WILLIAM CUI1EN BRYANT. Contents. Biography of William Cullen Bryant 171-189 Selections from Bryant 190-210 Thanatopsis ................ 190 The Planting of the Apple-tree 193 To a Waterfowl 196 Song of Marion’s Men . 198 The Death of the Flowers 200 The Song of the Sower 202 Robert of Lincoln 208 Illustrations : — Picture of William Cullen Bryant 171 The Old Schoolhouse on the Bryant Farm 175 The House in Which Thanatopsis was Written .. 177 The Bryant House at Cummington .^... . .. 183 Price 10 cents a copy. In quantity only 6 cents a copy, postpaid. See list of Biographies of Great American Authors on third page of cover. See list of Biographies of Great English Authors on fourth page of cover. Special Request* If you find these Biographical Studies interesting reading for your pupils you will confer a favor on the publisher by recommending them to other teachers of your acquaintance. C. M. PARKER, Publisher, Taylorville, III. (Copyright, 1900, by C. M. Parker.) WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 1794 — 1878 . It is not usual for two great poets to come from the same stock, so that it is interesting to know that Bryant, as well as Longfellow, was descended from John Alden and Priscilla Mul- lens who came over in the Mayflower and whose story we may read in Longfellow’s Courtship of WILLIAM CULLLN BRYANT. - 172 - Miles Standish. There was a Stephen Bryant on the Mayflower, too, and the poet can also trace his descent directly to him. Dr. Peter Bryant, the father of the coming poet, was a physician, an active man, fond of reading, well versed in his profession, and edu- cated beyond the average man of his day. He read a great deal of poetry, and was a very ex- cellent critic. He was interested in affairs, and was for many years a member of the Massaehu - setts State legislature. He was not remarkable for his attention to business details, it is said, and did not succeed in making, or at least in keeping, any large amount of money. His wife, however, was of a different temper- ament, being economical and industrious in the extreme. Besides doing her own work, as most New England women at that time did, she wove cloth and made the clothing for her entire f am - ily, taught her children to read and write, and was a ministering angel to all the sick in the neighborhood. William Cullen was the second child of Dr. Peter Bryant and was born at Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. He was a bright child but was' delicate in health) and had a head very much larger than a young child should have. His father tried to correct this deformity by dipping the child’s head into very cold water every morning. Whether this treat- ment was the correct one or not, it is hard to pyis'dL — 173 - say, but at any rate the boy outgrew the trouble. To show that he was an unusual child his bi- ographer tells us that he walked when he was a year old, and that he knew all of his letters by the time he was eighteen months of age. He started to school at an early age in a little wood- en schoolhouse on the banks of a small stream that flowed through his grandfather’s farm. He was fond of school, and among other things he soon became a good speller. He liked geography, but he could not get on well with the catechism which he was asked to learn. He liked games, too, and it is said that he was a fast runner and played ball well, though he was not very vigor- ous or muscular. It was at the Friday afternoon exercises when he was a very little boy that he recited before the minister, the teacher and his father one of the first poems that he had written. We can imagine that it was no easy matter for the sen- sitive bashful child to stand up before these dig- nified and critical men and speak his own poem, but he did it bravely and received no little praise for it. For turning into verse the first chapter of Job, when he was about ten years old, his grandfather gave him a ninepence. He contin- ued to write verses throughout his childhood, some of which were published in the local pa- pers and brought him no little fame. When he was but thirteen he wrote a satire nearly five hundred lines in length directed — 174 — against the Embargo Act which was passed dur- ing Jefferson’s administration. His father was so proud of his young son’s efforts that in 1808 he had the poem published. It received consid- erable praise and for the work of so young a boy was truly remarkable ; it showed, as did all the poems of Bryant no matter when written, care- ful attention to both rhyme and metre. The poet was, however, not at all proud of these ear- lier verses of his when, in later years, he gave himself seriously to poetry; for they were in style unlike the simple direct method which he employed later and were so full of high-sound- ing stilted words that today they seem almost funny. Cullen was a very religious little boy and was brought up with a good deal of strictness. As soon as he could speak, he says, his mother taught him the Lord’s Prayer and other child- ren’s prayers. One of the things for which he used to pray regularly as a child was that he might be able to write poetry well. He became discouraged in this petition after a few years, however, and for some reason omitted