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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3650-h.zip b/3650-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..be0c07f --- /dev/null +++ b/3650-h.zip diff --git a/3650-h/3650-h.htm b/3650-h/3650-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..55e4805 --- /dev/null +++ b/3650-h/3650-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14491 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Selections from American Poetry, by Various Authors + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Selections From American Poetry, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Selections From American Poetry + +Author: Various + +Editor: Margeret Sprague Carhart + +Release Date: June 17, 2009 [EBook #3650] +Last Updated: January 8, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETRY *** + + + + +Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETRY + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Various Authors + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h4> + With Special Reference to Poe, Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + Edited by Margaret Sprague Carhart + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> SELECTIONS OF AMERICAN POETRY </a><br /><br /> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ANNE BRADSTREET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> CONTEMPLATIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE DAY OF DOOM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> PHILIP FRENEAU </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> TO A HONEY BEE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> EUTAW SPRINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> FRANCIS HOPKINSON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> JOSEPH HOPKINSON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> HAIL COLUMBIA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> ANONYMOUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> A FABLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> TIMOTHY DWIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> LOVE TO THE CHURCH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> SAMUEL WOODWORTH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THANATOPSIS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE YELLOW VIOLET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> TO A WATERFOWL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> GREEN RIVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> THE WEST WIND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> "I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG" </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> A FOREST HYMN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> THE GLADNESS OF NATURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> SONG OF MARION'S MEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> THE CROWDED STREET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> THE SNOW-SHOWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> ROBERT OF LINCOLN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> THE POET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> ABRAHAM LINCOLN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> FRANCIS SCOTT KEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> THE AMERICAN FLAG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> THE CULPRIT FAY (Selection) </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> FITZ-GREENE HALLECK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> MARCO BOZZARIS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> JOHN HOWARD PAYNE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> HOME, SWEET HOME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> EDGAR ALLAN POE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> TO HELEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> ISRAFEL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> LENORE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> THE COLISEUM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> THE HAUNTED PALACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> TO ONE IN PARADISE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> EULALIE. —A SONG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> THE RAVEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> TO HELEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> ANNABEL LEE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> THE BELLS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> ELDORADO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> HYMN TO THE NIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> A PSALM OF LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> THE SKELETON IN ARMOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> THE RAINY DAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> THE ARROW AND THE SONG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> THE DAY IS DONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> THE BUILDERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> SANTA FILOMENA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> SANDALPHON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> THE LANDLORD'S TALE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> THE SICILIAN'S TALE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> PROEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> THE FROST