beyond 668 Soul and Sense 639 One Way of Trusting .... 669 Sllfiert ^ijelDto |)aine The Little Child In Louisiana . 669 TABLE OF As THE Day breaks .... 669 " Makk » 670 A " Rise " 670 Gbronimo . . . . . . 670 I FEAB NO Power a Woman wields 670 i^atrtna Cragfe Sorrow 671 Love 671 At Last 671 Aidenn 671 ^tUHttianal Selections (VAEIOUS POBMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) I Birth 672 Annie R. Stillman (" Grace Raymond ") The First Step 672 Andrew Bice Saxton To 0. S. C 672 Annie Eliot TRUMBtiMi A Plain Man's Dream .... 672 Fredeeick KefpeIi' A Child of To-Dat .... 673 James BrrcsHAM Vingtaine Separation ...... 673 Immutabilia 673 AlICB LBABNED BtTNNBB When Even cometh on . . . 673 Lucy Evangeline Tilled n The Statue of Lorenzo Db' Medici 674 James Ernest Nesmitb Ahmed 674 Jamss Bssfiir Benssl CONTENTS Ixi 674 675 675 676 670 676 677 677 677 Ave ! Nero Imperator Duffield Osboene A Night in Lesbos . George Hoeton Bacchylides .... George Meason 'Whicheb Carlyle and Emerson Montgomery ScEnnxEB The Town of Hay Sam Walter Foss A Drop op Ink .... Joseph Ernest Whitney Sea Iront Solitude John Langdon Hbaton rREDBBICK PETEBSOK An Epilogue at Wallack's John Elton Waylahd ("Idas") "The Tune of the Time" When Love comes knocking . WiLLLAM Henry Gardner If I but knew AUY E. liEIGB Song from " B#n Hur " . Lew Wallace At Twilight Peyton Vait RbhsseIiAbb Art Thou the Same Fkanobs Dore (Swift) Tatnall The Song of the Turnkey . Harry Bache Smith The Armorer's Song . , Harry Bache Suiia 678 678 678 679 679 Ixii TABLE OF CONTENTS His Majesty .... Thbron Bkown . 680 A Little Dutch Garden Hattie Whitney . 681 Little Alabama Coon . 680 Hattie Staeb Go Sleep, Ma Honey . Edwaed D. Baekee 1 . 680 "A Song that Old was Sung" .The Old Sexton Paek Benjamin . 681 Kentucky Babe BiCHAED Henet Buck . 681 He came too late Elizabeth Bogaet . 682 IV. CLOSE OF THE CENTURY (Typical Poets and Poetry of the Final Years) lansUnn eitopn iltitcbell (" John Philip Varley ") From " To a Writer op the Day " Technique 685 Purpose 685 Songs Fear . _ 686 Sweets that die 686 To One being Old .... 687 The Wayside Virgin .... 687 Written at the End of a Book . 687 W^llutt Eice Under the Stars . The End Immortal Flowers 688 Eoftert Cameron Eoffers The Dancing Faun .... 689 A Sleeping Priestess of Aphrodite 689 Virgil's Tomb . . , . . . 690 The Shadow Rose ? . . . 690 Doubt 690 A Health at the Ford . . . 690 The Rosary 691 Sance C|)am}JSon Symbols Linen Bands dla ^issinsatt Beggars .... moonrise in the rockies . The Lamp in the West . The Grand Rondb Valley. Four-Leaf Clover . 691 691 692 692 692 692 692 ^al)n !^cnUricli ^anp To A Withered Rose May 30, 1893 The Little Elf 693 693 693 (" Ellen Burroughs ") "If Spirits walk" .... 693 Armistice 693 Song 694 When Nature hath betrayed the Heart that loved her . . . 694 A Smiling Demon of Notre Dame 694 ©baleen ^tein Budding-Time too Brief In Mexico .... In Youth .... Flood-Time on the Marshes 694 695 695 695 Ltttp Eobinfion (Lucy Catlin Bull) The Fire i' the Flint .... 696 "Hic me, Pater Optime, Fessam Db- SERis " 696 A Ballade of Islands . . . 696 ©liber ^erforU Proem 697 A Belated Violet .... 697 Why ye Blossome cometh before ye Leafe 697 The Elf and the Dormouse . . 698 The Mon-Goos 698 TABLE OF CONTENTS Ixii'i A Mood 698 Before the Rain .... 699 A Sonnet 699 (?5ertnitre ^all Mrs. Golightly 699 Angels ....... 700 The Dust 700 My Old Counselor . . . . 700 ©laine (SooUale (Kastman A Countrywoman of Mine . . 700 Ashes op Roses 701 Baby 701 forthfaring 701 The Poet and the Child . . 701 A Wasted Syjvipathy .... 702 Past 702 A Mood 702 Kic^arU ^oijcp 702 703 703 704 705 705 The Wander-Lovers Envoy — To " More Songs from Vag- abondia '' The Call of the Bugles Unmanifest Destiny Love in the Winds . Dartmouth Winter-Song Laurana's Song 705 From " The Birth of Galahad " Ylen's Song 705 From " Taliesin : A Masque " . . 706 ^Tttlie ;iIilatI)iKie lippmann Love and Life 707 Stone Walls 707 The Pines 707 The Travellers 708 Distinction 708 " Whom the Gods love "... 70S ilatJiBon Catoein Proem 708 The Rain-Crow 708 To A Wind-Flower .... 709 Death .709 The Soul 710 The Creek-Road 710 Ku Klux 710 Quatrains The Wind in the Pines . . .710 Opportunity 710 comradery ...... 710 Flight 711 Dirge 711 Sfn^n Bennett Songs from " Master Sky-Lark " The Sky-Lark's Song The Song of the Hunt God bless you, Dear, To-Day Her Answer 711 712 712 712 eBtDarB Ittcas WUtt The Last Bowstrings . . . 712 Genius 714 ^artfia (Siibtvt T)itUix(iaxi Reality 714 A Priest's Prayer .... 714 Forgiveness Lane . • . . 714 Separation ...... 715 Unanswered 715 Her Music 715 Heaven 715 WkUzx iHalone October in Tennessee. He who ti - " 715 Joined the Blues 716 The Homing 717 The Men behind the Guns . . 717 Where Helen comes . . . 718 The Rahat 718 A Beam of Light .... 718 Slnne Eeebe ^llUricIj A Song about Singing In November Music of Hungary A Crowned Poet Love's Change Fraternity . Recollection . April — and dying . A Little Parable Death at Daybreak The Eternal Justice 718 718 718 719 719 719 719 719 720 720 720 Ixiv TABLE OF CONTENTS Prairie |720 The Heavens are our Eiddle . . 721 From "The Old-Fashioned Garden" 721 £)ora KeaU (Sootiale The Flight of the Heart . The Soul of Man The Judgment ... 722 722 722 ^fosepl) Ettsfiell STajtor The Flute 723 The Veery-Thrush .... 723 A Song with a Discord . . . 723 To Faustine 724 fjljilip l^enrp ^abag:e Morning SiLKWEED . Solitude Infinity . ■33arrett ©astman Eichard Somers. Joy enough . William ©ausJ^n ;Plooaj) From " An Ode in Time of Hesita- tion " Robert Gould Shaw "No Hint of Stain" . . . . jFreUeric latorence jj^notoles Nature : The Artist A Pasture 724 724 724 725 725 725 726 726 727 727 Luke Havergal 727 Ballade of Dead Friends . . . 728 The Clerks 728 The Pity op the Leaves . . . 728 The House on the Hill . . . 729 Caroline T>un An International Episode (March 15, 1889) 729 A Portrait 780 A Word to the Wise .... 730 aiicc T>ntv iililler Song A Sonnet eutDarU St. 5E. Valentine Helen The Spirit of the Wheat ^litt auf)er (i)0 ^nmts Sinfonia Eroica , The Butterfly Processional ^tepl)en Crane The Peaks 'Scaped The Black Eiders Why? . The Wayfarer Content Ancestry The Violets i explain Herbert ^a6|)forli The Arid Lands By the Pacific Night in Camp . Morning in Camp Quatrains Mount Eainier Along Shore Sunset Ettpert |)ttsl)es For Decoration Day . |3attl lattrence T>nnhKX A Corn-Song Harriet Beecher Stowb Eetort . . . . On the Eoad . Hymn A Death Song 730 731 731 731 732 732 733 733 733 734 734 734 734 734 734 734 735 735 735 735 736 736 736 736 737 737 737 738 738 738 TABLE OF CONTENTS Ixv Sunrise in the Hills op Satsuma . 739 Flting Fish 739 MiYOKO San 739 A Drifting Petal .... 739 YuKi 739 Morning Fancy 740 (Bvut ©llerp CI)atminfl:=^tEt6Dn England 740 War 740 JuDGIffENT 740 A Song of Arno 741 (3uf Wttmtivt CarrpI When the Great Gray Ships come in 741 The Sycophantic Fox and the Gul- lible Raven 742 Romance 742 A Moral in Sevres .... 743 Down a Woodland Way . . . 743 (Btax^t Cabot lotip A Song of the Wave .... 743 Youth 744 ^ilBeffartie |)atot]^ome A Song 744 My Rose 744 S'osepljine JUreston ^eaboBp Prelude 745 Wood-Song 745 Sonnet in a Garden .... 745 A Changeling Grateful . . . 745 Caravans 746 Rubric 746 Isolation 746 After Music ...... 747 A Fak-Off Rose 747 ^Toeepl^ letser KoL NiDRA — From " The Day op Atoitement" 747 j^oiuacU Wtttitn The Banjo of the Past The Borrowed Child 748 749 The Cattle of his Hand . . . 749 eunaf) IJractor (Clarfec) |)ape6 To A Wild Rose found in October 750 A GooD-BY 751 The Deathless 751 The Mocking-Bird .... 751 The Dancer 751 iFreUeric EiUpIp Correiue From "The House of a Hundred Lights " The Young Lovers .... 752 Youth and Age .... 752 Compensation 752 Carpe Diem 753 The Conclusion of the Whole Matter 753 |)elen ^ap To Diane 753 A Woman's Pride .... 754 Love's Kiss 754 Was there Another Spring . . 754 Does the Pearl know ? . . . 754 Sigh not for Love .... 754 (Stov^t ^iUnep |)cUman Coleridge 755 The Hudson 755 ^eatrip ^ortarcst llopu Love and Time 755 With Roses 756 Night-Wind 756 SUKitional Selections (FKOM the balladry, lyrics, SONlfETS, AND LIGHTER VERSE OF THE FINAL DECADE) The Flag goes by . . . . 756 Henry Holcoub Bennett The Coasters 756 Thomas Fleuino Day Of the Lost Ship . Eugene Richard White 757 Ixvi TABLE OF Camilla 758 Chaeles Augustus KeeiiER The Song of the Sons of Esau. . 758 Bebtha Brooks Runklb u The Unbokn . . . , . 759 Julia Neelt FmoH in Deep Waters 759 Van Tassel Sutphen mobitura 760 Margaret Gilman (George) Davidson The Long Night 760 Harry Bache Smith White Roses 761 Cora Fabbri IV Stevenson's Birthday .... 761 Kathebine Miller Sonnets On the Death of a Metaphysician . 761 On a Piece of Tapestry . . . 761 George Santatana The Autist 762 Arthur Grissom The Mountain to the Pine . . 762 Clarence Hawees Experience 762 Edith Wharton V Intaglios Tennessee 763 On the Plains .... 763 Francis Bbooss Quatrains A Diamond 763 Spring 763 March 763 April 763 ■ A Sunset . . . . . .763 Robert Loyeman CONTENTS VI The Recruit 764 Robert William Chambers The Little Nipper an' 'is Ma . . 764 George Fauvel Godraud VII SOME RECENT COLLEGE VERSE 1 D'Artagnan's Ride .... 765 GOUVEENEUR MOEEIS 2 To A Moth 765 Charles Edward Thomas Methinks the Measure . . . 766 Percy Adams Hutchison Helios 766 Joel Elias Spingarn Darkness 766 Jambs Naumberg Rosenberg Whither , 166 Phllip Becker Goetz Attainment ..... 767 Algernon Tassin God's Will 767 Robert Louis Mungee 3 Cameos A Valentine 767 Forgiven ...... 767 Jeannbtte Bliss Gillespy The Song 767 John Eeskine 4 Alpheus and Arethusa . . . 767 Eugene Howell Daly On a Magazine Sonnet . . . 768 Russell Hillard Loines TABLE OF CONTENTS Ixvii A Crew Poem .... 768 Now IS the Cherry in Blossom 770 Edward Augustus Blount, Je. Mary Eleanor Wilkins In a China Shop .... 768 Hey Nonny No . 771 CrEORaE Sidney Hsllman Marguerite MERmaiON CiiAssicAii Criticism Georoe Lynde Richardson 768 Gold-op-Ophir Roses . Grace Atherton Dennen . 771 For Sale, a Horse .... 768 Charles Edward Tatlob I KNOW NOT why 772 Pbrsicos Odi 769 Morris Rosenteld Charles Eduund MRRRnj., Jr. Gentian . 772 VIII Elizabeth Green Cranb Miss Nancy's Gown . ... Zrnw.LA Cocke 769 Dryad Song .... Margaret Fuller . 772 The Journey . 769 Mary Berri (Chapman) Hansbbough Sing again . ... Marie Van Vorst . 773 Little Theocritus .... 770 The Parting of the Ways . 773 Caroline Wilder (Fellowes) Paradise Joseph B. Gilder BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. .777 INDEX OF FIRST LINES ......' 887 INDEX OF TITLES 855 INDEX OF POETS 873 EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION (THE QUARTER CENTURY PRECEDING BRYANT AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES) FRENEAU'S EARLIER COLLECTIONS OF HIS POEMS, 1786-95 BRYANT'S "THANATOFSIS" IN "NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW": 1S16 PRELUDE I SAW the constellated matin choir Then when they sang together in the dawn, — The morning stars of this first rounded day Hesperian, hundred-houred, that ending leaves Youth's fillet still upon the New World's brow; Then when they sang together, — sang for joy Of mount and wood and cataract, and stretch Of keen-aired vasty reaches happy-homed, — I heard the stately hymning, saw their light Resolve in flame that evil long inwrought With what was else the goodliest demain Of freedom warded by the ancient sea; So sang they, rose they, to meridian, And westering down the firmament led on Cluster and train of younger celebrants That beaconed as they might, by adverse skies Shrouded, but stayed not nor discomfited, — Of whom how many, and how dear, alas, The voices stilled mid-orbit, stars eclipsed Long ere the hour of setting; yet in turn Others oncoming shine, nor fail to chant New anthems, yet not alien, for the time Goes not out darkling nor of music mute To the next age, — that quickened now awaits Their heralding, their more impassioned song. E. C. S EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION (THE QUARTER-CENTURY PRECEDING BRYANT AND HIS CONTEM- PORARIES) ^Ijilip f rciieau EUTAW SPRINGS At Eutaw Springs the valiant died : Their limbs with dust are covered o'er ; Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; How many heroes are no more ! If in this wreck of ruin they Can yet be thought to claim a tear, O smite thy gentle breast, and say The friends of freedom slumber here ! Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain. If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted rural reign ; Sigh for the shepherds sunk to rest ! Stranger, their humble groves adorn; You too may fall, and ask a tear: 'T is not the beauty of the morn That proves the evening shall be clear. They saw their injured country's woe. The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear — but left the shield. Led by thy conquering standards, Greene, The Britons they compelled to fly: None distant viewed the fatal plain, None grieved in such a cause to die — But, like the Parthians famed of old, Who, flying, still their arrows threw, These routed Britons, full as bold, Retreated, and retreating slew. Now rest in peace our patriot band ; Though far from nature's limits thrown, We trust they find a happier land, A brighter Phcebus of their own. EPITAPH, FROM "THE FADING ROSE" Here — for they could not help but die The daughters of the Rose-Bush lie: Here rest, interred without a stone. What dear Lucinda gave to none, — What forward beau, or curious belle, Could hardly touch, and rarely smell. Dear Rose ! of all the blooming kind You had a happier place assigned. And nearer grew to all that 's fair, And more engaged Lucinda's care, Than ever courting, coaxing swain, Or ever all who love, shall gain. SONG OF THYRSIS IN " FEMALE FRAILTY " The turtle on yon withered bough. That lately mourned her murdered mate, Has found another comrade now — Such changes all await ! Again her drooping plume is drest, Again she 's willing to be blest And takes her lover to her nest. EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION If nature has decreed it so With all above, and all below, Let us like them forget our woe, And not be killed with sorrow. If I should quit your arms to-night And chance to die before 't was light, I would advise you — and you might - Love again to-morrow. THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat. Untouched thy honied blossoms blow. Unseen thy little branches greet: No roving foot shall crush thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear. By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye. And planted here the guardian shade. And sent soft waters murmuring by; Thus quietly thy summer goes. Thy days declining to repose. Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died — nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom; Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power Shall leave no vestige of this flower. From morning suns and evening dews At first thy little being came ; If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same; The space between is but an hour, The frail duration of a flower. THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND In spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture that we give the dead Points out the soul's eternal sleep. Not so the ancients of these lands ; — The Indian, when from life released. Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast. His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul. Activity, that wants no rest. His bow for action ready bent, And arrows with a head of stone. Can only mean that life is spent. And not the old ideas gone. Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit, — Observe the swelling turf, and say, They do not lie, but here they sit. Here still a lofty rock remains. On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted half by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race. Here still an aged elm aspires. Beneath whose far projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest played. There oft a restless Indian queen (Pale Shebah with her braided hair). And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there. By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, In habit for the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues. The hunter and the deer — a shade ! And long shall timorous Fancy see The painted chief, and pointed spear, And Reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here. DEATH'S EPITAPH ; FROM " THE HOUSE OF NIGHT " Death in this tomb his weary bones hath laid, Sick of dominion o'er the human kind; Behold what devastations he hath made, Survey the millions by his arm confined. " Six thousand years has sovereign sway been mine. None but myself can real glory claim; PHILIP FRENEAU Great Regent of the world I reigned alone, And princes trembled when my mandate came. "Vast and unmatched throughout the world, my fame Takes place of gods, and asks no mortal date — No : by myself, and by the heavens, I swear Not Alexander's name is half so great. " Nor swords nor darts my prowess could withstand, All quit their arms, and bowed to my de- cree, — Even mighty Julius died beneath my hand, For slaves and Csesars were the same to me ! " Traveller, wouldst thou his noblest trophies seek. Search in no narrow spot obscure for those; The sea profound, the surface of all laud, Is moulded with the myriads of his foes. THE PARTING GLASS The man that joins in life's career And hopes to find some comfort here, To rise above this earthly mass, — The only way 's to drink his glass. But still, on this uncertain stage Where hopes and fears the soul engage, And while, amid the joyous band. Unheeded flows the measured sand. Forget not as the moments pass That time shall bring the parting glass ! In spite of all the mirth I 've heard, This is the glass I always feared. The glass that would the rest destroy, The farewell cup, the close of joy. With you, whom reason taught to think, I could for ages sit and drink; But with the fool, the sot, the ass, I haste to take the parting glass. The luckless wight, that still delays His draught of joys to future days. Delays too long — for then, alas ! Old age steps up, and — breaks the glass ! The nymph who boasts no borrowed charms. Whose sprightly wit my fancy warms, — What though she tends this country inn, And mixes wine, and deals out gin ? With such a kind, obliging lass, I sigh to take the parting glass. With him who always talks of gain (Dull Momus, of the plodding train). The wretch who thrives by others' woes, And carries grief where'er he goes, — With people of this knavish class The first is still my parting glass. With those that drink before they dine, With him that apes the grunting swine, Who fills his page with low abuse. And strives to act the gabbling goose Turned out by fate to feed on grass — Boy, give me quick, ihe parting glass. The man whose friendship is sincere. Who knows no guilt, and feels no fear, — It would require a heart of brass With him to take the parting glass. With him who quaffs his pot of ale, Who holds to all an even scale. Who hates a knave in each disguise, And fears him not — whate'er his size — With him, well pleased my days to pass. May heaven forbid the Parting Glass ! ON THE RUINS OF A COUNTRY INN Where now these mingled ruins lie A temple once to Bacchus rose. Beneath whose roof, aspiring high, Full many a guest forgot his woes. No more this dome, by tempests torn. Affords a social safe retreat; But ravens here, with eye forlorn. And clustering bats henceforth will meet. The Priestess of this ruined shrine, Unable to survive the stroke. Presents no more the ruddy wine, — Her glasses gone, her china broke. The friendly Host, whose social hand Accosted strangers at the door, EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION Has left at length his wonted stand, And greets the weary guest no more. Old creeping Time, that brings decay, Might yet have spared these mouldering walls. Alike beneath whose potent sway A temple or a tavern falls. Is this the place where mirth and joy, Coy nymphs, and sprightly lads were found ? Indeed ! no more the nymphs are coy, No more the flowing bowls go round. Is this the place where festive song Deceived the wintry hours away ? No more the swains the tune prolong, No more the maidens join the lay. Is this the place where Nancy slept In downy beds of blue and green ? Dame Nature here no vigils kept. No cold unfeeling guards were seen. 