it ; but perhaps the earnest wish to become a great poet had no small influence in helping him to ac- complish his purpose. When he was twelve years old his father de - cided to give him an education, so he sent him to his uncle, the Rev. Thomas Snell, at North Brookfield, to study Latin. In eight months he — 175 — - had learned enough of the language to enter the sophomore class at Williams College, and he was then put under the instruction of Rev. Moses Hallock at Plainfield, Massachusetts, whose house was known as the “Bread and Milk College.” Here the boy took up the study of Greek. Mr. Hallock had prepared a great many boys for college and, though he taught them well, he fed them frugally, charging but a dollar a week for board and tuition because he said he could afford to do it for that and it would not be right to charge more. f THE OED SCHOOEHOUSE ON THE BRYANT EARM. ( By permission of the New England Magazine.) In 1810, when he was sixteen years old, Bry- ant entered the sophomore class at Williams College. He was a tall, slender young man, wide-awake, quick, with a reputation for being stronger than he really was. He was attractive in his appearance at this time and was much ad- mired for his physical skill. — 176 - Williams College did not then have a high standing ; for the work of the entire institution was done by four men, one for each class, and was so poor that Bryant said the graduates of that day would scarcely have been prepared to enter college today so great has been the change. As a result the poet was not happy here ; he was dissatisfied with almost everything, and at the end of two terms he asked-to be dismissed that he might enter Yale. Much to his disappointment his father found the expense too great and decided that he could not afford to send his son to college. It was al- ways a regret to Bryant that he could not have a finished college course. He felt that many things which he might have learned, had he been permitted to go on with his course, would have been of the greatest service to him in the real work of his life. After his short experience at college he returned home. Here he read most of the books in his father’s library, not omitting the medical works of which there were a great many. He was especially fond of poetry and became thoroughly familiar with Pope, Burns and others. His time was not all taken up with reading, however. It was a poor family in which he lived and he did his share of the hard work on his father’s farm, though it must be confessed that while doing it he was planning for himself a different and a more congenial life. It was - 177 - While working on the farm, soon after his return from college, that he wrote Thanatopsis, the poem which alone would have made him a great poet. He usually showed all that he wrote to his father, hut this time he did not show it to anyone, and it was not until six years later that his father discovered it and sent it to the pub- lishers of the North American Review. The Bryant farm was not a large one, and there were four other strong active boys in the THE HOUSE IN WHICH THANATOPSIS WAS WRITTEN. {By permission of the New England Magazine .) family, so that Cullen knew that his help was not needed. He soon began to look about for another means of earning a living. It did not occur to him that he could make his living by writing, though he would have been only too glad to do so ; at first he thought of following his father’s profession, but the hardships of the life and the meager returns led his father to ad- vise a contrary course. Becoming interested in -i 78- politics, therefore, and in affairs of state he turned his attention to the study of law. ' In 1811 he entered the law office of Mr. Howe, of Worthington, a small village only a few miles from Cummington. He did not like the work he had in this office ; for he found too few com- panions and the town was small and uninterest- ing. According to.his own statement it consist- ed largely of a blacksmith shop and a cow shed. He was too shy and bashful to go much into so - ciety, so that the most of his leisure was taken up with the writing of poetry rather than with the study of law. He would have liked to go to Boston, but it was too expensive, and so after talking the matter over., with his father, they compromised, and he went instead to Bridge - water where his grandfather lived. He liked it here and studied hard. However, he did not entirely give up writing poetry. In August, 1816 , he was admitted to the Bar, and the question of where he should work at once presented itself. He still had a desire to go to Boston, but he was too bashful, and finally he decided to settle in Plainfield, a village near the town where he was born, which at the time had perhaps one hundred inhabitants. He stayed there but eight months when he concluded that it was no place to become a great lawyer and that he must go somewhere else. Leaving Plainfield for Great Barrington, he went into partnership with a young attorney whose prac- - 179 - tice was worth perhaps twelve hundred dollars a year. Within a few months he had bought out his partner and carried on the business alone. He still thought seriously of being a poet, for the work of the