SPIRIT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> SONGS OF LABOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> THE LUMBERMEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> BARCLAY OF URY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> ALL'S WELL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> RAPHAEL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> SEED-TIME AND HARVEST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> MAUD MULLER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> BURNS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> THE HERO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> THE ETERNAL GOODNESS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> THE MAYFLOWERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> RALPH WALDO EMERSON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> GOOD-BYE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> EACH AND ALL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> THE PROBLEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> THE RHODORA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0104"> THE HUMBLE—BEE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> THE SNOW-STORM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> FABLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> FORBEARANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> CONCORD HYMN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> BOSTON HYMN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> THE TITMOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> HAKON'S LAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> FLOWERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> IMPARTIALITY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> MY LOVE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> THE FOUNTAIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> BIGLOW PAPERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0121"> II. THE COURTIN' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> III. SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> A FABLE FOR CRITICS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> OLD IRONSIDES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> THE LAST LEAF </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> MY AUNT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> CONTENTMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> THOMAS BUCHANAN READ </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0133"> STORM ON ST. BERNARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0134"> DRIFTING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0135"> WALT WHITMAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0136"> PIONEERS! O PIONEERS! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0137"> O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> NOTES </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + SELECTIONS OF AMERICAN POETRY + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + If we define poetry as the heart of man expressed in beautiful language, + we shall not say that we have no national poetry. True, America has + produced no Shakespeare and no Milton, but we have an inheritance in all + English literature; and many poets in America have followed in the + footsteps of their literary British forefathers. + </p> + <p> + Puritan life was severe. It was warfare, and manual labor of a most + exhausting type, and loneliness, and devotion to a strict sense of duty. + It was a life in which pleasure was given the least place and duty the + greatest. Our Puritan ancestors thought music and poetry dangerous, if not + actually sinful, because they made men think of this world rather than of + heaven. When Anne Bradstreet wrote our first known American poems, she was + expressing English thought; "The tenth muse" was not animated by the life + around her, but was living in a dream of the land she had left behind; her + poems are faint echoes of the poetry of England. After time had identified + her with life in the new world, she wrote "Contemplations," in which her + English nightingales are changed to crickets and her English gilli-flowers + to American blackberry vines. The truly representative poetry of colonial + times is Michael Wigglesworth's "Day of Doom". This is the real heart of + the Puritan, his conscience, in imperfect rhyme. It fulfills the first + part of our definition, but shows by its lack of beautiful style that both + elements are necessary to produce real poetry. + </p> + <p> + Philip Freneau was the first American who sought to express his life in + poetry. The test of beauty of language again excludes from real poetry + some of his expressions and leaves us a few beautiful lyrics, such as "The + Wild Honeysuckle," in which the poet sings his love of American nature. + With them American poetry may be said to begin. + </p> + <p> + The fast historical event of national importance was the American + Revolution. Amid the bitter years of want, of suffering, and of war; few + men tried to write anything beautiful. Life was harsh and stirring and + this note was echoed in all the literature. As a result we have narrative + and political poetry, such as "The Battle of the Kegs" and "A Fable," + dealing almost entirely with events and aiming to arouse military ardor. + In "The Ballad of Nathan Hale," the musical expression of bravery, pride, + and sympathy raises the poem so far above the rhymes of their period