'T is gone ! — and Nancy tempts no more ; Deep, unrelenting silence reigns ; Of all that pleased, that charmed before, The tottering chimney scarce remains. Ye tyrant winds, whose ruffian blast Through doors and windows blew too strong, And all the roof to ruin cast, — The roof that sheltered us so long, — Yoifr wrath appeased, I pray be kind If Mopsus should the dome renew. That we again may quaff his wine. Again collect our jovial crew. ON A TRAVELLING SPECULATOR On scent of game from town to town he flew. The soldier's curse pursued him on his Care in his eye, and anguish on his brow. He seemed a sea-hawk watching for his prey. With soothing words the widow's mite he gained. With piercing glance watched misery's dark abode, Filched paper scraps while yet a scrap re- mained, Bought where he must, and cheated where he could; Vast loads amassed of scrip, and who knows what; Potosi's wealth seemed lodged within his clutch, — But wealth has wings (he knew) and in- stant bought The prancing steed, gay harness, and gilt coach. One Sunday morn to church we saw him ride In glittering state — alack ! and who but he — The following week, with Madam at his side. To routs they drove — and drank Impe- rial tea ! In cards and fun the livelong day they spent. With songs and smut prolonged the mid- night feast, — If plays were had, to plays they constant went. Where Madam's top-knot rose a foot at least. Three weeks, and more, thus passed in airs of state, The fourth beheld the mighty bubble fail, — And he, who countless millions owned so late. Stopped short — and closed his triumphs in a jail. THE SCURRILOUS SCRIBE His soul extracted from the public sink, For discord born he splasht around his ink ; In scandal foremost, as by scandal fed, He hourly rakes the ashes of the dead. Secure from him no traveller walks the streets. His malice sees a foe in all he meets; With dark design he treads his daily rounds, Kills where he can, and, where he cannot, wounds. PHILIP FRENEAU Nature to hiin her stings of rancor gave To shed, miseen, the venom of a knave ; She gave him cunning, every treacherous art. She gave him all things but an upright heart ; And one thing more — she gave him but the pen, No power to hurt, not even the brass of men. Whose breasts though furies with their pas- sions rule Yet laugh at satire, pointed by a fool. Was there no world but ours to give you room ? No Patagonia, for your savage home. No region, where antarctic oceans roll, No icy island, neighboring to the pole ? By dark suspicion led, you aim at all Who will not to your sceptred idol fall; To work their ruin, every baseness try. First envy, next abuse us, then belie. Such is your stretch ! and thus awhile go on ! Your shafts rebound, and yet have injured none. Hurt whom they will, let who will injured be. The sons of smut and scandal hurt not me. TO A CATY-DID In a branch of willow hid Sings the evening Caty-did: From the lofty locust bough Feeding on a drop of dew. In her suit of green arrayed Hear her singing in the shade — Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did ! While upon a leaf you tread, Or repose your little head On your sheet of shadows laid, All the day you nothing said: Half the night your cheery tongue Revelled out its little song, — Nothing else but Caty-did. From your lodging on the leaf Did you utter joy or grief ? Did you only mean to say, / have had my summer's day, And am passing, soon, away To the grave of Caty-did : Poor, unhappy Caty-did ! But you would have uttered more Had you known of nature's power ; From the world when you retreat, And a leaf 's your winding sheet. Long before your spirit fled. Who can tell but nature said, — Live again, my Caty-did ! Live, and chatter Caty-did. Tell me, what did Caty do ? Did she mean to trouble you ? Why was Caty not forbid To trouble little Caty-did ? Wrong, indeed, at you to fling, Hurting no one while you sing, — Caty-did ! Caty-did ! Caty-did ! Why continue to complain ? Caty tells me she again Will not give you plague or pain; Caty says you may be hid, Caty will not go to bed While you sing us Caty-did, — Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did J But, while singing, you forgot To tell us what did Caty not : Caty did not think of cold. Flocks retiring to the fold, Winter with his wrinkles old; Winter, that yourself foretold When you gave us Caty-did. Stay serenely on your nest; Caty now will do her best. All she can, to make you blest; But you want no human aid, — Nature, when she formed you, said, " Independent you are made. My dear little Caty-did: Soon yourself must disappear With the verdure of the year," And to go, we know not where, With your song of Caty-did. TO A HONEY BEE Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, Or quaff the waters of the stream, EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION Why hither come, on vagrant wing ? Does Bacchus tempting seem, — Did he for you this glass prepare ? Will I admit you to a share ? Did storms harass or foes pei-plex, Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay, — Did wars distress, or labors vex, Or did you miss your way ? A better seat you could not take Than on the margin of this lake. Welcome ! — I hail you to my glass: All welcome here you find; Here let the cloud of trouble pass, Here be all care resigned. This fluid never fails to please. And drown the griefs of men or bees. What forced you here we cannot know, And you will scarcely tell, But cheery we would have you go And bid a glad farewell: On lighter wings we bid you fly, — Your dart will now all foes defy. Yet take not, oh ! too deep a drink, And in this ocean die; a Here bigger bees than you mignt sink. Even bees full six feet high. Like Pharaoh, then, you would be said To perish in a sea of red. Do as you please, your will is mine; Enjoy it without fear, And your grave will be this glass wine, Your epitaph — a tear; Go, take your seat in Charon's boat; We '11 tell the hive, you died afloat. of PLATO TO THEON The grandeur of this earthly round, Where Theon would forever be, Is but a name, is but a sound — Mere emptiness and vanity. Give me the stars, give me the skies. Give me the heaven's remotest sphere; Above these gloomy scenes to rise Of desolation and despair. These native fires that warmed the mind* Now languid grown, too dimly glow; Joy has to grief the heart resigned, And love itself is changed to woe. The joys of wine are all you boast, — These for a moment damp your pain; The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost, And darkness clouds the soul again. Then seek no more for bliss below, Where real bliss can ne'er be found; Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow And fairer flowers bedeck the ground; Where plants of life the plains invest, And green eternal crowns the year; The little god within your breast Is weary of his mansion here. Like Phosphor, sent before the day, His height meridian to regain, — The dawn arrives — he must not stay To shiver on a frozen plain. Life's journey past, for death prepare, — 'T is but the freedom of the mind ; Jove made us mortal — his we are ; To Jove, dear Theon, be resigned. ^Hutjjot (anfounti* THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR 'T IS of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars, And the whistling wind from the west- uor'-west blew through the pitch- pine spars; 1 See Biographical Note, p. 778. With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale; On an autumn night we raised the light on the old Head of Kinsale. It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong, TIMOTHY DWIGHT As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the' fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head. There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop ! And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silvery track. The mid-tide meets in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore, And that sterling light in Tusker' Rock where the old bell tolls each hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower. What looms upon our starboard bow ? What hangs upon the breeze ? 'T is time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees, For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war. Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past — " Haul snug your flowing courses ! lay your topsail to the mast ! " Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark, And we answered back by a solid broad- side from the decks of our patriot bark. " Out booms ! out booms ! " our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet," And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet. And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stun'-sails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer Just at the break of day. THE SMOOTH DIVINE There smiled the smooth Divine, unused to wound The sinner's heart with hell's alarming sound. No terrors on his gentle tongue attend; No grating truths the nicest ear offend. That strange new-birth, that methodistic grace, Nor in his heart nor sermons found a place. Plato's fine tales he clumsily retold, Trite, fireside, moral seesaws, dull as old,— His Christ and Bible placed at good re- move. Guilt hell-deserving, and forgiving love. 'T was best, he said, mankind should cease to sin: Good fame required it; so did peace within. Their honors, well he knew, would ne'er be driven; But hoped they still would please to go to heaven. Each week he paid his visitation dues ; Coaxed, jested, laughed; rehearsed the private news; Smoked with each goody, thought her cheese excelled; Her pipe he lighted, and her baby held. Or placed in some great town, with lac- quered shoes, Trim wig, and trimmer gown, and glisten- ing hose. He bowed, talked politics, learned manners mild. Most meekly questioned, and most smoothly smiled ; At rich men's jests laughed loud, their sto- ries praised. Their wives' new patterns gazed, and gazed, and gazed; lo EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION Most daintily on pampered turkeys dined, Dear as the apple of thine eye, Nor shrunk with fasting, nor with study pined: Yet from their churches saw his brethren And graven on thy hand. If e'er to bless thy sons driven, My voice or hands deny. Who thundered truth, and spoke the voice These hands let useful skill forsake, of heaven, This voice in silence die. Chilled trembling guilt in Satan's headlong path. For her my tears shall fall. Charmed the feet back, and roused the ear For her my prayers ascend; of death. To her my cares and toils be given "Let fools," he cried, "starve on, while Till toils and cares shall end. prudent I Snug in my nest shall live, and snug shall Beyond my highest joy die." I prize her heavenly ways. Her sweet communion, solemn vows, Her hymns of love and praise. LOVE TO THE CHURCH Jesus, thou friend divine. Our Saviour and our King, I LOVE thy kingdom. Lord, Thy hand from every snare and foe The house of thine abode, Shall great deliverance bring. The church our blest Redeemer saved With his own precious blood. Sure as thy truth shall last. To Zion shall be given I love thy church, God ! The brightest glories earth can yield, Her walls before thee stand, And brighter bliss of heaven. d^t. (Deorgc €ucher DAYS OF MY YOUTH Days of my youth. Ye have glided away; Hairs of my youth. Ye are frosted and gray; Eyes of my youth, Your keen sight is no more; Cheeks of my youth. Ye are furrowed all o'er; Strength of my youth. All your vigor is gone ; Thoughts of my youth. Your gay visions are flown. Days of my youth, I wish not your recall; Hairs of my youth, I 'm content ye should fall; Eyes of my youth, You much evil have seen; Cheeks of my youth. Bathed in tears have you been; Thoughts of my youth. You have led me astray; Strength of xnj youth. Why lament your decay ? Days of my age. Ye will shortly be past; Pains of my age. Yet awhile ye can last; Joys of my age. In true wisdom delight; Eyes of my age. Be religion your light; Thoughts of my age. Dread ye not the cold sod; Hopes of my age. Be ye fixed on your God. ST. GEORGE TUCKER — ST. JOHN HONEYWC_^ ^t. Sjoftn ^^oneptooob DARBY AND JOAN Tl: When Darby saw the setting sun, He swung his scythe, and home he run, Sat down, drank off his quart, and said, " My work is done, I '11 go to bed." Ti " My work is done ! " retorted Joan, " My work is done ! your constant tone ; But hapless woman ne'er can say, ' My work is done,' till judgment day. You men can sleep all night, but we Must toil." — " Whose fault is that?" quoth he. "I know your meaning," Joan replied, *' But, Sir, my tongue shall not be tied ; I will go on, and let you know What work poor women have to do: First, in the morning, though we feel As sick as drunkards when they reel, — Yes, feel such pains in back and head As would confine you men to bed. We ply the brush, we wield the broom, We air the beds, and right the room ; The cows must next be milked — and then We get the breakfast for the men. Ere this is done, with whimpering cries. And bristly hair, the children rise; These must be dressed, and dosed with rue. And fed — and all because of you : We next " — Here Darby scratched his head, And stole off grumbling to his bed; And only said, as on she run, " Zounds ! woman's clack is never done." At early dawn, ere Phcebus rose. Old Joan resumed her taHe of woes; When Darby thus — "I 'll end the strife, Be yon the man and I the wife: Take you the scythe and mow, while I Will all your boasted cares supply." " Content," quoth Joan, " give me my stint." This Darby did, and out she went. Old Darby rose and seized the broom And whirled the dirt about the room: Which having done, he scarce knew how, He hied to milk the brindled cow. The brindled cow whisked round her tail In Darby's ej'es, and kicked the pail. The clown, perplexed with grief pain. Swore he 'd ne'er try to milk again : When turning round, in sad amaze, He saw his cottage in a blaze: For as he chanced to brush the room, In careless haste, he fired the broom. The fire at last subdued, he swore The broom and he would meet no more. Pressed by misfortune, and perplext. Darby prepared for breakfast next; But what to get he scarcely knew — The bread was spent, the butter too. His hands bedaubed with paste and flour, Old Darby labored full an hour: But, luckless wight ! thou couldst not make The bread take form of loaf or. cake. As every-jdoor wide open stood, In pushed the^sow in quest of food; And, stumbling onwards, with her snout O'erset the churn — the cream ran out. As Darby turned the sow to beat. The slippery cream betrayed his feet; He caught the bread trough in his fall, And down came Darby, trough, and all. The children, wakened by the clatter. Start up, and cry, "Oh ! what 's the mat- ter ? " Old Jowler barked, and Tabby mewed, And hapless Darby bawled aloud, " Return, my Joan, as heretofore, I'll play the housewife's part no more: Since now, by sad experience taught. Compared to thine my work is naught; Henceforth, as biisiness calls, I '11 take. Content, the plough, the scythe, the rake, And never more transgress the line Our fates have marked, while then art mine. Then Joan, return, as heretofore, I '11 vex thy honest soul no more ; Let 's each our proper task attend — Forgive the past, and strive to mend." EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION ^Ckjrantjcr JBiliSfon THE FISHERMAN'S HYMN .'he osprey sails above the sound, The geese are gone, the gulls are flying; The herring shoals swarm thick around, The nets are launched, the boats are plying; Yo ho, my hearts ! let 's seek the deep, Raise high the song, and cheerily wish her, Still as tlie bending net we sweep, " God bless the fish-hawk and the fisher ! " 3he brings us fish — she brings us spring. Good times, fair weather, warmth, and plenty. Fine stores of shad, trout, herring, ling, Sheepshead and drum, and old-wives dainty. Yo ho, my hearts ! let 's seek the deep. Ply every oar, and cheerily wish her. Still as the bending net we sweep, "God bless the fish-hawk and the fisher ! " She rears her young on yonder tree. She leaves her faithful mate to mind 'em; Like us, for fish, she sails to sea, And, plunging, shows us where to find 'em. Yo ho, my hearts ! let 's seek the deep. Ply every oar, and cheerily wish her, While the slow bending net we sweep, "God bless the fish-hawk and the ' fisher ! " THE BLUE-BIRD When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, Green meadows and brown-furrowed fields reappearing. The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore, And cloud-cleaving geese to the Lakes are a-steering; When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing; When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, Oh then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spruig And hails with his warblings the charms of the season. Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring; Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather; The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring. And spieewood and sassafras budding together: Oh then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair Your walks border up ; sow and plant at your leisure; The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure. He flits through the orchards, he visits each tree. The red-flowering peach and the apple's sweet blossoms; He snaps up destroyers wherever they be. And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms; He drags the vile grub from the corn he devours. The worm from their webs where they riot and welter; His song and his services freely are ours, And all that he asks is in summer a shel- ter. The plotighman is pleased when he gleans in his train. Now searching the furrows, now mount- ing to cheer him; The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain. And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him ; The slow-lingering schoolboys forget they '11 be chid. While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red. That each little loiterer seems to adore him. ALEXANDER WILSON — JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 13 When al the gay scenes of the summer are o'er, And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow, And millions of warblers, that charmed us before. Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow. The blue-bird forsaken, yet true to his home, Still lingers, and looks for a milder to- morrow. Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam, He sings his adieu in a lone note of sor- row. While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm. The green face of eUrth, and the pure blue of heaven. Or love's native music, have influence to charm. Or sympathy's glow to our feelings is given. Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall be; His voice like the thrillings of hope is a treasure; For, through bleakest storms if a calm he but see. He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure ! S[ofjn €Juincp 3Ctiam^ TO SALLY The man in righteousness arrayed, A pure and blameless liver. Needs not the keen Toledo blade, Nor venom-freighted quiver. What though he wind his toilsome way O'er regions wild and weary — Through Zara's burning desert stray, Or Asia's jungles dreary: What though he plough the billowy deep By lunar light, or solar, Meet the resistless Simoon's sweep. Or iceberg circumpolar ! In bog or quagmire deep and dank His foot shall never settle; He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc, Or Popocatapetl. On Chimborazo's breathless height He treads o'er burning lava; Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blfght, The deathf ul plant of Java. Through every peril he shall pass, By Virtue's shield protected; And still by Truth's unerring glass His path shall be directed. Else wherefore was it, Thursday last, While strolling down the valley. Defenceless, musing as I passed A canzonet to Sally, A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout, Forth from the thicket bounded ^ I clapped my hands and raised a shout — He heard — and fled — confounded. Tangier nor Tunis never bred An animal more crabbed ; Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed A monster half so rabid; Nor Ararat so fierce a beast Has seen since days of Noah ; Nor stronger, eager for a feast. The fell constrictor boa. Oh ! place me where the solar beam Has scorched all verdure vernal; Or on the polar verge extreme. Blocked up with ice eternal — Still shall my voice's tender lays Of love remain unbroken ; And still my charming Sally praise, Sweet smiling and sweet spoken. THE LIP AND THE HEART One day between the Lip and the Heart A wordless strife arose, Which was expertest in the art His purpose to disclose. The Lip called forth the vassal Tongue, And made him vouch — a lie ! The slave his servile anthem sung. And braved the listening sky. 14 EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION The Heart to speak in vain essayed, Nor could his purpose reach — His will nor voice nor tongue obeyed, His silence was his speech. Mark thou their difference, child of earth ! While each performs his part, Not all the lip can speak is worth The silence of the heart. SJosepfj i^ophin^on HAIL COLUMBIA Hail, Columbia ! happy land ! Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-born band ! Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone, Enjoyed the peace your valor won. Let independence be our boast, Ever mindful what it cost; Ever grateful for the prize, Let its altar reach the skies. Firm, united, let us be, Rallying round our Liberty; As a band of brothers joined, Peace and safety we shall find. Immortal patriots ! rise once more: Defend your rights, defend your shore: Let no rude foe, with impious hand. Let no rude foe, with impious hand, Invade the shrine where sacred lies Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. While offering peace sincere and just. In Heaven we place a manly trust. That truth and justice will prevail, And every scheme of bondage fail. Firm, united, etc. ap- Sound, sound, the trump of Fame ! Let Washington's great name Ring through the world with loud ap' plause, Ring through the world with loud plause ; Let every clime to Freedom dear, Listen with a joyful ear. With equal skill, and godlike power, He governed in the fearful hour Of horrid war; or guides, with ease. The happier times of honest peace. Firm, united, etc. Behold the chief who now commands, Once more to serve his country, stands — The rock on which the storm will beat, The rock on which the storm will beat; But, armed in virtue firm and true, His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you. When hope was sinking in dismay. And glooms obscured Columbia's day. His steady mind, from changes free. Resolved on death or liberty. Firm, united, let us be. Rallying round our Liberty; As a band of brothers joined, Peace* and safety we shall find. gjoftn ^fiaixj SONG Who has robbed the ocean cave, To tinge thy lips with coral hue ? Who from India's distant wave For thee those pearly treasures drew ? Who, from yonder orient sky, Stole the morning of thine eye ? Thousand charms, thy form to deck, From sea, and earth, and air i torn ; Roses bloom upon thy cheek. On thy breath their fragrance borne. Guard thy bosom from the day. Lest thy snows should melt away. i HOPKINSON — SHAW — MOORE ^5 But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth can ne'er impart; Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air, a heart. Fairest ! wouldst thou perfect be, Take, oh take that heart from me. SLEIGHING SONG Whe!n calm is the night, and the stars shine bright, The sleigh glides smooth and cheerily; And mirth and jest abound. While all is still around, Save the horses' trampling sound. And the horse-bells tinkling merrily. But when the drifting s."'