law was irksome to him and the methods and practices of the profession were not such as always pleased him. It was a great pleasure to him, then, when in 1817 he received a request to contribute to the North American Review. About this time his father found in a drawer of his son’s desk the manuscript of “Thanatopsis” and of “An Inscription upon the Entrance to a Wood” and was so pleased with them that he at once took them to Boston and showed them to his friend, Willard Phillips, ed- itor of the North American Review. Soon af- ter, Thanatopsis was published and Bryant was asked to contribute regularly to the North Amer- ican Review, a request which pleased him ex- ceedingly, for it seemed an opening to him into the literary world. He was married in 1821 to Miss Fairchild, a young woman whom he had met while he was visiting in Great Barrington. During his court- ship she was the subject of many poems among which was “O, Fairest of the Rural Maids.” His home life was always a happy one, his wife being the inspiration of much of his best work. In 1822 he was honored by being asked to de - liver a poem before the society of Phi Beta Kap- pa of Harvard University and for this occasion - 180 — he wrote “The Ages,” a poem which was con- sidered to be the finest ever written for that so- ciety. It was soon after published in a small volume with seven other poems. The success of this volume turned his attention strongly toward literature. He wrote more than he ever had before and in three years contributed per- haps two dozen of his best poems to the United States Literary Gazette, of New York. It was about this time that he wrote “The Death of the Flowers,” a beautiful poem in memory of his young sister who had lately died. It may be in- teresting to those who expect some day to win a fortune through their writings to know that for this poem he received the sum of two dollars. He did not give up the law immediately, be- cause he was afraid to rely wholly upon his pen ; he knew how badly writers were paid and how hard it is sometimes for them to find a market for what they have to sell. In 1825, however, he made up his mind to risk literature as a profes- sion and moved to New York where he became editor of the New York Review and Atheneum Magazine at a salary of a thousand dollars a year. This amount, he said, was twice what he had ever made as a lawyer. He enjoyed his new work thoroughly, for in the life which he lived in the city he found a freedom which he had not known in the prac- tice of law, and he became closely associated with friends who were more agreeable and with — 181 — a society more stimulating than any he had known before. While writing for the Review he increased his income by lecturing on English poetry and by teaching in one of the schools of the city. For several years, also, he gave lec- tures on mythology which were well received. Though any number of noted men, including Longfellow, Halleck, Poe, and others, contrib- uted to the Review, yet it did not prosper. It had a varied career ; it was united first with one journal and then with another in the vain hope of prolonging its life, but it finally died for want of support. While wondering what he should do, now that his connection with the Review was sever - ed, Bryant was offered a temporary position with the New York Evening Post, a position which he was glad immediately to accept. Yery soon afterward he was permanently employed and bought a one eighth interest in the paper. In 1829, on the death of Mr. William Coleman, the editor in chief of the Evening Post, Bryant was tendered the vacant position. At this time he bought a still larger interest in the paper and thus laid the foundation of his later fortune. For fifty years he worked on the Evening Post ; when he entered upon the work the American newspaper was in its infancy; when he laid down his pen, it had developed into a power far beyond anything that could reasonably have been expected of it. - 182 - In this work, as in all others that he had un- dertaken, he was no loiterer; he gave all his time to the paper; he was the first one at the office in the morning, working with the greatest care that his reputation as a poet might not suffer through what he did as a newspaper writer. His editorials were the strongest at- traction in the paper, and though they seldom filled more than a column, they were character- ized by such simplicity, directness, clearness and force, that they attracted a wide class of readers. In 1831 he published a second volume of poems. He brought out this edition also in England where he was under very great obliga- tions to W ashington Irving. Mr. Irving brought the poems before the attention of a reputable publisher, and by writing a short introduction to the work succeeded in attracting considerable attention from the English people. Mr. Bryant never realized a large amount, however, from this publication, three hundred dollars be- ing perhaps a generous estimate of his returns. One of the great delights of Bryant’s life was to travel. The first long journey that he took was in 1832 when he came to western Illinois to visit his brother John. It was at the time of the Black Hawk War, and he met, on his jour- ney, a