that + it will long endure as the most memorable poetic expression of the + Revolutionary period. + </p> + <p> + Poetry was still a thing of the moment, an avocation, not dignified by + receiving the best of a man. With William Cullen Bryant came a change. He + told our nation that in the new world as well as in the old some men + should live for the beautiful. Everything in nature spoke to him in terms + of human life. Other poets saw the relation between their own lives and + the life of the flowers and the birds, but Bryant constantly expressed + this relationship. The concluding stanza of "To a Waterfowl" is the most + perfect example of this characteristic, but it underlies also the whole + thought of his youthful poem "Thanatopsis" (A View of Death). If we could + all read the lives of our gentians and bobolinks as he did, there would be + more true poetry in America. Modern thinkers urge us to step outside of + ourselves into the lives of others and by our imagination to share their + emotions; this is no new ambition in America; since Bryant in "The Crowded + Street" analyzes the life in the faces he sees. + </p> + <p> + Until the early part of the nineteenth century American poetry dealt + mainly with the facts of history and the description of nature. A new + element of fancy is prominent in Joseph Rodman Drake's "The Culprit Fay." + It dances through a long narrative with the delicacy of the fay himself. + </p> + <p> + Edgar Allan Poe brought into our poetry somber sentiment and musical + expression. Puritan poetry was somber, but it was almost devoid of + sentiment. Poe loved sad beauty and meditated on the sad things in life. + Many of his poems lament the loss of some fair one. "To Helen," "Annabel + Lee" "Lenore," and "To One In Paradise" have the theme, while in "The + Raven" the poet is seeking solace for the loss of Lenore. "Eulalie—A + Song" rises, on the other hand to intense happiness. With Poe the sound by + which his idea was expressed was as important as the thought itself. He + knew how to make the sound suit the thought, as in "The Raven" and "The + Bells." One who understands no English can grasp the meaning of the + different sections from the mere sound, so clearly distinguishable are the + clashing of the brass and the tolling of the iron bells. If we return to + our definition of poetry as an expression of the heart of a man, we shall + find the explanation of these peculiarities: Poe was a man of moods and + possessed the ability to express these moods in appropriate sounds. + </p> + <p> + The contrast between the emotion of Poe and the calm spirit of the man who + followed him is very great. In Henry Wadsworth Longfellow American poetry + reached high-water mark. Lafcadio Hearn in his "Interpretations of + Literature" says: "Really I believe that it is a very good test of any + Englishman's ability to feel poetry, simply to ask him, 'Did you like + Longfellow when you were a boy?' If he eats 'No,' then it is no use to + talk to him on the subject of poetry at all, however much he might be able + to tell you about quantities and metres." No American has in equal degree + won the name of "household poet." If this term is correctly understood, it + sums up his merits more succinctly than can any other title. + </p> + <p> + Longfellow dealt largely with men and women and the emotions common to us + all. Hiawatha conquering the deer and bison, and hunting in despair for + food where only snow and ice abound; Evangeline faithful to her father and + her lover, and relieving suffering in the rude hospitals of a new world; + John Alden fighting the battle between love and duty; Robert of Sicily + learning the lesson of humility; Sir Federigo offering his last possession + to the woman he loved; Paul Revere serving his country in time of need; + the monk proving that only a sense of duty done can bring happiness: all + these and more express the emotions which we know are true in our own + lives. In his longer narrative poems he makes the legends of Puritan life + real to us; he takes English folk-lore and makes us see Othere talking to + Arthur, and the Viking stealing his bride. His short poems are even better + known than his longer narratives. In them he expressed his gentle, sincere + love of the young, the suffering, and the sorrowful. In the Sonnets he + showed; that deep appreciation of European literature which made + noteworthy his teaching at Harvard and his translations. + </p> + <p> + He believed that he was assigned a definite task in the world which he + described as follows in his last poem: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "As comes the smile to the lips, + The foam to the surge; + + So come to the Poet his songs, + All hitherward blown + From the misty realm, that belongs + To the vast unknown. + + His, and not his, are the lays + He sings; and their fame + Is his, and not his; and the praise + And the pride of a name. + + For voices pursue him by day + And haunt him by night, + And he listens and needs must obey, + When the Angel says: 'Write!' +</pre> + <p> + John Greenleaf Whittier seems to suffer by coming in such close proximity + to Longfellow. Genuine he was, but his spirit was less buoyant than + Longfellow's and he touches our hearts less. Most of his early poems were + devoted to a current political issue. They aimed to win converts to the + cause of anti-slavery. Such poems always suffer in time in comparison with + the song of a man who sings because "the