^w in the travel- ler's face shall blow And hail is driving drear ^" ^ And the wind is shrill aud. loud, Then no sleigh shall stir abroad, Nor along the beaten road Shall the horse-bells tinkle merrily. But to-night the skies are clear, and we have not to fear That the time should linger wearily; For good-humor has a charm Even winter to disarm. And our cloaks shall wrap us warm, And the bells shall tinkle merrily. Clement Clarftc ^oott A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS 'T WAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; The children were nestled all snug in their beds. While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long win- ter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects be- low, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear. But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein- deer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name ; " Now, Dasher ! now. Dancer ! now, Pran- cer and Vixen ! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dander and Blitzen ! To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all ! " As dry leaves that before the wild hurri- cane fly. When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the house-top the coursers they flew. With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nich- olas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, i6 EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION And his clothe'j^^jwere all tarnished with ashes p^ ^ soot ; A bundle fy^j^xoys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes — how they twinkled! his dim- ples how merry ! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook when he laughed, like a bowl- ful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head. Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk. And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, " Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good- night." ftanti^ ^cott iflcp MHE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER O SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twi- light's last gleaming — Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fight. O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming ! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O ! say, does that stai^spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep. Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 'T is the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more ? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave FRANCIS KEY— JAMES KIRKE PAULDING 17 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. O ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land Praise the power that hath made and pre- served us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just. And this be our motto — "In God is our trust : " And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 3[aniei6f Mtke f>aultiing THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL Drink ! drink ! to whom shall we drink ? To a friend or a mistress ? Come, let me think ! To those who are absent, or those who are here ? To the dead that we loved, or the living still dear ? Alas ! when I look, I find none of the last ! The present is barren, — let 's drink to the past ! Come ! here 's to the girl with a voice sweet and low, The eye all of fire and the bosom of snow, Who erewhile, in the days of my youth that are fled. Once slept on my bosom, and pillowed my head ! Would you know where to find such a deli- cate prize ? Go seek in yon church-yard, for there she lies. And here 's to the friend^ the one friend of my youth, With a head full of genius, a heart full of truth. Who traveled with me in the sunshine of life, And stood by my side in its peace and its strife ! Would you know where to seek for a bless- ing so rare ? Go drag the lone sea, you may find him there. And here 's to a brace of twin cherubs of mine. With hearts like their mother's, as pure as this wine. Who came but to see the first act of the play. Grew tired of the scene, and then both went away. Would you know where this brace of bright cherubs have hied ? Go seek them in heaven, for there they abide. A bumper, my boys ! to a gray-headed pair. Who watched o'er my childhood with ten- derest care. God bless them, and keep them, and may they look down On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, or frown ! Would you know whom I drink to ? go seek 'mid the dead. You will find both their names on the stone at their head. And here 's — but alas ! the good wine is no more. The bottle is emptied of all its bright store; Like those we have toasted, its spirit is fled. And nothing is left of the light that it shed. Then, a bumper of tears, boys ! the ban- quet here ends. With a health to our dead, since we 've no living friends. i8 Ex\RLY YEARS OF THE NATION AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN ROSALIE All hail ! thou noble land, Our Fathers' native soil ! Oh, stretch thy mighty hand, Gigantic grown by toil. O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ! For thou with magic might Canst reach to where the light Of Phoebus travels bright The world o'er ! The Genius of our clime. From his pine-embattled steep. Shall hail the guest sublime; While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. Then let the world combine, — O'er the main our naval line Like the milky-way shall shine Bright in fame ! Though ages long have past Since our Fathers left their home. Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam, 5ret lives the blood of England in our veins ! And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame Which no tyranny can tame By its chains ? While the language free and bold Which the bard of Avon sung, In which our Milton told How the vault of heaven rung When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; — While this, with reverence meet. Ten thousand echoes greet, From rock to rock repeat Round our coast ; — While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul. Still cling around our hearts, — Between let Ocean roll, Ourjoint communion breaking with the Sun: Yet still from either beach The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, « We are One." " POUR upon my soul again That sad, unearthly strain. That seems from other worlds to plain; Thus falling, falling from afar, As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs, And dropped them from the skies ! " No, — never came from aught below This melody of woe. That makes my heart to overflow, As from a thousand gushing springs Unknown before ; that with it brings This nameless light, — if light it be, — That veils the world I see. " For all I see around me wears The hue of other spheres; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath Can mould a sadness like to this, — So like angelic bliss." So, at that dreamy hour of day. When the last lingering ray Stops on the highest cloud to play, — So thought the gentle Rosalie, As on her maiden reverie First fell the strain of him who stole In music to her soul. ON THE LATE S. T. COLERIDGE And thou art gone, most loved, most hon- ored friend ! No, nevermore thy gentle voice shall blend With air of Earth its pure ideal tones. Binding in one, as with harmonious zones. The heart and intellect. And I no more Shall with thee gaze on that unfathomed deep, The Human Soul, — as when, pushed ofB the shore. Thy mystic bark would through the dark- ness sweep. Itself the while so bright ! For oft we seemed As on some starless sea, — all dark above, WASHINGTON ALLSTON — THOMAS HASTINGS 19 All dark below, — yet, onward as we drove. To plough up light that ever round us streamed. But he who mourns is not as one bereft Of all he loved : thy living Truths are left. €Soma^ ^a^ringjS? THE LATTER DAY Hail to the brightness of Zion's glad morn- ing; Joy to the lands that in darkness have lain; Hushed be the accents of sorrow and mourning; Zion in triumph begins her mild reign ! Hail to the brightness of Zion's glad morn- ing, Long by the prophets of Israel foretold; Hail to the millions from bondage return- ing; Gentiles and Jews the blest vision behold ! Lo, in the desert rich flowers are spring- ing; Streams ever copious are gliding along; Loud from the mountain-tops echoes are ringing; Wastes rise in verdure, and mingle in song. See, from all lands, from the isles of the ocean, Praise to Jehovah ascending on high; Fallen are the engines of war and commo- tion; Shouts of salvation are rending the sky ! IN SORROW Gently, Lord, oh, gently lead us. Pilgrims in this vale of tears, Through the trials yet decreed us, Till our last great change appears. When temptation's darts assail us, When in devious paths we stray, Let thy goodness never fail us, Lead us in thy perfect way. In the hour of pain and anguish, In the hour when death draws near, Suifer not our hearts to languish. Suffer not our souls to fear; And, when mortal life is ended, Bid us in thine arms to rest. Till, by angel bands attended, We awake among the blest. EXHORTATION Child of sin and sorrow. Filled with dismay. Wait not for to-morrow, Yield thee to-day. Heaven bids thee come While yet there 's room : Child of sin and sorrow ! Hear and obey. Child of sin and sorrow. Why wilt thou die ? Come whilst thon canst borrow Help from on high: Grieve not that love Which from above. Child of sin and sorrow, Would bring thee nigh. Child of sin and sorrow, Thy moments glide Like the flitting arrow, Or the rushing tide; Ere time is o'er. Heaven's grace implore: Child of sin and sorrow. In Christ confide. 20 EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION d§>aiTiueI H^ootitDort& THE BUCKET How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood. And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cata- ract fell, The cot of my father, the dairj^-house nigh it. And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bouud bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a trea- sure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite plea- sure. The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- flowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it. As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, . The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved hab- itation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's planta- tion, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well! LOVES SHE LIKE ME? SAY, my flattering heart, Loves she like me ? Is her's thy counterpart, Throbs it like thee ? Does she remember yet The spot where first we met, Which I shall ne'er forget, Loves she like me ? Soft echoes still repeat " Loves she like me ? " When on that mossy seat. Beneath the tree, 1 wake my amorous lay While lambkins round me play, And whispering zephyrs say, Loves she like me ? On her I think by day, Loves she like me ? With her in dreams I stray O'er mead and lea. My hopes of earthly bliss Are all comprised in this. To share her nuptial kiss, — Loves she like me ? Does absence give her pain ? Loves she like me ? And does she thus arraign Fortune's decree ? Does she my name repeat ? Will she with rapture greet The hour that sees us meet ? Loves she like me ? SAMUEL WOODWORTH — RICHARD HENRY DANA lUicJarti ^gcnrp HOana THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, Aud with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly ? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice ! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us : Thy wail, — What doth it bring to me ? Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge. Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge — The Mystery — the Word. Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, Old Ocean ! A requiem o'er the dead From out thy gloomy cells A tale of mourning tells, — Tells of man's woe and fall. His sinless glory fled. Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more; Come, quit with me the shore, And on the meadows light Where birds for gladness sing ! IMMORTALITY And do our loves all perish with our frames ? Do those that took their root and put forth buds. And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty. Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers ? Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, And make it send forth winning harmo- nies, — That to the cheek do give its living glow, And vision in the eye the soul intense With that for which there is no utter- ance — Are these the body's accidents ? — no more ? — To live in it, and when that dies, go out Like the burnt taper's flame ? O, listen, man ! A voice within us speaks the startling word, " Man, thou shalt never die ! " Celestial voices Hymn it around our souls : according harps. By angel fingers touched when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality: Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain. The tall, dark mountains, and the deep- toned seas. Join in this solemn, universal song. O, listen ye, our spirits; drink it in From all the air ! 'T is in the gentle moon- light; 'T is floating in day's setting glories; Night, Wrapt in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears: Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. As one vast mystic instrument, are touched By an unseen, living Hand ; the conscious chords » Quiver with joy in this great jubilee; The dying hear it, and as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony. EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION THE CHANTING CHERUBS — A GROUP BY GREENOUGH Whence come ye, Cherubs ? from the moon ? Or from a shining star ? Ye sure are sent, a blessed boon, From kinder worlds afar; For, while I look, my heart is all delight: Earth has no creatures half so pure and bright. From moon nor star we hither flew; The moon doth wane away, — The stars they pale at morning dew; We 're children of the day ; Nor change, nor night, was ever ours to bear; Eternal light, and love, and joy, we share. Then, sons of light, from Heaven above Some blessed news ye bring. Come ye to chant eternal love And tell how angels sing, And in your breathing, conscious forms to show How purer forms above live, breathe, and glow? Our parent is a human mind; His winged thoughts are we; To sun nor stars are we confined: We pierce the deepest sea. Moved by a brother's call, our Father bade Us light on earth, and here our flight is stayed. THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET Though I am humble, slight me not. But love me for the Poet's sake; Forget me not till he 's forgot. For care or slight with him I take. For oft he passed the blossoms by And turned to me with kindly look; Left flaunting flowers and open sky. And wooed me by the shady brook. And like the brook his voice was low: So soft, so sad the words he spoke, That with the stream they seemed to flow; They told me that his heart was broke. They said the world he fain would shun, And seek the still and twilight wood, — His spirit, weary of the sun. In humblest things found chief est good; That I was of a lowly frame. And far more constant than the flower, Which, vain with many a boastful name, But fluttered out its idle hour; That I was kind to old decay, And wrapped it softly round in green, — On naked root, and trunk of gray, Spread out a garniture and screen. They said that he was withering fast, Without a sheltering friend like me; That on his manhood fell a blast, And left him bare, like yonder tree; That spring would clothe his boughs no more. Nor ring his boughs with song of bird, — Sounds like the melancholy shore Alone were through his branches heard. Methought, as then he stood to trace The withered stems, there stole a tear, That I could read in his sad face — Brothers ! our sorrows make us near. And then he stretched him all along, And laid his head upon my breast. Listening the water's peaceful song: How glad was I to tend his rest ! Then happier grew his soothed soul; He turned and watched the sunlight play Upon my face, as in it stole. Whispering, " Above is brighter day ! " He praised my varied hues, — the green, The silver hoar, the golden, brown; Said, Lovelier hues were never seen; Then gently pressed my tender down. And where I sent up little shoots, He called them trees, in fond conceit: Like silly lovers in their suits He talked, his care awhile to cheat. RICHARD HENRY DANA— SARAH JOSEPHA HALE 23 I said, I 'd deck me in the dews, Could I but chase away his care, And clothe me in a thousand hues, To bring him joys that I might share. He answered, earth no blessing had To cure his lone and aching heart; That I was one, when he was sad, Oft stole him from his pain, in part. But e'en from thee, he said, I go To meet the world, its care and strife, No more to watch this quiet flow, Or spend with thee a gentle life. And yet the brook is gliding on, And I, without a care, at rest, While he to toiling life is gone; Nor finds his head a faithful breast. Deal gently with him, world ! I pray; Ye cares ! like softened shadows come; His spirit, well-nigh worn away. Asks with ye but awhile a home. O, may I live, and when he dies Be at his feet a humble sod ; O, may I lay me where he lies. To die when he awakes in God ! J>araiJ 3[Oj0fepp f$ait ALICE RAY The birds their love-notes warble Among the blossomed trees; The flowers are sighing forth their sweets To wooing honey-bees ; The glad brook o'er a pebbly floor Goes dancing on its way, — But not a thing is so like spring As happy Alice Ray. An only child was Alice, And, like the blest above. The gentle maid had ever breathed An atmosphere of love; Her father's smile like sunshine came, Like dew her mother's kiss ; Their love and goodness made her home. Like heaven, the place of bliss. Beneath such tender training, The joyous child had sprung, Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower, And gladness round her flung; And all who met her blessed her, And turned again to pray That grief and care might ever spare The happy Alice Ray. The gift that made her charming Was not from Venus caught; Nor was it, Pallas-like, derived From majesty of thought; Her heathf ul cheek was tinged with brown, Her hair without a curl — But then her eyes were love-lit stars, Her teeth as pure as pearl. And when in merry laughter Her sweet, clear voice was heard. It welled from out her happy heart Like carol of a bird; And all who heard were moved to smiles. As at some mirthful lay. And to the stranger's look replied, " 'T is that dear Alice Ray." And so she came, like sunbeams That bring the April green; As type of nature's royalty. They called her " Woodburn's queen ! " A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness, Like spring-time of the year, Seemed ever on her steps to wait, — No wonder she was dear. Her world was ever joyous — She thought of grief and pain As giants in the olden time. That ne'er would come again; The seasons all had charms for her, She welcomed each with joy, — The charm that in her spirit lived No changes could destroy. Her heart was like a fountain, The waters always sweet, — Her pony in the pasture. The kitten at her feet. 24 EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION The ruffling bird of Juno, and The wren in the old wall, Each knew her loving carefulness, And came at her soft call. Her love made all things lovely, For in the heart must live The feeling that imparts the charm, We gain by what we give. THE WATCHER The night was dark and fearful, The blast swept wailing by; A watcher, pale and tearful, Looked forth with anxious eye: How wistfully she gazes — No gleam of morn is there ! And then her heart upraises Its agony of prayer. Within that dwelling lonely, Where want and darkness reign, Her precious child, her only. Lay moaning in his pain; And death alone can free him — She feels that this must be: " But oh ! for morn to see him Smile once again on me ! " A hundred lights are glancing In yonder mansion fair, And merry feet are dancing — They heed not morning there: Oh, young and lovely creatures, One lamp, from out your store. Would give that poor boy's features To her fond gaze once more ! The morning sun is shining — She heedeth not its ray; Beside her dead reclining, That pale, dead mother lay ! A smile her lip was wreathing, A smile of hope and love, As though she still were breathing — " There 's light for us above ! " 3iamejer ^llftrafjam J^iHfjoujefe* THE DEMON-LOVER FROM " HADAD " Scene. — The terraced roof of Absalom's house, by night ; adorned with vases of flow- ers, and fragrant shrubs ; an awning spread over part of it. Tamak and Hadad. Tarn. No, no, I well remember — proofs, you said. Unknown to Moses. Had. Well, my love, thou knowest I 've been a traveller in various climes ; Trod Ethiopia's scorching sands, and scaled The snow-clad mountains; trusted to the deep ; Traversed the fragrant islands of the sea, And with the Wise conversed of many nations. 7'awi. I know thou hast. Had. Of all mine eyes have seen, The greatest, wisest, and most wonderful. Is that . dread sage, the Ancient of the Mountain. Tarn. Who? Had. None knows his lineage, age, or name: his locks Are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes Beam with the wisdom of collected ages. In green, unbroken years, he sees, 't is said. The generations pass, like autumn fruits, Garnered, consumed, and springing fresh to life, Again to perish, while he views the sun. The seasons roll, in rapt serenity. And high communion with celestial powers. Some say 't is Shem, our father, some say Enoch, And some Melchizedek. Tarn. I 've heard a tale Like this, but ne'er believed it. Had. I have proved it. — Through perils dire, dangers most immi- nent. Seven days and nights 'midst rocks and wildernesses, And boreal snows, and never-thawing ice. Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing. 1 See BioGEAPHicAL Note, p. 729. JAMES ABRAHAM HILLHOUSE 25 Save the far-soaring vulture comes, I dared My desperate way, resolved to know, or perish. Tam, Rash, rash adventurer ! Had. On the highest peak Of stormy Caucasus, there blooms a spot On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers And verdure never die; and there he dwells. Tam. But didst thou see him ? Had. Never did I view Such awful majesty: his reverend locks Hung like a silver mantle to his feet, His raiment glistered saintly white, his brow Rose like the gate of Paradise, his mouth Was musical as its bright guardians' songs. Tam. What did he tell thee? Oh! what wisdom fell From lips so hallowed ? Had. Whether he possess The Tetragrammaton, — the powerful Name Inscribed on Moses' rod, by which he wrought Unheard of wonders, which constrains the Heavens To part with blessings, shakes the earth, and rules The strongest Spirits; or if God hath given A delegated power, I cannot tell. But 't was from him I learned their fate, their fall, Who, erewhile, wore resplendent crowns in Heaven ; Now, scattered through the earth, the air, the sea. Them he compels to answer, and from them Has drawn what Moses, nor no mortal ear. Has ever heard. Tam. But did he tell it thee ? Had. He told me much, — more than I dare reveal; For with a dreadful oath he sealed my lips. Tam. But canst thou tell me nothing ? — Why unfold So much, if I must hear no more ? Had. You bade Explain my words, almost reproached me, sweet. For what by accident escaped me. Tam. Ah ! A little — something tell me, — sure, not all Were words inhibited. Had. Then, promise never, Never to utter of this conference A breath to mortal. Tam. Solemnly I vow. Had. Even then, 't is little I can say, compared With all the marvels he related. Tam. Come, I 'm breathless. — Tell me how they sinn'd, how fell. Had. Their Prince involved them in his ruin. Tam. What black offence on his devoted head Drew such dire punishment ? Had. The wish to be As the All-Perfect. Tam. Arrogating that Peculiar to his Maker ! — awful crime ! But what their doom ? their place of pun- ishment ? Had. Above, about, beneath ; earth, sea, and air; Their habitations various as their minds. Employments, and desires. Tam. But are they round us, Hadad ? — not confined In penal chains and darkness ? Had. So he said; And so your holy books infer. What saith Your Prophet ? what the Prince of Uz ? Tam. I shudder, Lest some dark Minister be near us now. Had. You wrong them. They are bright Intelligences, Robbed of some native splendor, and cast down, 'Tis true, from Heaven; but not deformed, and foul. Revengeful, malice-working Fiends, as fools Suppose. They dwell, like Princes, in the clouds ; Sun their bright pinions in the middle sky; Or arch their palaces beneath the hills. With stones inestimable studded so. That sun or stars were useless there. Tam. Good heavens ! Had. He bade me look on rugged Cau- casus, Crag piled on crag beyond the utmost ken Naked, and wild, as if creation's ruins Were heaped in one immeasurable chain Of barren mountains, beaten by the storms Of everlasting winter. But within 26 EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION Are glorious palaces, and domes of light, Irradiate halls, and crystal colonnades, Blazing with lustre past the noontide beam, Or, with a milder beauty, mimicking The mystic signs of changeful Mazzaroth. Tarn. Unheard of wonders ! Had. There they dwell, and muse, And wander; Beings beautiful, immortal, Minds vast as heaven, capacious as the sky; Whose thoughts connect past, present, and to come. And glow with light intense, imperishable. So in the sparry chambers of the Sea And Air-Pavilions, upper Tabernacles, They study Nature's secrets, and enjoy No poor dominion. Tarn. Are they beautiful, And powerful far beyond the human race ? Had. Man's feeble heart cannot conceive it. When The Sage described them, fiery eloquence Broke from his lips, his bosom heaved, his eyes Grew bright and mystical; moved by the theme. Like one who feels a deity within. Tarn. Wondrous ! — What intercourse have they with men ? Had. Sometimes they deign to intermix with man. But oft with woman. Tarn. Ha ! with woman ? Had. She Attracts them with her gentler virtues, soft. And beautiful, and heavenly, like them- selves. They have been known to love her with a passion Stronger than human. Tarn. That surpasses all You yet have told me. Had. This the Sage affirms; And Moses, darkly. Tarn. How do they appear ? — How love ? — Had. Sometimes 't is spiritual, signified By beatific dreams, or more distinct And glorious apparition. — They Jiave stooped To animate a human form, and love Like mortals. Tarn. Frightful to be so beloved ! — Frightful ! who could endure the horrid thought ? Had. \_After a pause.'] But why contemn a Spirit's love ? so high. So glorious, if he haply deigned ? — Tarn. Forswear My Maker ! love a Demon ! Had. No — Oh, no, ' — My thoughts but wandered — Oft, alas ! they wander. Tarn. Why dost thou speak so sadly now ? — And lo ! Thine eyes are fixed again upon Arcturus. Thus ever, when thy drooping spirits ebb. Thou gazest on that star. Hath it the power To cause or cure thy melancholy mood ? — [fie appears lost in thought. Tell me, — ascrib'st thou influence to the stars ? Had. [Starting.'] The stars ! — What know'st thou of the stars ? Tarn. I know that they were made to rule the night. Had. Like palace lamps ! Thou echoest well thy grandsire ! — Woman ! The stars are living, glorious, Amazing, infinite ! — Tarn. Speak not so wildly. I know them numberless, resplendent, set As symbols of the countless, countless years That make eternity. Had. Thou speak'st the word — O, had ye proved — like those Great Suf- ferers, — Shot, once for all, the gulf, — felt myriad ages Only the prelude, — could ye scan the void With eyes as searching as its torments, — Then — then — mightst thou pronounce it feelingly ! Tarn. What ails thee, Hadad? — Draw me not so close. Had. Tamar ! I need thy love — more than thy love — Tarn. Thy cheek is wet with tears — Nay, let us part — 'T is late. I cannot, must not linger. — [Breaks from him, and exit. Had. Loved and abhorred ! — Still, still accursed ! — [He paces, twice or thrice, up and down with passionate gestures; then turns his face to the sky, and stands a moment in silence. O ! where. In the illimitable space, in what HILLHOUSE — WILDE 27 Profound of untried misery, when all His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill With life and beauty yonder infinite, Their radiant journey run, forever set, Where, where, in what abyss shall I be groaning ? [^Exit. lUicfjarD l^cnrp Wiitit STANZAS My life is like the summer rose, That opens to the morning sky. But, ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground — to die ! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see — But none shall weep a tear for me ! My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray: Its hold is frail — its date is brief, Restless — and soon to pass away ! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree — But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand ; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race. On that lone shore loud moans the sea - But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! A FAREWELL TO AMERICA Farewell, my more than fatherland ! Home of my heart and friends, adieu ! Lingering beside some foreign strand. How oft shall I remember you ! How often, o'er the waters blue. Send back a sigh to those I leave, The loving and beloved few. Who grieve for me, — for whom I grieve ! We part ! — no matter how we part, There are some thoughts we utter not, Deep treasured in our inmost heart. Never revealed, and ne'er forgot I Why murmur at the common lot ? We part ! — I speak not of the pain, — But when shall I each lovely spot And each loved face behold again ? It must be months, — it may be years, — It may — but no ! — I will not fill Fond hearts with gloom, — fond eyes with tears, " Curious to shape uncertain ill." Though humble, — few and far, — yet, still Those hearts and eyes are ever dear; Theirs is the love no time can chill, The truth no chance or change can sear ! All I have seen, and all I see. Only endears them more and more; Friends cool, hopes fade, and hours flee, Affection lives when all is o'er ! Farewell, my more than native shore ! I do not seek or hope to find, Roam where I will, what I deplore To leave with them and thee behind ! TO THE MOCKING-BIRD Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool! Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? Thine ever ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe. Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school, To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! For such thou art by day — but all night long Thou pourest a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain. As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy Jacques complain. Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong. And sighing for thy motley coat again. 28 EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION annitional ^tltttiom (CHOSEN FROM AMERICAN VERSE OF THE TIME) ON SNOW-FLAKES MELTING ON HIS LADY'S BREAST To kiss my Celia's fairer breast, The snow forsakes its native skies, But proving an unwelcome guest. It grieves, dissolves in tears, and dies. Its touch, like mine, but serves to wake Through all her frame a death-like chill, — Its tears, like those I shed, to make That icy bosom colder stiU. I blame her not; from Celia's eyes A common fate beholders proved — Each swain, each fair one, weeps and dies, — With envy these, and those with love ! William Martin Johnson ON THE DEATH OF MY SON CHARLES My son, thou wast my heart's delight. Thy morn of life was gay and cheery ; That morn has rushed to sudden night, Thy father's house is sad and dreary. I held thee on my knee, my son ! And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping; But ah ! thy little day is done. Thou 'rt with thy angel sister sleeping. The staff, on which my years should lean. Is broken, ere those years come o'er me; My funeral rites thou shouldst have seen, But thou art in the tomb before me. Thou rear'st to me no j&lial stone. No parent's grave with tears beholdest; Thou art my ancestor, my son ! And stand'st in Heaven's account the oldest. On earth my lot was soonest cast, Thy generation after mine, Thou hast thy predecessor past; Earlier eternity is thine. I should have set before thine eyes The road to Heaven, and showed it clear; But thou untaught spring'st to the skies. And leav'st thy teacher lingering here. Sweet Seraph, I would learn of thee, And hasten to partake thy bliss ! And oh ! to thy world welcome me, As first I welcomed thee to this. Dear Angel, thou art safe in heaven; No prayers for thee need more be made; Oh ! let thy prayers for those be given Who oft have blessed thy infant head. My father ! I beheld thee born. And led thy tottering steps with care; Before me risen to Heaven's bright morn, My son ! my father ! guide me there. Daniel Webster PRIVATE DEVOTION I LOVE to steal awhile away From every cumbering care, And spend the hours of setting day In humble, grateful prayer. I love, in solitude, to shed The penitential tear; And all His promises to plead, When none but God can hear. ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 29 I love to think on mercies past, And future good implore; And all my cares and sorrows cast On Him whom I adore. I love, by faith, to take a view Of brighter scenes in heaven; The prospect doth my strength renew, While here by tempests driven. Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er, May its departing ray Be calm as this impressive hour, And lead to endless day. Phoebe Hinsdale Brown HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH Where ancient forests round us spread, Where bends the cataract's ocean-fall. On the lone mountain's silent head, There are thy temples, God of all ! Beneath the dark-blue, midnight arch. Whence nayriad suns pour down their rays. Where planets trace their ceaseless march, Father ! we worship as we gaze. The tombs thine altars are ; for there, When earthly loves and hopes have fled, To thee ascends the spirit's prayer. Thou God of the immortal dead. All space is holy; for all space Is filled by thee; but human thought Burns clearer in some chosen place. Where thy own words of love are taught. Here be they taught; and may we know That faith thy servants knew of old; Which onward bears through weal and woe. Till Death the gates of heaven unfold ! Nor we alone; may those whose brow Shows yet no trace of human cares. Hereafter stand where we do now. And raise to thee still holier prayers ! Andrews Norton ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP Rocked in the cradle of the deep I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For thou, O Lord ! hast power to save. I know thou wilt not slight mj call, For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall; And calm a,nd peaceful shall I sleep. Rocked in the cradle of the deep. When in the dead of night I lie And gaze upon the trackless sky. The star-bespangled heavenly scroll, The boundless waters as they roll, — I feel thy wondrous power to save From perils of the stormy wave : Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I calmly rest and soundly sleep. And such the trust that still were mine, Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine. Or though the tempest's fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death. In ocean cave, still safe with Thee The germ of immortality ! And calm and peaceful shall I sleep. Rocked in the cradle of the deep. Emma Hart Willard THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm. That beat against my breast. Rage on — thou may'st destroy this form. And lay it low at rest; But still the spirit that now brooks Thy tempest, raging high, Undaunted on its fury looks With steadfast eye. I said to Penury's meagre train. Come on — your threats I brave; My last poor life-drop you may drain, And crush me to the grave; Yet still the spirit that endures Shall mock your force the while, And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours With bitter smile. I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, Pass on — I heed you not; 3° •EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION Ye may pursue me till my form And being are forgot; Yet still the spirit, which you see Undaunted by your wiles, Draws from its own nobility Its high-born smiles. I said to Friendship's menaced blow, Strike deep — my heart shall bear; Thou' canst but add one bitter woe To those already there; Yet still the spirit that sustains This last severe distress Shall smile upon its keenest pains, And scorn redress. I said to Death's uplifted dart, Aim sure — oh, why delay ? Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — A weak, reluctant prey ; For still the spirit, firm and free, Unruffled by this last dismay, Wrapt in its own eternity, Shall pass away. Lavinia Stoddard A NAME IN THE SAND Alone I walked the ocean strand ; A pearly shell was in my hand : I stooped and wrote upon the sand My name — the year — the day. As onward from the spot I passed. One lingering look behind I cast; A wave came rolling high and fast. And washed my lines away. And so, methought, 't will shortly be With every mark on earth from me : A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place Where I have trod the sandy shore Of time, and been, to be no more, Of me — my day — the name I bore, To leave nor track nor trace. And yet, with Him who counts the sands And holds the waters in his hands, I know a lasting record stands Inscribed against my name. Of all this mortal part has wrought, Of all this thinking soul has thought. And from these fleeting moments caught For glory or for shame. Hannah Fl^gg Gould MY BRIGANTINEi My brigantine ! Just in thy mould and beauteous in thy form, Gentle in roll and buoyant on the surge, Light as the sea-fowl rocking in the storm. In breeze and gale thy onward course we urge. My water-queen ! Lady of mine ! More light and swift than thou none thread the sea. With surer keel or steadier on its path; We brave each waste of ocean-mystery And laugh to hear the howling tempest's wrath. For we are thine ! My brigantine ! Trust to the mystic power that points thy way. Trust to the eye that pierces from afar. Trust the red meteors that around thee play. And, fearless, trust the Sea-Green Lady's Star, Thou bark divine ! James Fenimore Cooper 1 See BiOGEAPHicAL Note, p. 787. II FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD (IN THREE DIVISIONS) FROM THE OUTSET OF PIERPONT, BRYANT, AND THEIR ASSOCIATES, TO THE INTERVAL OF THE CIVIL WAR 1816-1860 / Pierponfs " Airs of Palestine " : Baltimore, 1816 Bryant's "Thanatopsis'" : North Amer, Review, Sept. i8iy ; "Poems " ("TAe Ages" etc.) : Cambridge, 18 21 Halleck and Drake's " The Croakers " ; N. Y. Evening Post, i8ig Mrs. Brooks's "ytidith," etc.: Bostojt, 1820 ; " Zophiel" : London, 1833 Pinkney's " Poems " ; Baltimore, 182^ Em,er son's "Nature" : Boston, i8j6 ; "Poems'" : Boston, 1846 Whittier's " Mogg Megone " ; Bostoft, i8j6 ; " Poems " : Philadelphia, 1838 Longjeclow' s " Voices of the Night " ; Cambridge, i8jg Poe's " Tamerlane," etc. : Boston, 182'j ; " Al Aaraaf" etc. : Baltimore, iSzg Holmes's " Poems " : Bostott, i8j6 3 Lowell's " A Year's Life " ; Boston, 1841 ; " Poems " ; Boston, 1844 Mrs. Howe's " Passion Flowers " : Boston, 18^4 WJiitman's " Leaves of Grass " : Brooklyn, i8jj Baker's " Calaynos, A Tragedy " ; Philadelphia, 1848 Taylor's " Ximena" : Philadelphia, 1844; "Rhymes of Travel" : New York, i84g Stoddard's " Poems " : Boston, j8j2 ; " Songs of Summer " : Boston, i8j6 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD (IN THREE DIVISIONS) DIVISION I (PIERPONT, HALLECK, BRYANT, DRAKE, MRS. BROOKS, AND OTHERS) Slojjn ^itt^ont THE FUGITIVE SLAVE'S APO- STROPHE TO THE NORTH STAR Star of the North ! though night winds drift The fleecy drapery of the sky Between thy lamp and me, I lift, Yea, lift with hope, my sleepless eye To the blue heights wherein thou dwell- est, And of a land of freedom tellest. Star of the North ! while blazing day Pours round me its full tide of light, And hides thy pale but faithful ray, I, too, lie hid, and long for night : For night ; — I dare not walk at noon, Nor dare I trust the faithless moon, — Nor faithless man, whose burning lust For gold hath riveted my chain; Nor other leader can I trust, But thee, of even the starry train; For, all the host aroiind thee burning, Like faithless man, keep turning, turning. I may not follow where they go: Star of the North, I look to thee While on I press; for well I know Thy light and truth shall set me free ; — Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth; Thy truth, that all my soul believeth. They of the East beheld the star That over Bethlehem's manger glowed; With joy they hailed it from afar, And followed where it marked the road. Till, where its rays directly fell, They found the Hope of Israel. Wise were the men who followed thus The star that sets man free from sin ? Star of the North ! thou art to us, — Who 're slaves because we wear a skin Dark as is night's protecting wing, — Thou art to us a holy thing. And we are wise to follow thee ! I trust thy steady light alone: Star of the North ! thou seem'st to me To burn before the Almighty's throne. To guide me, through these forests dim And vast, to liberty and Him. Thy beam is on the glassy breast Of the still spring', upon whose brink I lay my weary limbs to rest, And bow my parching lips to drink. Guide of the friendless negro's way, I bless thee for this quiet ray ! In the dark top of southern pines I nestled, when the driver's horn Called to the field, in lengthening lines. My fellows at the break of morn. And there I lay, till thy sweet face Looked in upon " my hiding-place." The tangled cane-brake, — where I crept For shelter from the heat of noon. And where, while others toiled, I slept Till wakened by the rising moon, — As its stalks felt the night wind free. Gave me to catch a glimpse of thee. 34 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I Star of the North ! in bright array The constellations round thee sweep, Each holding on its nightly way, Rising, or sinking in the deep. And, as it hangs in mid-heaven flaming. The homage of some nation claiming. This nation to the Eagle cowers; Fit ensign ! she 's a bird of spoil; Like worships like ! for each devours The earnings of another's toil. I 've felt her talons and her beak, And now the gentler Lion seek. The Lion at the Virgin's feet Crouches, and lays his mighty paw Into her lap ! — an emblem meet Of England's Queen and English law: - Queen, that hath made her Islands free ! Law, that holds out its shield to me ! Star of the North ! upon that shield Thou shinest ! — : O, forever shine ! The negro from the cotton-field Shall then beneath its orb recline, And feed the Lion couched before it. Nor heed the Eagle screaming o'er it ! WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves ! Will ye give it up to slaves ? Will ye look for greener graves ? Hope ye mercy still ? What 's the mercy despots feel ? Hear it in that battle-peal ! Read it on yon bristling steel 1 Ask it, — ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? Will ye to your homes retire ? Look behind you ! they 're a-fire ! And, before you, see Who have done it ! — From the vale On they come ! — And will ye quail ? — Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be ! In the God of battles trust ! Die we may, — and die we must; But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well. As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed. And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell ! THE BALLOT A WEAPON that comes down as still As snowflakes fall upon the sod ; But executes a freeman's will. As lightning does the will of God, THE EXILE AT REST His falchion flashed along the Nile ; His hosts he led through Alpine snows ; O'er Moscow's towers,. that shook the while, His eagle flag unrolled, — and froze. Here sleeps he now, alone ; — not one Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son. Hath ever seen or sought his grave. Here sleeps he now, alone ; — the star. That led him on from crown to crown, Hath sunk; — the nations from afar Gazed, as it faded and went down. He sleeps alone ; — the mountain cloud That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps his martial form in death. High is his couch ; — the ocean flood Far, far below by storms is curled. As round him heaved, while high stood, A stormy and inconstant world. he Hark ! Comes there from the Pyramids, And from Siberia's waste of snow, And Europe's fields, a voice that bids The world be awed to mourn him ? — No; — The only, the perpetual dirge, That 's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry. The mournful murmur of the surge, The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. JOHN PIERPONT THE PILGRIM FATHERS The Pilgrim Fathers, — where are they ? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore ; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day When the Mayflower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale. When the heavens looked dark, is gone,— As an angel's wing through an opening cloud Is seen, and then withdrawn. The pilgrim exile, — sainted name ! The hill whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame. In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hillside and the sea. Still lies where he laid his houseless head, — But the Pilgrim ! where is he ? The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: When summer 's throned on high. And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest. Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. The Pilgrim spirit has not fled: It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled. And still guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the May- flower lay. Shall foam and freeze no more. MY CHILD I CANNOT make him dead ! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study-chair; Yet, when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him. The vision vanishes — he is not there ! I walk my parlor floor, And through the open door I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; I 'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that — he is not there ! I thread the crowded street; A satehelled lad I meet. With the same beaming eyes and colored hair: And, as he 's running by. Follow him with my eye. Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! I know his face is hid Under the coffin-lid ; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! I cannot make him dead ! When passing by the bed. So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek it inquiringly. Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy. To Him who gave my boy. Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I 'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, '!6 FURST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I Whate'er I may be saying, I am, iu spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! Not there ! Where, then, is he ? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear; The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-ofP dress, Is but his wardrobe locked; — he is not there ! He lives ! In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there ! " Yes, we all live to God ! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear. That, in the spirit-land. Meeting at thy right hand, 'T wiU be our heaven to find that — he is there ! fit^^<^tm\t f$diikck MARCO BOZZARIS At midnight, in his guarded tent. The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent. Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring: Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades. Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Platfea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there. With arm to strike and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; That bright dream was his last; He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, " To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek ! " He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the ruountain-cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: " Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; Strike — for your altars and your fires ; Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; God — and your native land ! " They fought — like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain. They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah. And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose. Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal-chamber, Death ! Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke. And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in consumption's ghastly form. The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible — the tear. The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 37 But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wrought — Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — Come in her crowning hour — and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prisoned men; Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land ; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese^^ When the land wind, from woods of palm. And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas. Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral-weeds for thee, • Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume Like torn branch from death's leafless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remembers thee as one Long loved and for a season gone ; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babe's first lisping tells ; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace-couch and cottage-bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe. Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; And she, the mother of thy boys. Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth. Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's: One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 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 woven To tell the world their worth; 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 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 deeply That mourns a man like thee. ALNWICK CASTLE Home of the Percys' high-born race. Home of their beautiful and brave, Alike their birth and burial-place. Their cradle and their grave ! Still sternly o'er the castle gate Their house's Lion stands in state, As in his proud departed hours; And warriors frown in stone on high. And feudal banners flout the sky Above his princely towers. A gentle hill its side inclines. Lovely in England's fadeless green, To meet the quiet stream which winds Through this romantic scene As silently and sweetly still. As when at evening on that hill, While summer's wind blew soft and low, Seated by gallant Hotspur's side. 38 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I His Katherine was a happy bride A thousand years ago. Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile : Does not the succoring ivy, keeping Her watch around it, seem to smile, As o'er a loved one sleeping ? One solitary turret gray Still tells, in melancholy glory, The legend of the Cheviot day, The Percys' proudest border story. That day its roof was triumph's arch; Then rang from isle to pictured dome The light step of the soldier's march, The music of the trump and drum; And babe and sire, the old, the young. And the monk's hymn and minstrel's song, And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long. Welcomed her warrior home. Wild roses by the Abbey towers Are gay in their young bud and bloom ; They were born of a race of funeral-flowers That garlanded, in long-gone hours, A templar's knightly tomb. He died, the sword in his mailed hand. On the holiest spot of the Blessed land. Where the Cross was damped with his dying breath. When blood ran free as festal wine, Andxthe sainted air of Palestine Was thick with the darts of death. Wise wHth the lore of centuries, What tales, if there " be tongues in trees," Those giant oaks could tell, Of beings born and buried here; Tales of the peasant and the peer. Tales of the bridal and the bier, The welcome and farewell, Since on their boughs the startled bird First, in her twilight slumbers, heard The Norman's curfew-bell ! I wandered through the lofty halls Trod by the Percys of old fame, And traced upon the chapel walls Each high heroic name, — From him who once his standard set Where now, o'er mosque and minaret. Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons. To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington, A major of dragoons. That last half stanza — it has dashed From my warm lips the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed. The power that bore my spirit up Above this bank-note world — is gone; And Alnwick 's but a market town, And this, alas ! its market day, And beasts and borderers throng the way; Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, Men in the coal and cattle line; From Teviot's bard and hero land. From royal Berwick's beach of sand, From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and Newcastle-upon-Tyne. • These are not the romantic times So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, So dazzling to the dreaming boy: Ours are the days of fact, not fable, Of knights, but not of the round table, Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy: 'T is what " our President " Monroe Has called " the era of good feeling ": The Highlander, the bitterest foe To modern laws, has felt their blow, Consented to be taxed, and vote, And put on pantaloons and coat, And leave off cattle-stealing: Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, The Douglas in red herrings; And noble name and cultured land, Palace, and park, and vassal-band. Are powerless to the notes of hand Of Rothschild or the Barings. The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come: to-day the turbaned Turk (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) Is England's friend and fast ally; The Moslem tramples on the Greek, And on the Cross and altar-stone, And Christendom looks tamely on. And hears the Christian maiden shriek. And sees the Christian father die; And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven. By Europe's craven chivalry. You '11 ask if yet the Percy lives In the armed pomp of feudal state ? The present representatives Of Hotspur and his " gentle Kate " FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 39 Are some half-dozen serving-men In the drab coat of William Penn; A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling. Spoke Nature's aristocracy; And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall. From donjon-keep to turret wall, For ten-aud-sixpence sterling. BURNS TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLO- WAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AU- TUMN OF 1822 Wild Rose of AUoway ! my thanks ; Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon When first we met upon " the banks And braes of bonny Doon." Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, My sunny hour was glad and brief; We 've crossed the winter sea, and thou Art withered — flower and leaf. And will not thy death-doom be mine — The doom of all things wrought of clay — And withered my life's leaf like thine, Wild rose of AUoway ? Not so his menaory, — for his sake My bosom bore thee far and long. His — who a humbler flower could make Immortal as his song. The memory of Burns — a name That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, A nation's glory and her shame. In silent sadness up. A nation's glory — be the rest Forgot — she 's canonized his mind ; And it is joy to speak the best We may of human kind. I 've stood beside the cottage-bed Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath ; A straw-thatched roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument — that tells to Heaven The homage of earth's proudest isle To that Bard-peasant given ! Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot. Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour; And know, however low his lot, A Poet's pride and power: The pride that lifted Burns from earth, The power that gave a child of song Ascendency o'er rank and birth. The rich, the brave, the strong; And if despondency weigh down Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, Despair — thy name is written on Tiie roll of common men. There have been loftier themes than his. And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires: Yet read the names that know not death; Few nobler ones than Burns are there; And few have won a greener wreath Thau that which binds his hair. His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, — Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek; And his that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time. In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. And who hath heard his song, nor knelt Before its spell with willing knee, And listened, and believed, and felt The Poet's mastery O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers. O'er Passion's moments bright and warm. O'er Reason's dark, cold hours; On fields where brave men " die or do," In halls where rings the banquet's mirth. 40 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, From throne to cottage-hearth ? What sweet tears dim the eye unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or " Auld Lang Syne " is sung ! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above. Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise. And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, With " Logan's " banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay Of AUoway's witch-haunted wall. All passions in our frames of clay Come thronging at his call. Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, And death's sublimity. And Burns — though brief the race he ran, \ Though rough and dark the path he trod, \Lived — died — in form and soul a Man, ■l The image of his God. Through care, and pain, and want, and woe, With wounds that only death could heal. Tortures — the poor alone can know, The proud alone can feel; He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, And moved, in manhood as in youth. Pride of his fellow-men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong. Of coward and of slave; A kind, true heart, a spirit high. That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard ! his words are driven. Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven. The birds of fame have flown. Praise to the man ! a nation stood Beside his coffin with wet eyes, Her brave, her beautiful, her good, As when a loved one dies. And still, as on his funeral-day. Men stand his cold earth-couch around, With the mute homage that we pay To consecrated ground. And consecrated ground it is. The last, the hallowed home of one Who lives upon all memories. Though with the buried gone. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines. Shrines to no code nor creed confined — The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind. Sages with wisdom's garland wreathed, Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power. And warriors with their bright swords sheathed. The mightiest of the hour; And lowlier names, whose humble home Is lit by fortune's dimmer star. Are there — o'er wave and mountain come, From countries near and far; Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand. Or tr(jd the piled leaves of the West, My own green forest-land. All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, And gather feelings not of earth His fields and streams among. They linger by the Doon's low trees, And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! The poet's tomb is there. But what to them the sculptor's art. His funeral columns, wreaths and urns ? Wear they not graven on the heart The name of Robert Burns ? RED JACKET Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven, First in her files, her Pioneek of mind — FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 41 A wanderer now in other climes, has proven His love for the young land he left be- hind; And throned her in the senate-hall of na- tions, Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven- wrought; Magnificent as his own mind's creations. And beautiful as its green world of thought: And, faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted As law authority, it passed nem. con.. He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted. The most enlightened people ever known ; That all our week is happy as a Sunday In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ; And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, There 's not a bailiff or an epitaph; And furthermore — in fifty years, or sooner, We shall export our poetry and wine ; And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line. If he were with me, King of Tuscarora ! Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory, Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow — Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic, Its eye upsoaring like an eagle's wings — Well might he boast that we, the Demo- cratic, Outrival Europe, even in our kings ! For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, But that the forest tribes have bent for ages To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. Thy name is princely — if no poet's magic Could make Red Jacket grace an Eng- lish rhyme. Though some one with a genius for the tragic Hath introduced it in a pantomime — Yet it is music in the language spoken Of thine own land, and on her herald-roll ; As bravely fought for, and as proud a token As Cceur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. Thy garb — though Austria's bosom-star would frighten That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton, A more becoming evening dress than thine ; Yet 't is a brave one, scorning wind and weather And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood. As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather. Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's ? Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong As earth's first kings — the Argo's gallant sailors. Heroes in history and gods in song. Is beauty ? — Thine has with thy youth de- parted ; But the love-legends of thy manhood's years. And she who perished, young and broken- hearted. Are — but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. Is eloquence ? — Her spell is thine that reaches The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport ; And there 's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, The secret of their mastery — they are short. The monarch mind, the mystery of com- manding, The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 42 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding The hearts of millions till they move as one: Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded The road to death as to a festival; And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. Who will believe ? Not I — for in deceiving Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; I cannot spare the luxury of believing That all things beautiful are what they seem; Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a * dying hour, With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing. As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower; With look like patient Job's eschewing evil ; With motions graceful as a bird's in air; Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil That e'er clinched fingers in a captive's hair ! That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; And in thy wrath a nursing cat-o'-moun- tain Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee ! And underneath that face, like summer ocean's. Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emo- tions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear. Love — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred — of missionaries and cold water; Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; Hope — that thy wrongs may be by the Great Spirit Remembered and revenged when thou art gone; Sorrow — that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne ! 