tall awkward looking young man who was in charge of a company of troops marching to the scene of conflict, and who interested the - 183 - poet by his droll and characteristic stories. It was the young Abraham Lincoln whom he did not see again until thirty years later when, as a candidate for the presidency, he addressed a po- litical meeting over which Bryant presided. It was at the end of this same year that Bry- ant made his first trip to Europe, remaining abroad two years and visiting France, Italy and Germany. He was charmed by the beauty of the landscape of France and attracted most of all in Italy by the clear sky. THE BRYANT HOUSE AT CUMMINGTON. (. By permission of The New England Magazine.) On his return from Europe he found the Ev- ening Post in a very bad financial state. It was necessary for him to give his whole time and at- tention to the management of the paper so that he had no time for poetry, little opportunity for leisure, and could concern himself with nothing but work. His whole efforts were directed to- ward getting the paper on a paying basis again He lived simply and worked as hard as he was able . He was often discouraged during the strug- gles of these years, and would have been glad - 184 — to give up newspaper work and to devote him- self to poetry, "but his affairs were in such con- dition that this w r as impossible . He even thought at one time of coming to Illinois where his broth- er John lived, to try his fortune in what was then a very undeveloped country. He stuck to it, however, and in a few years succeeded in re- covering the ground he had lost while in Eng- land, so that the paper later yielded him an in- come of from ten thousand to seventy thousand dollars a year. From the time when he was a little boy, ex- ploring the hills around his native town, he had loved nature and the country, so that in 1843 he bought for himself a country house at Roslyn, a little village on Long Island overlooking the Sound. It was a beautiful mansion surrounded by a small tract of land and overhung on every side by huge trees. Here he managed for two or three days of every week to steal away from the toil of the city and to rest quietly at his own fireside. This house might have been called the “Poet’s House” because in it he never al- lowed himself to do any work for the newspa- per with which he was connected, but concern- ed himself only with poetry which he loved best. When asked once to seek the quiet of Roslyn to prepare an article for the New York Evening Post, he resented the suggestion strongly and insisted upon doing it in the office where all his work for the newspaper had been executed. - 185 — It was a very simple life that he lived. While at Great Barrington he had found himself in frail health ; he had not inherited a vigorous constitution from his ancestors, and when he went to New York he found it necessary to give up all stimulants, even tea and coffee. In order to keep himself in good health he took regular exercise, ordinarily an hour and a half every morning before breakfast. He rose at five, or at the latest at half past five in the morning, ate the simplest food, did a great deal of manual la- bor, and so prolonged his life considerably be- yond the allotted three -score and ten years. Even up to the time of his death he continued the most vigorous exercise every day. During his residence in New York he lived quite three miles from his place of business, and until he gave up work entirely he insisted upon walking this distance twice a day. He did not practice law long enough to become noted as an attorney, yet he did develop, even in the few years that he was in the work, a dis- tinct ability as an orator. He was eloquent and was much in demand as a speaker. On the death of Cooper, of Irving, and of Halleck, he delivered addresses in commemoration of these literary men that are models of style . He did not often try to speak extemporaneously, but when he had time wrote out his addresses and com- mitted them to memory. He said that although he had relied upon his memory a great many - 136 - times that it never failed him but once, and that was near the close of his life when he was tired by hard work. Though he had been brought up a Federalist, politically Bryant was a Democrat. He was never a violent abolitionist, but when it became necessary for him to write upon the subject of slavery, he attacked it with vigor and openness. He was always outspoken and never let his busi- ness interests interfere with the full expression of what he thought to be right. Though for more than a half century before the public as an editor, he never held a public office worthy of the name. True, he had been tithing -man and justice of the peace at Great Barrington, but these offices were too insignificant to men- tion. He did not care for public office, but felt rather that hi s great work was to influence pub - lie opinion. In characterizing himself he said that the three most irksome things for him were to owe money, to ask a favor, and to seek an acquaintance. In 1864, when he was seventy years of age, the Century Club of New York, of which he was a member, gave a dinner in his honor. Ban - croft, the historian, presided, and a large num- ber of prominent men of the country were pres- ent. Poems were read by Holmes, Bayard Tay- lor, and others, and congratulations were re- ceived from Whittier, Lowell, Longfellow, Ed- ward Everett, and scores of other great Ameri- — 187 - cans. When he was eighty years of age there was a general celebration of the event all over the country, and he was presented with a costly vase in commemoration of his great literary at- tainments. In 1866, hoping that the health of his wife might be benefited by the change, he bought the old farm at Cummington on which he had been born, and fixed it up beautifully. It was with- out avail, for the change did not benefit Mrs. Bryant and she died on July 27th of that year. Her death was a severe loss to him for she had been his most helpful critic and his constant companion. She was the only intimate friend he ever had, he said, and when she was gone he had no other. After' the death of Mrs. Bryant the poet felt the need of some active work to keep his mind employed and he turned to the translation of Homer. He worked regularly at this transla- tion, doing at least forty lines a day. He was occupied upon the Iliad until 1870 when the work was published. Although he recognized the fact that he was perhaps too old a man ever to finish it, he immediately began upon a trans- lation of the Odyssey. The fact of his great age and his realization of the few years that were left to him, caused him to hurry more than he would have been likely otherwise to do, so that within less than two years he had completed theOd- dyssey. It was published in an attractive. form, — 188 — and from this translation, together with the first one that he had made, he realized more profit than had ever come to him, perhaps, from all the rest of his poetry. Within a short time his profits accruing from the royalty which he re- ceived from these translations amounted to more than seventeen thousand dollars. In 1876 he was asked to compose a poem for the opening exercises of the Centennial Exhibi- tion at Philadelphia. He realized that he was not a poet to write for occasions; his inspira- tions did not come to him always at his bidding. In addition to this fact, too, he thought himself too old to assume so great a responsibility, and he declined the invitation. The poem was af- terward written by Bayard Taylor. Bryant continued to work almost up to the time of his death . On May 29, 1878, he delivered an ad - dress at the unveiling of a statute of Mazzini, the Italian patriot. He was tired, but insisted on walking some distance with his friend Mr. James Grant Wilson. As they were ascending the steps of the latter’s house he became suddenly dizzy and fell, striking his head on the stone step. He lingered for two weeks and died on June 12, 1878. It was the ending of a noble simple life. He had been a man who had never sought notoriety ; all the fame that ever came to him came with- out his working for it . He was pure and stead - fast in his character, virtuous, and reliable in - 189 - all that he did, and his life might well be held up as an example of how men ought to live. The ceremonies were in All Soul’s Church where he had worshiped for many years, and in the beautiful month of June, as he had wished for himself, they laid him to rest in the grave- yard at Roslyn. As a poet Bryant, as much as any American, desired constantly to teach a moral lesson. His purpose was to elevate his fellowmen and to make them better by keeping before them high ideals. Sometimes we feel that he has been too insistent in his purpose and might better have been content simply to please rather than to instruct. He is a meditative poet, and frequent- ly these meditations have to do with death. So often is this true that he has sometimes been called the Poet of Mortality, and it has been urged that the most he has written may well be named Thanatopsis, — a view of death. But he shows us other moods ; his verse is filled with a love of nature and not seldom runs over with the joy of doing right. He wrote very few long poems and he showed a maturity of thought at eighteen years that had not weakened at eighty. The first great poet of America he will always re- main among her most noted literary figures. Thomas Arkle Clark, University of Illinois. 190 - SELECTIONS FROM WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THANATOPSIS. I. 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. II. 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 teaching, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depth of air — Comes a still voice : III. “Yet a few days, and thee The all -beholding sun shall see no more - 191 - 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 up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. IY. “The oak Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mold. 