5|0^cp{) 0otim0n SOrafee FROM "THE CULPRIT FAY" THE fay's sentence The monarch sat on his judgment-seat. On his brow the crown imperial shone. The prisoner Fay was at his feet. And his peers were ranged around the throne. He waved his sceptre in the air ; He looked around and calmly spoke; His brow was grave and his eye severe, But his voice in a softened accent broke : " Fairy ! Fairy ! list and mark, Thou hast broke thine elfin chain, Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark. And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain — Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye, Thou hast scorned our dread decree, And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high, But well I know her sinless mind Is pure as the angel forms above, Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, Such as a spirit well might love; Fairy ! had she spot or taint. Bitter had been thy jiunishment. Tied to the hornet's shardy wings; Tossed on the pricks of nettle's stings; Or seven Ions: ages doomed to dwell JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 43 With the lazy worm in the wahiut-shell; Or every night to writhe and bleed Beneath the tread of the centipede; Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, Your jailer a spider huge and grim, Amid the carrion bodies to lie, Of the worm, and the bug, and the mur- dered fly; These it had been your lot to bear, Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. Now list, and mark our mild decree — Fairy, this your doom must be : " Thou shalt seek the beach of sand Where the water bounds the elfin land, Thou shalt watch the oozy brine Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moon- shine, Then dart the glistening arch below, And catch a drop from his silver bow. The water-sprites will wield their arms And dash around, with roar and rave, And vain are the woodland spirits' charms. They are the imps that rule the wave. Yet trust thee in thy single might, — If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right. Thou shalt win the warlock fight. " If the spray-bead gem be won. The stain of thy wing is washed away. But another errand must be done Ere thy crime be lost for aye; Thy flame - wood lamp is quenched and dark, Thou must re-illumine its spark. Mount thy steed and spur him high To the heaven's blue canopy; And when thou seest a shooting star. Follow it fast, and follow it far — The last faint spark of its burning train Shall light the elfin lamp again. Thou hast heard our sentence. Fay ; Hence ! to the water-side, away ! " THE FIRST QUEST The goblin marked his monarch well; He spake not, but he bowed him low, Then plucked a crimson colon-bell, And turned him round in act to go. The way is long, he cannot fly, His soiled wing has lost its power, And he winds adown the mountain high. For many a sore and weary hour. Through dreary beds of tangled fern, Through groves of nightshade dark and dern. Over the grass and through the brake. Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake ; Now o'er the violet's azure flush He skips along in lightsome mood; And now he thrids the bramble bush, Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. He has leapt the bog, he has pierced the brier, He has swum the brook, and waded the mire. Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak. And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. He had fallen to the ground outright, For rugged and dim was his onward track. But there came a spotted toad in sight. And he laughed as he jumped upon her back; He bridled her mouth with a silk-weed twist ; He lashed her sides with an osier thong"; And now through evening's dewy mist. With leap and spring they bound along. Till the mountain's magic verge is past. And the beach of sand is reached at last. Soft and pale is the moony beam. Moveless still the glassy stream, The wave is clear, the beach is bright With snowy shells and sparkling stones; The shore-surge comes in ripples light. In murmurings faint and distant moans; And ever afar in the silence deep Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap. And the bend of his graceful bow is seen — A glittering arch of silver sheen. Spanning the wave of burnished blue. And dripping with gems of the river dew. The elfin cast a glance around. As he lighted down from his courser toad, Then round his breast his wings he wound. And close to the river's brink he strode; He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer, Above his head his arms he threw. Then tossed a tiny curve in air. And headlong plunged in the waters blue. Up sprung the spirits of the waves, From sea-silk beds in their coral caves; 44 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I With snail-plate armor snatched in haste, They speed their way through the liquid waste ; Some are rapidly borne along On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong, Some on the blood-red leeches glide, Some on the stony star-fish ride, Some on the back of the lancing squab, Some on the sideling soldier-crab, And some on the jellied quarl, that flings At once a thousand streamy stings, — They cut the wave with the living oar And hurry on to the moonlight shore. To guard their realms and chase away The footsteps of the invading Fay. Fearlessly he skims along, His hope is high, and his limbs are strong, He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing, And throws his feet with a frog-like fling; His locks of gold on the waters shine, At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise, His back gleams bright above the brine. And the wake-line foam behind him lies. But the water-sprites are gathering near To check his course along the tide; Their warriors come in swift career And hem him round on every side ; On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold. The quarl's long arms are round him rolled, The prickly prong has pierced his skin. And the squab has thrown his javelin. The gritty star has rubbed him raw. And the crab has struck with his giant claw ; He liowls with rage, and he shrieks with pain. He strikes around, but his blows are vain; Hopeless is the unequal fight. Fairy ! naught is left but flight. He turned him round and fled amain With hurry and dash to the beach again; He twisted over from side to side. And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide. The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet. And with all his might he flings his feet, But the water-sprites are round him still. To cross his path and work him ill. They bade the wave before him rise; They flung the sea-fire in his eyes, And they stunned his ears with the scallop stroke. With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak. Oh ! but a weary wight was he When he reached the foot of the dog-wood tree; — Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore. He laid him down on the sandy shore; He blessed the force of the' charmed line. And he banned the water-goblins' spite. For he saw around in the sweet moonshine. Their little wee faces above the brine. Giggling and laughing with all their might At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight. THE SECOND QUEST Up, Fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower. The cricket has called the second hour, Twice again, and the lark will rise To kiss the streaking of the skies — Up ! thy charmed armor don, Thou 'It need it ere the night be gone. He put his acorn helmet on; It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down; The corselet plate that guarded his breast Was once the wild bee's golden vest; His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes, Was formed of the wings of butterflies; His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen. Studs of gold on a ground of green; And the quivering lance, which he bran- dished bright. Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; He bared his blade of the bent grass blue; He drove his spurs of the cockle seed. And away like a glance of thought he flew, To skim the heavens and follow far The fiery trail of the rocket-star. The moth-fly, as he shot in air. Crept under the leaf, and hid her there; The katy-did forgot its lay. The prowling gnat fled fast away. The fell mosquito checked his drone And folded his wings till the Fay was gone. And the wily beetle dropped his head. And fell on the ground as if he were dead ; They crouched them close in the darksome shade. They quaked all o'er with aAve and fear, JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 45 For they had felt the blue-be ut blade, And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear; Many a time on a summer's night, When the sky was clear and the moon was bright, They had been roused from the haunted ground, By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound; They had heard the tiny bugle horn, They had heard the twang of the maize- silk string, When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn, And the nettle shaft through air was borne. Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing. And now they deemed the courier ouphe Some hunter sprite of the elfin ground; And they watched till they saw him mount the roof That canopies the world around; Then glad they left their covert lair, And freaked about in the midnight air. Up to the vaulted firmament His path the fire-fly courser bent, And at every gallop on the wind, He flung a glittering spark behind; He flies like a feather in the blast Till the first light cloud in heaven is past, But the shapes of air have begun their work. And a drizzly mist is round him cast, He cannot see through the mantle murk. He shivers with cold, but he urges fast. Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade ; He lashes his steed and spurs amain, For shadowy hands have twitched the rein, And flame-shot tongues around him played, And near him many a fiendish eye Glared with a fell malignity, And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear. Came screaming on his startled ear. His wings are wet around his breast, The plume hangs dripjiing from his crest. His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare, And his ears are stunned with the thunder's blare, But he gave a shout, and his blade he dreW; He thrust before and he struck behind, Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through. And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind ; Howling the misty spectres flew, — They rend the air with frightful cries. For he has gained the welkin blue. And the land of clouds beneath him lies. Up to the cope careering swift In breathless motion fast. Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift. Or the sea-roc rides the blast. The sapphire sheet of eve is shot, The sphered moon is past, The earth but seems a tiny blot On a sheet of azure cast. O ! it was sweet in the clear moonlight, To tread the starry plain of even, To meet the thousand eyes of night. And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! But the Elfin made no stop or stay Till he came to the bank of the milky- way; Then he checked his courser's foot, And watched for the glimpse of the planet- shoot. ELFIN SONG Ouphe and goblin ! imp and sprite ! £lf of eve ! and starry Yaj ! Ye that love the moon's soft light. Hither — hither wend your way ; Twine ye in a jocund ring. Sing and trip it merrily. Hand to hand, and wing to wing, Bound the wild witch-hazel tree. Hail the wanderer again, W^ith dance and song, and lute and lyre. Pure his wing and strong his chain, And doubly bright his fairy fire. Twine ye in an air^^ round. Brush the dew and print the lea; Skip and gambol, hop and bound. Round the wild witch-hazel tree. The beetle guards our holy ground, He flies about the haunted place, And if mortal there be found. He hums in his ears and flaps his face; The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay. The owlet's eyes our lanterns be ; Thus we sing, and dance, and play, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 46 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I THE AMERICAN FLAG When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud. Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. To hear the tempest trumpiugs loud And see the lightning lances driven. When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun ! to thee 't is given To guard the banner of the free. To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke. And bid its blendings shine afar. Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! Flag o£ the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high. When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance. Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. Then shall thy meteor glances glow. And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale. Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea - Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly Li triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us. With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? (halleck and drake) THE NATIONAL PAINTINGS COL. TRUMBULL'S " THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE " Awake, ye forms of verse divine ! Painting ! descend on canvas wing, — And hover o'er my head, Design ! Your son, your glorious son, I sing; At Trumbull's name I break my sloth, To load him with poetic riches : The Titian of a table-cloth ! The Guido of a pair of breeches ! Come, star-eyed maid. Equality ! In thine adorer's praise I revel; Who brings, so fierce his love to thee, All forms and faces to a level : Old, young, great, small, the grave, the gay, Each man might swear the next his brother. And there they stand in dread array, To fire their votes at one another. How bright their buttons shine ! how straight Their coat-flaps fall in plaited grace ! LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY 47 How smooth tlie hair on every pate ! How vacant each immortal face ! And then the tints, tlie shade, the flush, (I wrong them with a strain too hum- ble), Not mighty Sherred's strength of brush Can match thy glowing hues, my Trum- bull ! Go on, great painter ! dare be dull — No longer after Nature dangle; Call rectilinear beautiful; Find grace and freedom in an angle; Pour on the red, the green, the yellow, "Paint till a horse may mire upon it," And, while I 've strength to write or bel- low, I '11 sound your praises in a sonnet. Joseph Rodman Drake THE MAN WHO FRETS AT WORLDLY STRIFE The man who frets at worldly strife Grows sallow, sour, and thin; Give us the lad whose happy life Is one perpetual grin: He, Midas-like, turns all to gold, — He smiles when others sigh. Enjoys alike the hot and cold. And laughs through wet and dry. There 's fun in everything we meet, — The greatest, worst, and best; Existence is a merry treat. And every speech a jest: Be 't ours to watch the crowds that pass Where Mirth's gay banner waves; To show fools through a quizzing-glass, And bastinade the knaves. The serious world will scold and ban. In clamor loud and hard, To hear Meigs called a Congressman, And Paulding styled a bard; But, come what may, the man 's in luck Who turns it all to glee. And laughing, cries, with honest Puck, " Good Lord ! what fools ye be." Joseph Rodman Drake ODE TO FORTUNE Fair lady with the bandaged eye ! I '11 pardon all thy scvirvy tricks, So thou wilt cut me, and deny Alike thy kisses and thy kicks: I 'm quite contented as I am. Have cash to keep my duns at bay, Can choose between beefsteaks and hara, And drink Madeira every day. My station is the middle rank. My fortune — just a competence — Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank, And twenty in the six per cents ; No amorous chains my heart enthrall, I neither borrow, lend, nor sell; Fearless I roam the City Hall, And bite my thumb at SherifP Bell. The horse that twice a week I ride At Mother Dawson's eats his fill; My books at Goodrich's abide. My country-seat is Weehawk hill; My morning lounge is Eastburn's shop, At Poppleton's I take my lunch, Niblo prepares my mutton-chop, And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch. When merry, I the hours amuse By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and Balls, And when I 'm troubled with the blues Damn Clinton and abuse canals: Then, Fortune, since I ask no prize, At least preserve me from thy frown ! The man who don't attempt to rise 'T were cruelty to tumble down. Halleck and Drake Upbia i^untleiJ dt>igourncp COLUMBUS St. Stephen's cloistered hall was proud In learning's pomp that day, For there a robed and stately crowd Pressed on in long array. A mariner with simple chart Confronts that conclave high. 48 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I While strong ambition stirs his heart, And burning thoughts of wonder part From lip and sparkling eye. What hath he said ? With frowning face, In whispered tones they speak. And lines upon their tablets trace, Which flush each ashen cheek; The Inquisition's mystic doom Sits on their brows severe. And bursting forth in visioned gloom, Sad heresy from burning tomb Groans on the startled ear. Courage, thou Genoese ! Old Time Thy splendid dream shall crown; Yon Western Hemisphere sublime, Where unshorn forests frown. The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow. The Indian hunter's bow, Bold streams untamed by helm or prow. And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou To thankless Spain shalt show. Courage, World-finder ! Thou hast need ! In Fates' unfolding scroll, Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read. That rack the noble soul. On ! on ! Creation's secrets probe, Then drink thy cup of scorn. And wrapped in fallen Caesar's robe. Sleep like that master of the globe, All glorious, — yet forlorn. THE INDIAN'S WELCOME TO THE PILGRIM FATHERS Above them spread a stranger sky ; Around, the sterile plain; The rock-bound coast rose frowning nigh; Beyond, — the wrathful main : Chill remnants of the wintry snow Still choked the encumbered soil. Yet forth those Pilgrim Fathers go To mark their future toil. 'Mid yonder vale their corn must rise In summer's ripening pride. And there the church-spire woo the skies Its sister-school beside. Perchance mid England's velvet green Some tender thought reposed. Though nought upon their stoic mien Such soft regret disclosed. When sudden from the forest wide A red-browed chieftain came, With towering form, and haughty stride, And eye like kindling flame: No wrath he breathed, no conflict sought. To no dark ambush drew, But simply to the Old World brought The welcome of the New. That welcome was a blast and ban Upon thy race unborn; Was there no seer, — thou fated Man ! — Thy lavish zeal to warn ? Thou in thy fearless faith didst hail A weak, invading band. But who shall heed thy children's wail Swept Xrom their native land ? Thou gav'st the riches of thy streams, The lordship o'er thy waves. The region of thine infant dreams And of thy father's graves, — But who to yon proud mansions, piled With wealth of earth and sea, Poor outcast from thy forest wild. Say, who shall welcome thee ? THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON FROM ST. HELENA Ho ! City of the gay ! Paris ! what festal rite Doth call thy thronging million forth, All eager for the sight ? Thy soldiers line the streets In fixed and stern array, With buckled helm and bayonet, As on the battle-day. By square, and fountain side. Heads in dense masses rise, And tower and battlement and tree Are studded thick with eyes. Comes there some conqueror home In triumph from the fight, With spoil and captives in his train, The trophies of his might ? The Arc de Triomphe glows ! A martial host is nigh; France pours in long succession forth Her pomp of chivalry. No clarion marks their way. No victor trump is blown ; LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY 49 Why march they on so silently, Told by their tread alone ? Behold, in glittering show, A gorgeous car of state ! The white - plumed steeds, in cloth of gold, Bow down beneath its weight; And the noble war-horse, led Caparisoned along. Seems fiercely for his lord to ask, As his red eye scans the throng. Who rideth on yon car ? The incense flameth high, — Comes there some demi-god of old ? No answer ! — No reply ! Who rideth on yon car ? — No shout his minions raise, But by a lofty chapel dome The muffled hero stays. A king is standing there, And with uncovered head Receives him in the name of France: Receiveth whom ? — The dead ! Was he not buried deep In island-cavern dx"ear. Girt by the sounding ocean surge ? How came that sleeper here ? Was there no rest for him Beneath a peaceful pall, That thus he brake his stony tomb, Ere the strong angel's call ? Hark ! hark ! the requiem swells, A deep, soul-thrilling strain ! An echo, never to be heard By mortal ear again. A requiem for the chief. Whose fiat millions slew, — ' The soaring eagle of the Alps, The crushed at Waterloo: — The banished who returned. The dead who rose again. And rode in his shroud the billows proud To the sunny banks of Seine. They laid him there in state, That warrior strong and bold, — The imperial crown, with jewels bright, Upon his ashes cold. While round those columns proud The blazoned banners wave. That on a hundred fields he won With the heart's-blood of the brave; And sternly there kept guard His veterans scarred and old. Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge Or purple Leipsic told. Yes, there, with arms reversed. Slow pacing, night and day, Close watch beside the coffin kept Those veterans grim and gray. A cloud is on their brow, — Is it sorrow for the dead. Or memory of the fearful strife Where their country's legions fled ? Of Borodino's blood ? Of Beresina's wail ? The horrors of that dire retreat, Which turned old History pale ? A cloud is on their brow, — Is it sorrow for the dead. Or a shuddering at the wintry shaft By Russian tempests sped ? Where countless mounds of snow Marked the poor conscripts' grave, And, pierced by frost and famine, sank The bravest of the brave. A thousand trembling lamps The gathered darkness mock, And velvet drapes his hearse, who died On bare Helena's rock; And from the altar near, A never-ceasing hymn Is lifted by the chanting priests Beside the taper dim. Mysterious one, and proud ? In the land where shadows reign. Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those Who at thy nod were slain ? Oh, when the cry of that spectral host Like a rushing blast shall be, What will thine answer be to them ? And what thy God's to thee ? 5° FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I €t^atW i§>prague FROM "CURIOSITY" THE NEWS The news ! our morning, noon, and evening cry. Day unto day repeats it till we die. For this the eit, the critic, and the fop. Dally the hour away in Tensor's shop; For this the gossip takes her daily route. And wears your threshold and your patience out J For this we leave the parson in the lurcli, And pause to prattle on the way to church ; Even when some coffined friend we gather round, We ask, " What news ? " then lay him in the ground; To this the breakfast owes its sweetest zest, For this the dinner cools, the bed remains unpressed. What gives each tale of scandal to the street, The kitchen's wonder, and the parlor's treat ? See the pert housemaid to the keyhole fly, When husband storms, wife frets, or lovers sigh; See Tom ransack your pockets for each note. And read your secrets while he cleans your coat; See, yes, to listen see even madam deign. When the smug seamstress pours her ready strain ; This wings the lie that malice breeds in fear, — No tongue so vile but finds a kindred ear; Swift flies each tale of laughter, shame, or folly. Caught by Paul Pry and carried home to Polly; On this each foul calumniator leans. And nods and hints the villany he means: Full well he knows what latent wildfire lies In the close whisper and the dark surmise ; A muffled word, a wordless wink has woke A warmer throb than if a Dexter spoke; And he, o'er Everett's periods who would nod. To track a secret, half the town has trod. O thou, from whose rank breath nor sex can save. Nor sacred virtue, nor the powerless grave, — Felon unwhipped ! than whom in yonder cells Full many a groaning wretch less guilty dwells. Blush — if of honest blood a drop remains To steal its lonely way along thy veins. Blush — if the bronze, long hardened on thy cheek, Has left a spot where that poor drop can speak; Blush to be branded with the slanderer's name. And, though thou dreadst not sin, at least dread shame. We hear, indeed, but shudder while we hear The insidious falsehood and the heartless jeer; For each dark libel that thou lickest to shape. Thou mayest from law but not from scorn escape ; The pointed finger, cold, averted eye, Insulted virtue's hiss — thou canst not fly. FICTION Look now, directed by yon candle's blaze, Where the false shutter half its trust be- trays — Mark that fair girl reclining in her bed. Its curtain round her polished shoulders spread: Dark midnight reigns, the storm is up in power ; What keeps her waking in that dreary hour ? See where the volume on her pillow lies — Claims Radcliffe or Chapone those frequent sighs ? 'T is some wild legend — now her kind ■^ye fills, And now cold terror every fibre chills; Still she reads on — in fiotion's labyrinth lost. Of tyrant fathers, and of true love crossed; Of clanking fetters, low, mysterious groans. Blood-crusted daggers, and uncoffined bones, CHARLES SPRAGUE 51 Pale, gliding ghosts, with fingers dropping gore, And blue flames dancing round a dungeon door; — Still she reads on — even though to read she fears, And in each key-hole moan strange voices hears, While every shadow that withdraws her look Glares in her face, the goblin of her book; Still o'er the leaves her craving eye is cast, On all she feasts, yet hungers for the last; Counts what remains, now sighs there are no more, And now even those half tempted to skip o'er; At length, the bad all killed, the good all pleased, Her thirsting Curiosity appeased. She shuts the dear, dear book, that made her weep. Puts out her light, and turns away to sleep. THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS Gay, guiltless pair. What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend ? Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend ? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep. Penance is not for you. Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. To you 't is given To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays, Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise. Then spread each wing. Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands Or, if ye stay To note the consecrated hour. Teach me the airy way. And let me try your envied power. Above the crowd. On upward wings could I but fly, I 'd bathe in yon bright cloud. And seek the stars that gem the sky. 'T were Heaven indeed Through fields of trackless light to soar, On nature's charms to feed. And Nature's own great God adore. THE BROTHERS We are but two — the others sleep Through death's untroubled night; We are but two — 0, let us keep The link that binds us bright. Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood That warms us is the same; That good old man — his honest blood Alike we fondly claim. We in one mother's arms were locked — Long be her love repaid ; In the same cradle we were rocked, Round the same hearth we played. Our boyish sports were all the same, Each little joy and woe; — Let manhood keep alive the flame, Lit up so long ago. We are but two — be that the band To hold us till we die; Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, Till side by side we lia 52 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 3|oi)n l^cal MEN OF THE NORTH Men of the North, look up ! There 's a tumult in your sky; A troubled glory surgmg out, Great shadows hurrying by. Your strength — where is it now ? Your quivers — are they spent ? Your arrows in the rust of death, Your fathers' bows unbent ? Men of the North, awake ! Ye 're called to from the deep ; Trumpets in every breeze — Yet there ye lie asleep. A stir in every tree ; A shout from every wave; A challenging on every side; A moan from every grave : A battle in the sky; Ships thundering through the air — Jehovah on the march — Men of the North, to prayer ! Now, now — in all your strength; There 's that before your way, Above, about you, and below. Like armies in array. Lift up your eyes, and see The changes overhead; Now hold your breath and hear The mustering of the dead. See how the midnight air With briglit commotion burns, Thronging with giant shapes. Banner and spear by turns. The sea-fog driving in. Solemnly and swift. The moon afraid — stars dropping out ■ The very skies adrift; The Everlasting God, Our Father — Lord of Love — With cherubim and seraphim All gathering above; Their stormy plumage lighted up As forth to war they go; The shadow of the Universe, Upon our haughty foe ! MUSIC OF THE NIGHT Theke are harps that complain to the pre sence of night. To the presence of night alone — In a near and unchangeable tone — Like winds, full of sound, that go whisper- ing by. As if some immortal had stooped from the sky, And breathed out a blessing — and flown ! Yes ! harps that complain' to the breezes of night. To the breezes of night alone ; Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright The sun rolls aloft in his drapery of light. Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air ! Burning crimson and gold On the cl6uds that unfold. Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides On his right and his left. So the Thun- derer rides. When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides, Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting throne ! Yes ! strings that lie still in the gushing of day, That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night; There are hautboys and flutes too, forever at play When the evening is near, and the sun is away, Breathing out the still hymn of de- light; These strings by invisible fingers are played — JOHN NEAL — WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 53 By spirits, unseen and unknown, But thick as the stars, all this music is made ; And these flutes, alone, In one sweet dreamy tone, Are ever blown, Forever and forever. The live-long night ye hear the sound, Like distant waters flowing round In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet With crowding tunes, like halls Where fountain-music falls, And rival minstrels meet. IBiniam Culkn 25rpaiit THANATOPSIS To 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 nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. And, lost each human trace, surrendering _ . .lip. . 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-ribbed 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, poured 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, pierce the Barcan wilderness. Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound. Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down 54 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou with- draw 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 fresh spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid. The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — Shall one by one be gathered 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, sustained 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. TO A WATERFOWL Whithek, midst falling dew. While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue I Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on 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 fanned. At that far height, the cold, thin atmo- sphere. Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. An^ 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 sheltered nest. Thou 'rt gone ! the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed 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 cer- tain flight. In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright. FAIREST OF THE MAIDS RURAL O FAIREST of the rural maids ! Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thine infant eye. Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child. Were ever in the sylvan wild; And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face. The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks; WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 55 Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves. Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook. The forest depths, by foot unprest, Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace, that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there. A FOREST HYMN The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. And spread the roof above them — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood. Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influence Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their ^reen tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neg- lect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least. Here in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot toward heaven. The century- living crow. Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till, at last, they stood. As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark. Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, ^These winding aisles, of human pomp or X pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast^of our vain race to change the forno"" Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fiU'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music; thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground. The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship ; — Nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs. Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in the shades. Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Almost annihilated — not a prince In all that proud old world beyond the deep E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 56 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I Of the broad sun, that delicate forest flower, With scented breath and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the^hapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this great universe. My heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on. In silence, round me — the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo ! all grow old and die — but see again. How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries. The freshness of her far beginning lies And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch enemy Death — yea, seats him- self Upon the tyrant's throne, — the sepulchre, And of the triumiahs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid them- selves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them ; — and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink And tremble and are still. O God ! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunder-bolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages; when, at thy call. Uprises the great deep and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty. And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. JUNE I GAZED upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'T were pleasant that, in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound. The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break. A cell within the frozen mould, A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it rolled. While fierce the tempests beat — Away ! — I will not think of these — Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, Earth green beneath the feet. And be the damp mould gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest. There through the long, long summer hours. The golden light should lie. And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 57 And what if cheerful shouts at noon Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon With fairy laughter blent ? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument ? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound. I know that I no more should see The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me, Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Shonld keep them lingering by my tomb. These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been. And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills. Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year. Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, bvit the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they per- ished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood. And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood. Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men. And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still. And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore. And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youth- ful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf. And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not tmmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. THE PAST Thou unrelenting Past ! Strong are the barriers round thy dark do- main. And fetters, sure and fast. Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in suUenness and gloom, 58 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 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 Ail passage save to those who hence de- part; Nor to the streaming eye Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken heart. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown; to tliee Earth's wonder and her pride Are gathered, as the waters to the sea; Labors of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith. Love, that midst grief began. And grew with years, and faltered not in death. Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered ; With thee are silent fame. Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 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 perished — no ! Kind words, remembered 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 EVENING WIND Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day. Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray. And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! Nor I alone ; a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound. Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest. Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest. Summoning from the innumerable boughs ■■ WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 59 The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that over- spread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go — but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of Nature, shall re- store. With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange. Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 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 lean O'er wandering brooks and springs ujtiseen. Or columbines, in purple dressed, 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 frost and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end. 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 see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart. THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES Ay, this is freedom ! — these pure skies Were never stained with village smoke: The fragrant wind, that through them flies, Is breathed from wastes by plough un- broke. Here, with my rifle and my steed, And her who left the world for me, I plant me, where the red deer feed In the green desert — and am free. For here the fair savannas know No barriers in the bloomy grass; Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. In pastures, measureless as air. The bison is my noble game ; The bounding elk, whose antlers tear The branches, falls before my aim. Mine are the river-fowl that scream From the long stripe of waving sedge ; The bear, that marks my weapon's gleam, Hides vainly in the forest's edge; In vain the she- wolf stands at bay; The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey. Even in the act of springing, dies. With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumbered with a train Of vines, as huge, and old, aud gray ! Free stray the lucid streams, and find No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades. Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere The hea^'y herbage of the ground, Gathers his annual harvest here, With roaring like the battle's sound, 6o FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, And smoke-streams gushing up the sky ; I meet the flames with flames again, And at my door they cower and die. Here, from dim woods, the aged past Speaks solemnly; and I behold The boundless future in the vast And lonely river, seaward rolled. Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ? Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, And trains the bordering vines, whose blue Bright clustsrs tempt me as I pass ? Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, Plunges, and bears me through the tide. Wide are these woods — I tread the maze Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day's last glimmer dies O'er woody vale and glassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night. THE BATTLE-FIELD Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands. Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah ! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave — Gushed, 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-mouthed 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-weaponed 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, crushed 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 helped 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 pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. FROM "AN EVENING REVERY " O THOU great Movement of the Universe, Or Change, or Flight of Time — for ye are one ! That bearest, silently, this visible scene Into night's shadow and the streaming rays Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me ? I feel the mighty current sweep me on. Yet know not wibither. Man foretells afar The courses of the stars; the very hour He knows when they shall darken or grow bright; Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love. Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall , From virtue ? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife With friends, or shame and general scorn of men — Which who can bear ? — or the fierce rack of pain — WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 6i Lie they within my path ? Or shall the years Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, Into the stilly twilight of my age ? Or do the portals of another life Even now, while I am glorying in my strength. Impend around me ? Oh, beyond that bourne, In the vast cycle of being which begins At that dread threshold, with what fairer forms Shall the great law of change and progress clothe Its workings ? Gently — so have good men tanght — Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new; the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven. Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines. That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. 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 crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed 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 scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched 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 shivered, 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 birthright was not given by human hands: Thou wert twin-born with man. In plea- sant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him. To tend the quiet flock and watch the L'tars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, - Didst war upon the panther and the woli His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrow on the mountain's side. Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself. Thy enemy, although of reverend look. Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, 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 vrith 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 withered bands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 62 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 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 concealed in chaplets. Oh ! not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, 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. AMERICA Oh mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 'i elder dames, thy haughty peers, "^Xdmire and hate thy blooming years. With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet; Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky. Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones, While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heart Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe. They know not, in their hate and pride. What virtues with thy children bide; How true, how good, thy graceful maids Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades ; What generous men Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; — What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the West; How faith is kept, and truth revered, • And man is loved, and God is feared, In woodland homes, And where the ocean border foams. There 's freedom at thy gates and rest For Earth's down-trodden and opprest, A shelter for the hunted head. For the starved laborer toil and bread. Power, at thy bounds. Stops and calls back his baJBBLed hounds. Oh, fair young mother ! on thy brow Shall sit a nobler grace than now. Deep in the brightness of the skies The thronging years in glory rise, And, as they fleet, Drop strength and riches at thy feet. Thine eye, with every coming hour. Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; And when thy sisters, elder born. Would brand thy name with words of scorn. Before thine eye, Upon their lips the taunt shall die. THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE Come, let ns plant the apple-tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade ; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly. As, round the sleeping infant's feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet; So plant we the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree ? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower. When we plant the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree ? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs I WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 63 To load, the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee. Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree ? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon. And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky. While children come, with cries of glee. And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple-tree. And when, above this apple-tree. The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth. Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine And golden orange of the line. The fruit of the apple-tree. The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day. And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree. Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom. And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie. The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh. In the boughs of the apple-tree. And time shall waste this apple-tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below. Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still ? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this little apple-tree ? " Who planted this old apple-tree ? " The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem. The gray-haired man shall answer them: " A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes. On planting the apple-tree." THE MAY SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT The May sun sheds an amber light On new-leaved woods and lawns between; But she who, with a smile more bright. Welcomed and watched the springing green. Is in her grave, Low in her grave. The fair white blossoms of the wood In groups beside the pathway stand; But one, the gentle and the good, Who cropped them with a fairer hand, Is in her grave. Low in her grave. Upon the woodland's morning airs The small birds' mingled notes are flung; But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs. Once bade me listen while they sung. Is in her grave, Low in her grave. That music of the early year Brings tears of anguish to my eyes; My heart aches when the flowers appear; For then I think of her who lies Within her grave. Low in her grave. THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies. And yet the monument proclaims it not. Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought The emblems of a fame that never dies, -^ 64 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I Ivy aud amaranth, in a graceful sheaf, Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. A simple name alone. To the great world unknown, Is graven here, and wild-flowers, rising round, Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, Lean lovingly against the humble stone. Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart No man of iron mould and bloody hands, Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands The passions that consumed his restless heart ; But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, Gentlest, in mien and mind, Of gentle womankind, Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame: One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made Its haunts, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. Nor deem that when the hand that mould- ers here Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, And armies mustered at the sign, as when Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East — Gray captains leading bands of veteran men And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast. Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave The victory to her who fills this grave: Alone her task was wrought. Alone the battle fought; Through that long strife her constant hope was stayed On God alone, nor looked for other aid. She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look That altered not beneath the frown they wore. And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took. Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, And calmly broke in twain The fiery shafts of pain. And rent the nets of passion from her path. By that victorious hand despair was slain. With love she vanquished hate and over- came Evil with good, in her Great Master's name. Her glory is not of this shadowy state. Glory that with the fleeting season dies; But when she entered at the sapphire gate What joy was radiant in celestial eyes ! How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, , And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung ! And He who, long before. Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore. The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet. Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; He who returning, glorious, from the grave. Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. See, as I linger here, the suu grows low; Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. Oh, gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. Brief is the time, I know. The warfare scarce begun; Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. Still flows the fount whose waters strength- ened thee, The victors' names are yet too few to fill Heaven's mighty roll ; the glorious armory. That ministered to thee, is open still. THE POET Thou, who wouldst wear the name Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind, And clothe in words of flame Thoughts that shall live withiu the gen- eral niind ! Deem not the framing of a deathless lay The pastime of a drowsy summer day. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 65 But gather all thy powers, And wreak them on the verse that thou dost weave, And in thy lonely hours, At silent morning or at wakeful eve, While the warm current tingles through thy veins, Set forth the burning words in fluent strains. No smooth array of phrase, Artfully sought and ordered though it be, Which the cold rhymer lays Upon his page with languid industry, Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed. Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read. The secret wouldst thou know To touch the heart or fire the blood at will? Let thine own eyes o'erflow; Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill; Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past. And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast. Then should thy verse appear Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought. Touch the crude line with fear, Save in the moment of impassioned thought; Then summon back the original glow, and mend The strain with rapture that with fire was penned. Yet let no empty gust Of passion find an utterance in thy lay, A blast that whirls the dust Along the howling street and dies away; But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep, Like currents journeying through the wind- less deep. Seek'st thou, in living lays, To limn the beauty of the earth and sky ? Before thine inner gaze Let all that beauty in clear vision lie ; Look on it with exceeding love, and write The words inspired by wonder and delight. Of tempests wouldst thou sing, Or tell of battles — make thyself a part Of the great tumult ; cling To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart ; Scale, with the assaulting host, the ram- part's height, And strike and struggle in the thickest fight. So shalt thou frame a lay That haply may endure from age to age, And they who read shall say: " What witchery hangs upon this poet's page ! What art is his the written spells to find That sway from mood to mood the willing mind ! " MY AUTUMN WALK On woodlands ruddy with autumn The amber sunshine lies; I look on the beauty round me. And tears come into my eyes. For the wind that sweeps the meadows Blows out of the far Southwest, Where our gallant men are fighting, And the gallant dead are at rest. The golden-rod is leaning, And the purple aster waves. In a breeze from the land of battles, A breath from the land of graves. Full fast the leaves are dropping Before that wandering breath; As fast, on the field of battle. Our brethren fall in death. Beautiful over my pathway The forest spoils are shed; They are spotting the grassy hillocks With purple and gold and red. Beautiful is the death-sleep Of those who bravely fight In their country's holy quarrel, And perish for the Right. But who shall comfort the living. The light of whose homes is gone : The bride that, early widowed, Lives broken-hearted on; 66 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I The matron whose sons are lying In graves on a distant shore; The maiden, whose promised husband Comes back from the war no more ? I look on the peaceful dwellings Whose windows glimmer in sight, With croft and garden and orchard, That bask in the mellow light; And I know that, when our couriers With news of victory come, They will bring a bitter message Of hopeless grief to some. Again I turn to the woodlands. And shudder as I see The mock-grape's blood-red banner Hung out on the cedar-tree ; And I think of days of slaughter. And the night-sky red with flames, On the Chattahoochee's meadows, And the wasted banks of the James. Oh, for the fresh spring-season. When the groves are in their prime, And far away in the future Is the frosty autumn-time ! Oh, for that better season. When the pride ef the foe shall yield. And the hosts of God and Freedom March back from the well-won field; And the matron shall clasp her first-born With tears of joy and pride ; And the scarred and war-worn lover Shall claim his promised bride ! The leaves are swept from the branches; But the living buds are there. With folded flower and foliage. To sprout in a kinder air. RosLYN, October, 1S64. THE DEATH OF SLAVERY O THOU great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years, Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield The scourge that drove the laborer to the field. And turn a stony gaze on human tears. Thy cruel reign is o'er; Thy bondmen crouch no more In terror at the menace of thine eye; For He who marks the bounds of guilty power, Long-sufEering, hath heard the captive's cry, And touched his shackles at the ap- pointed hour. And lo ! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled. A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent; Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks ; Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks Send up hosannas to the firmament ! Fields where the bondman's toil No more shall trench the soil. Seem now to bask in a serener day; The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs Of heaven with more caressing softness play. Welcoming man to liberty like theirs. A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, For the great land and all its coasts are free. Within that land wert thou enthroned of late. And they by whom the nation's laws were made, And they who filled its judgment-seats, obeyed Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate. Fierce men at thy right hand, With gesture of command. Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay; And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee not. Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought ; While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train. Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign. Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to shore. The wrath of Heaven o'ertook thee in thy pride ; WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 67 Thou sitt'st a ghastly shadow ; by thy side Thy once strong arms hang nerveless ever- more. And they who quailed but now Before thy lowering brow, Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art. And they who ruled in thine imperial name, Subdued, and standing sullenly apart, Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign. And shattered at a blow the prisoner's chain. Well was thy doom deserved; thou didst not spare Life's tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part Husband and wife, and from the mother's heart Didst wrest her children; deaf to shriek and prayer; Thy inner lair became The haunt of guilty shame; Thy lash dropped blood; the murderer, at thy side, Showed his red hands, nor feared the ven- geance due. Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide, A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, Until the measure of thy sins at last Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast ! Go now, accursed of God, and take thy place With hateful memories of the elder time, With manjr a wasting plague, and namcr less crime, And bloody war that thinned the human race; With the Black Death, whose way Through wailing cities lay, Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt — Death at the stake to those that held them not. Lo ! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room. I see the better years that hasten by Carry thee back into that shadowy past, Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast, The graves of those whom thou hast mur- dered lie. The slave-pen, through whose door Thy victims pass no more, Is there, and there shall the grim block re- main At which the slave was sold; while at thy feet Scourges and engines of restraint and pain Moulder and rust by thine eternal seat. There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes. Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times. IN MEMORY OF JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY Sleep, Motley, with the great of ancient days, Who wrote for all the years that yet shall be! Sleep with Herodotus, whose name and praise Have reached the isles of earth's remotest sea; Sleep, while, defiant of the slow decays Of time, thy glorious writings speak for thee. And in the answering heart of millions raise The generous zeal for Right and Liberty. And should the day o'ertake us when, at last, The silence — that, ere yet a human pen Had traced the slenderest record of the past, Hushed the primeval languages of men — Upon our English tongue its spell shall cast. Thy memory shall perish only then. THE FLOOD OF YEARS A MIOHTY Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years, Among the nations. How the rushing waves Bear all before them ! On their foremost edge, _ ^ And there alone, is Life. The Present there 68 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, And they who strive, and they who feast, and they Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain — Woodman and delver_with the spade — is there, And busy artisan beside his bench, And pallid student with his written roll. A moment on the mounting billow seen. The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. There groups of revellers whose brows are twined With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, And as they raise their flowing cups and touch The clinking brim to brim, are whirled be- neath The waves and disappear. I hear the jar Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth From cannon, where the advancing billow sends Up to the sight long files of armed men, That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid, Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief Sinks with his followers ; the head that wears The imperial diadem goes down beside The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. A funeral-train — the torrent sweeps away Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed Of one who dies men gather sorrowing. And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on; The wail is stifled and the sobbing group Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude. Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul ! The waters choke the shout and all is still. Lo ! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads The hands in prayer — the engulfing wave o'er takes And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed, A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows; A poet, as he paces to and fro. Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride The advancing billow, till its tossing crest Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile On her young babe that smiles to her again ; The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieks And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray To glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in hand, Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood Flings them apart: the youth goes down; the maid With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes, Waits for the next high wave to follow him. An aged man succeeds; his bending form Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen stream Gleam the white locks, and then are seen no more. Lo ! wider grows the stream — a sea-like flood Saps earth's walled cities; massive palaces Crumble before it; fortresses and towers Dissolve in the swift waters; populous realms Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes Engulfed and lost; their very languages Stifled, and never to be uttered more. I pause and turn my eyes, and looking back Where that tumultuous flood has been, I see The silent ocean of the Past, a waste Of waters weltering over graves, its shores Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hull Drop away piecemeal; battlemented walls Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 69 Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipper. There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed The graven legends, thrones of kings o'er- turned, The broken altars of fo:ijgotten gods, Foundations of old cities and long streets Where never fall of human foot is heard. On all the desolate pavement. I behold Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far witliin The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx, Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows That long ago were dust ; and all around Strewn on the surface of that silent sea Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks Shorn from dear brows by loving hands, and scrolls O'er writ ten, haply with fond words of love And vows of friendship, and fair pages flung Fresh from the printer's engine. There they lie ~ A moment, and then sink away from sight. I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, For I behold in every one of these A blighted hope, a separate history Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief That sorrowfully ended, and I think How painfully must the poor heart have beat In bosoms without number, as the blow Was struck that slew their hope and broke their peace. Sadly I turn and look befoi'e, where yet The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hopcj Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers. Or wander among rainbows, fading soon And reappearing, haply giving place To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear Shapes from the idle air — where serpents lift The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth The bony arm in menace. Further on A belt of darkness seems to tar the way Long, low, and distant, where the Life to come Touches the Life that is. The Flood of Years Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must pass That dismal barrier. What is there be- yond ? Hear what the wise and good have said. Beyond That belt of darkness, still the Years roll on More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. They gather up again and softly bear All the sweet lives that late were over- whelmed And lost to sight, all that in them was good. Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love — The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, Sages and saintly women who have made Their households happy; all are raised and borne By that great current in its onward sweep, Wandering and i-ippling with caressing waves Around green islands with the breath Of flowers that never wither. So they pass From stage to stage along the shining course Of that bright river, broadening like a sea. As its smooth eddies curl along their way They bring old friends together; hands are clasped In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms Again are folded round the child she loved And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, Or but remembered to make sweet the hour That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled Or broke are healed forever. In the room Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw The heart, and never shall a tender tie Be broken; in whose reign the eternal Change That waits on growth and action shall pro- ceed With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 70 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I %ame^