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 segrs 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 m ajes ty, and the complaining brooks [all, Thatmake the meadows green, and, poured round Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, - 192 - 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. VI. “All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods, Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save its own dashings : yet the dead are there ; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone. VII. “So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth, and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men — The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, - 193 - And the sweet babe, and the gray -headed man — Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. VIII. “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!” THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. I. Come, let us 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 mold 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. II. What plant we in this apple-tree? B uds , 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. III. What plant we in this apple -tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 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, Fl owe rs for the sick girl’s silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree. IY. What plant we in this apple-tree? Frui ts 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. Y. And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright. And winds go howling through the night. - 195 - 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. YI. 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. VII. 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. Y III. And time shall waste this apple-tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, — 196 — 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? IX. “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 ; ’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, On planting the apple-tree.” TO A WATERFOWL. I. Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? II. 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. - 197 - III. 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? IY. There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — The desert and the illimitable air — Lone wandering, but not lost. Y. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. YI. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest. YII. 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. YIII. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. - 198 - SONG of Marion’s men. I. Our band is few, but true and tried, our leader frank and bold : The British soldier trembles when Marion’s name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, our tent the cypress -tree : We know the forest round us, as seamen know the sea; We know its walls of thorny vines, its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands within the dark morass. II. Woe to the English soldiery that little dread us near ! On them shall light at midnight a strange and sudden fear ; When, waking to their tpnts on fire, they grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us are beat to earth again ; And they who fly in terror deem a mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands upon the hol- low wind. III. Then sweet the hour that brings release from danger and from toil ! - 199 - We talk the battle over and share the battle’s spoil ; The woodland rings with laugh and shout, as if a hunt were’up, And woodland flowers are gathered to crown the soldier’s cup. With merry songs we mock the wind that in the pine -top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly on beds of oaken leaves. IV. Well knows the fair and friendly moon the band that Marion leads, — The glitter of their rifles, the scampering of their steeds. ’Tis life to guide the fiery barb across the moon- lit plain ; ’Tis life to feel the night -wind that lifts his tossing mane : A moment in the British camp, — a moment, and away Back to the pathless forest before the peep of day. Y. Grave men there are by broad Santee, grave men with hoary hairs,— Their hearts are all with Marion, for Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band with kindliest welcoming, — 200 — With smiles like those of summer and tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, and lay them down no more, Till we have driven the Briton forever from our shore. THE DEATH OE THE FLO WEES. I. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and mead- ows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rab- bit’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. II. 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. - 201 - The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. III. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier -rose and the orchis died amid the summer’s glow; But on the hill the golden -rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in au- tumn 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. IY. 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. — 202 — Y. And then I think of one who in her youthful 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 unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. / , THE SONG OF THE SOWER. I. The maples redden in the sun^jiA In autumn gold the beeches stand ; Rest, faithful plow ! thy work is done Upon the teeming land. Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly On every breath that sweeps the sky, The fresh dark acres furrowed lie, And ask the sower’s hand. II. Loose the tired steer, and let him go To pasture where the gentians blow ; And we who till the grateful ground, Fling we the golden shower around. — 203 — III. Fling wide the generous grain ; we fling O’er the dark mold the green of spring. For thick the emerald blades shall grow When first the March winds melt the snow, And to the sleeping flowers, below, The early bluebirds sing. IV. Fling wide the grain ; we give the fields The ears that nod in summer gale, The shining stems that summer gilds, The harvest that o’erfiows the vale, And swells, an amber sea, between The full -leaved woods — it’s shores of green. V. Hark ! from the murmuring clods I hear Glad voices of the coming year — The song of him who binds the grain, The shout of those that load the wain , u - And from the distant grange there comes The clatter of the thresher’s flail, And steadily the millstone hums Down in the willowy vale. VI. And strew with free and joyous sweep The seed upon the expecting soil, For hence the plenteous year shall heap The garners of the men who toil. d Strew the bright seed for those who tear The matted sward with spade and share ; V - 204 — And those whose sounding axes gleam Beside the lonely forest stream Till its broad banks lie bare ; And him who breaks the quarry ledge With hammer blows plied quick and strong, And him who with the steady sledge Smites the shrill anvil all day long. VII. Sprinkle the furrow’s even trace For those whose toiling hands uprear The roof -trees of our swarming race, By grove and plain, by stream and mere; Who forth, from crowded city, lead The lengthening street, and overlay Green orchard -plot and grassy mead With pavement of the murmuring way. Cast with full hands, the harvest cast, For the brave men that climb the mast, When to the billow and the blast, It swings and stoops, with fearful strain, And bind the fluttering mainsail fast, Till the tossed bark shall sit again Safe as a sea-bird on the main. VIII. Fling wide the grain for those who throw The clanking shuttle to and fro, In the long row of humming rooms, And into ponderous masses wind The web that, from a thousand looms, Comes forth to clothe mankind. t -S05- Strew, with free sweep, the grain for them, By whom the busy thread Along the garment’s even hem And winding seam is led ; A pallid sisterhood, that keep The lonely lamp alight, In strife with weariness and sleep, Beyond the middle night. Large part he theirs in what the year Shall ripen for the reaper here. IX. Still strew, with joyous hand, the wheat On the soft mold beneath our feet, For even now I seem To hear a sound that lightly rings From murmuring harp and viol’s strings, As in a summer dream. X. Scatter the wheat for shipwrecked men, Who, hunger-worn, rejoice again In the sweet safety of the shore, And wanderers, lost in woodlands drear, Whose pulses bound with joy to hear The herd’s light bell once more. XI. Freely the golden spray be shed For him whose heart, when night comes down On the close alleys of the town, Is faint for lack of bread. In chill roof -chambers, bleak and bare, 1 — 206 — Or the damp cellar’s stifling air, She who now sees, in mute despair, Her children pine for food, Shall feel the dews of gladness start To lids long tearless, and shall part The sweet loaf with a grateful heart, Among her thin, pale brood. Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till ! Oh, for thy famished children, fill, Where’er the sower walks, Fill the rich ears that shade the mold With grain for grain, a hundredfold, To bend the sturdy stalks ! XII. Strew silently the fruitful seed, As softly o’er the tilth ye tread, For hands that delicately knead The consecrated bread — The mystic loaf that crowns the board, When, round the table of their Lord, Within a thousand temples set, In memory of the bitter death Of Him who taught at Nazareth, His followers are met. And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet, As of the Holy One they think, The glory of whose rising yet Makes bright the grave’s mysterious brink. XIII. Brethren, the sower’s task is done ; The seed is in its winter bed : - 207 - Now let the dark -brown mold be spread, To hide it from the sun, And leave it to the kindly care Of the still earth and brooding air, As when the mother, from her breast, Lays the hushed babe apart to rest, And shades its eyes, and waits to see How sweet its waking smile will be. The tempest now may smite, the sleet All night on the drowned furrow beat, And winds that, from the cloudy hold, Of winter breathe the bitter cold, Stiffen to stone the mellow mold, Yet safe shall lie the wheat; Till, out of heaven’s unmeasured blue, Shall walk again the genial year, To wake with warmth and nurse with dew The germs we lay to slumber here. XI Y. Oh, blessed harvest yet to be! Abide thou with the Love that keeps, In its warm bosom, tenderly, The Life which wakes and that which sleeps. The Love that leads the willing spheres Along the unending track of years, And watches o’er the sparrow’s nest, Shall brood above thy winter rest, And raise thee from the dust, to hold Light whisperings with the winds of May, And fill thy spikes with living gold, — 208 — From summer’s yellow ray; Then, as thy garners give thee forth, On what glad errands shalt thou go, Wherever, o’er the waiting earth, Roads wind and rivers flow ! The ancient East shall welcome thee To mighty marts beyond the sea, And they who dwell where palm -groves sound To summer winds the whole year round, Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore, The sails that bring thy glistening store. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. I. Merrily swinging on briar and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain -side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. II. Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding -coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note : Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, - 209 - Look, what a nice new coat is mine ; Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. III. Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. IY. Modest and shy as a nun is she ; One weak chirp is her only note ; Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat ; Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Never was I afraid of man, Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Y. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight : There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might : Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nice good wife that never goes out, - 210 - Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, cliee, chee. VI. Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food ; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood ; Bob -o’ -link, bob -o’ -link, Spink, spank, spink, This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. VII. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care, Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air : Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nobody knows but my mate and I, Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. VIII. Summer wanes : the children are grown ; Fun and frolic no more he knows ; Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone ; Off he flie§, and we sing as he goes : Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. wmn 0. OF I. U1BM BIOGRAPHIES OF GREAT AMERICAN AUTHORS. Written especially for School Reading by Thomas Arkle Clark of the University of Illinois. Description and Size. Each booklet contains 32 to 40 pages, neatly printed in clear, readable type and bound in attractive paper cover. Contents. The first eighteen to twenty pages of each booklet gives an interesting biographical sketch of the author, written es- pecially for school reading. The remaining pages contain from three to six noted selections from the author to be studied in connection with the biographical sketch. Illustrations. Each booklet contains three or more appropriate illus- trations, such as a picture of the author, birthplace, home, etc. Some of the pictures are of historic interest. List of Biographies of Great American Authors. To date biographies of the following American authors have been published, each in a separate booklet:— No. 1. John Greenleaf Whittier; No. 2. Washington Irving; No. 3. Daniel Webster; No. 4. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; No. 5. William Cullen Bryant; No. 6. Nathaniel Hawthorne; No. 7. Edgar Allan Poe; No. 8. James Fenimore Cooper; No. 9. Oliver Wendell Holmes; No. 10. Benjamin Franklin; No. 11. James Russell Lowell; No. 12. Ralph Waldo Emerson; No. 13. Alice and Phoebe Cary. Biographies of other American author® will be added to above list later. Price. Single copy of any Biography, 10 cents, postpaid; in quantity of five or more, only 6 cents a copy, postpaid. Send all orders direct to C. M. PARKER, Publisher, Taylorville, Illinois. (See list of Biographies of English Author® on next page.) ' ' : - '■ - -■ ■ 1 : <$i BIOGRAPHIES OF GREAT ENGLISH AUTHORS. Written especially for school reading by Thomas Arkle Clark of the University of Illinois. Description and Size. Each booklet contains 32 pages, neatly printed in clear, readable type, and bound in attractive paper cover. Contents. The first eighteen to twenty pages of each booklet gives an interesting biographical sketch of the author, written es- pecially for school reading. The remaining pages contain from three to six noted selections from the author, to be studied in connection with the biographical sketch, Illustrations. Each booklet contains three or more appropriate illus- trations, such as a picture of the author, birthplace, etc. Some of the pictures are of historic interest. List of Biographies of Great English Authors. There are twelve booklets in this series as follows No. 1. Daniel Defoe; No. 2. Joseph Addison; No. 3. Oliver Goldsmith; No. 4. Robert Southey; No. 5. William Wordsworth; No. 6. Robert Bums; No. 7. John Keats; No. 8. Percy Bysshe Shelley ; No. 9. Sir Walter Scott; No. to. Charles Lamb; No. 11. Alfred Tennyson; No. 12. Charles Dickens. Price. Single copy of any Biography, 10 cents, postpaid; in quantity of five or more, only 6 cents a copy, postpaid. Send all orders direct to C. M. PARKER, Publisher, Taylorville, Illinois. (See list of Biographies of American Authors on preceding page.)