heart is so full that a drop + overfills it." Whittier's later poems belong more to this class and some + of them speak to-day to our emotions as well as to our intellects. "The + Hero" moves us with a desire to serve mankind, and the stirring tone of + "Barbara Frietchie" arouses our patriotism by its picture of the same type + of bravery. In similar vein is "Barclay of Ury," which must have touched + deeply the heart of the Quaker poet. "The Pipes of Lucknow" is dramatic in + its intense grasp of a climactic hour and loses none of its force in the + expression. We can actually hear the skirl of the bagpipes. Whittier knew + the artiste of the world and talked to us about Raphael and Burns with + clear-sighted, affectionate interest. His poems show varied + characteristics; the love of the sterner aspects of nature, modified by + the appreciation of the humble flower; the conscience of the Puritan, + tinged with sympathy for the sorrowful; the steadfastness of the Quaker, + stirred by the fire of the patriot. + </p> + <p> + The poetry of Ralph Waldo Emerson is marked by serious contemplation + rather than by warmth of emotional expression. In Longfellow the appeal is + constantly to a heart which is not disassociated from a brain; in Emerson + the appeal is often to the intellect alone. We recognize the force of the + lesson in "The Titmouse," even if it leaves us less devoted citizens than + does "The Hero" and less capable women than does "Evangeline." He reaches + his highest excellence when he makes us feel as well as understand a + lesson, as in "The Concord Hymn" and "Forbearance." If we could all write + on the tablets of our hearts that single stanza, forbearance would be a + real factor in life. And it is to this poet whom we call unemotional that + we owe this inspiring quatrain: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "So nigh is grandeur to our dust, + So near is God to man, + When duty whispers low, Thou must, + The youth replies, I can!" +</pre> + <p> + James Russell Lowell was animated by a well-defined purpose which he + described in the following lines: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "It may be glorious to write + Thoughts that make glad the two or three + High souls like those far stars that come in sight + Once in a century. + + But better far it is to speak + One simple word which, now and then + Shall waken their free nature in the weak + And friendless sons of men. + + To write some earnest verse or line + Which, seeking not the praise of art, + + Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine + In the untutored heart." +</pre> + <p> + His very accomplishments made it difficult for him to reach this aim, + since his poetry does not move "the untutored heart" so readily as does + that of Longfellow or Whittier. It is, on the whole, too deeply burdened + with learning and too individual in expression to fulfil his highest + desire. Of his early poems the most generally known is probably "The + Vision of Sir Launfal," in which a strong moral purpose is combined with + lines of beautiful nature description: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "And what is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days. +</pre> + <p> + Two works by which he will be permanently remembered show a deeper and + more effective Lowell. "The Biglow Papers" are the most successful of all + the American poems which attempt to improve conditions by means of humor. + Although they refer in the main to the situation at the time of the + Mexican War, they deal with such universal political traits that they may + be applied to almost any age. They are written in a Yankee dialect which, + it is asserted, was never spoken, but which enhances the humor, as in + "What Mr. Robinson Thinks." Lowell's tribute to Lincoln occurs in the Ode + which he wrote to commemorate the Harvard students who enlisted in the + Civil War. After dwelling on the search for truth which should be the aim + of every college student, he turns to the delineation of Lincoln's + character in a eulogy of great beauty. Clear in analysis, far-sighted in + judgment, and loving in sentiment, he expresses that opinion of Lincoln + which has become a part of the web of American thought. His is no hurried + judgment, but the calm statement of opinion which is to-day accepted by + the world: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "They all are gone, and, standing like a tower, + Our children shall behold his fame, + The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, + Sagacious, patient, dreading, praise, not blame, + Now birth of our new soil, the first American." +</pre> + <p> + With Oliver Wendell Holmes comes the last of this brief American list of + honor. No other American has so combined delicacy with the New England + humor. We should be poorer by many a smile without "My Aunt" and "The + Deacon's Masterpiece." But this is not his entire gift. "The Chambered + Nautilus" strikes the chord of noble sentiment sounded in the last stanza + of "Thanatopsis" and it will continue to sing in our hearts "As the swift + seasons roll." There is in his poems the smile and the sigh of the + well-loved stanza, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "And if I should live to be + The last leaf upon the tree + In the Spring. + Let them smile; as I do now; + As the old forsaken bough + Where I cling." +</pre> + <p> + And is this all? Around these few names does all the fragrance of American + poetry hover? In the hurry, prosperity, and luxury of modern life is the + care if the flower of poetry lost? Surely not. The last half of the + nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth have brought many + beautiful flowers of poetry and hints of more perfect blossoms. Lanier has + sung of the life of the south he loved; Whitman and Miller have stirred us + with enthusiasm for the progress of the nation; Field and Riley have made + us laugh and cry in sympathy; Aldrich, Sill, Van Dyke, Burroughs, and + Thoreau have shared with us their hoard of beauty. Among the present + generation may there appear many men and women whose devotion to the + delicate flower shall be repaid by the gratitude of posterity! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANNE BRADSTREET + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONTEMPLATIONS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide, + When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed, + The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride + Were gilded o'er by his rich golden head. + Their leaves and fruits, seem'd painted, but was true + Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hue, + Rapt were my senses at this delectable view. + + I wist not what to wish, yet sure, thought I, + If so much excellence abide below, + How excellent is He that dwells on high! + Whose power and beauty by his works we know; + Sure he is goodness, wisdom, glory, light, + That hath this underworld so richly dight: + More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter and no night. + + Then on a stately oak I cast mine eye, + Whose ruffling top the clouds seem'd to aspire; + How long since thou wast in thine infancy? + Thy strength, and stature, more thy years admire; + Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born, + Or thousand since thou breakest thy shell of horn? + If so, all these as naught Eternity doth scorn. + + I heard the merry grasshopper then sing, + The black-clad cricket bear a second part, + They kept one tune, and played on the same string, + Seeming to glory in their little art. + Shall creatures abject thus their voices raise? + And in their kind resound their Master's praise: + Whilst I, as mute, can warble forth no higher lays. + + When I behold the heavens as in their prime, + And then the earth (though old) still clad in green, + The stones and trees, insensible of time, + Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; + If winter come, and greenness then do fade, + A spring returns, and they more youthful made; + But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's + laid. +</pre> + <p> + MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DAY OF DOOM + </h2> + <h3> + SOUNDING OF THE LAST TRUMP + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Still was the night, Serene & Bright, + when all Men sleeping lay; + Calm was the season, & carnal reason + thought so 'twould last for ay. + Soul, take thine ease, let sorrow cease, + much good thou hast in store: + This was their Song, their Cups among, + the Evening before. + + Wallowing in all kind of sin, + vile wretches lay secure: + The best of men had scarcely then + their Lamps kept in good ure. + Virgins unwise, who through disguise + amongst the best were number'd, + Had closed their eyes; yea, and the wise + through sloth and frailty slumber'd. + + For at midnight brake forth a Light, + which turn'd the night to day, + And speedily a hideous cry + did all the world dismay. + Sinners awake, their hearts do ake, + trembling their loynes surprizeth; + Amaz'd with fear, by what they hear, + each one of them ariseth. + + They rush from Beds with giddy heads, + and to their windows run, + Viewing this light, which shines more bright + than doth the Noon-day Sun. + Straightway appears (they see 't with tears) + the Son of God most dread; + Who with his Train comes on amain + to Judge both Quick and Dead. + + Before his face the Heav'ns gave place, + and Skies are rent asunder, + With mighty voice, and hideous noise, + more terrible than Thunder. + His brightness damps heav'ns glorious lamps + and makes them hang their heads, + As if afraid and quite dismay'd, + they quit their wonted steads. + + No heart so bold, but now grows cold + and almost dead with fear: + No eye so dry, but now can cry, + and pour out many a tear. + Earth's Potentates and pow'rful States, + Captains and Men of Might + Are quite abasht, their courage dasht + at this most dreadful sight. + + Mean men lament, great men do rent + their Robes, and tear their hair: + They do not spare their flesh to tear + through horrible despair. + All Kindreds wail: all hearts do fail: + horror the world doth fill + With weeping eyes, and loud out-cries, + yet knows not how to kill. + + Some hide themselves in Caves and Delves, + in places under ground: + Some rashly leap into the Deep, + to scape by being drown'd: + Some to the Rocks (O senseless blocks!) + and woody Mountains run, + That there they might this fearful sight, + and dreaded Presence shun. + + In vain do they to Mountains say, + fall on us and us hide + From Judges ire, more hot than fire, + for who may it abide? + No hiding place can from his Face + sinners at all conceal, + Whose flaming Eye hid things doth 'spy + and darkest things reveal. + + The Judge draws nigh, exalted high, + upon a lofty Throne, + Amidst a throng of Angels strong, + lo, Israel's Holy One! + The excellence of whose presence + and awful Majesty, + Amazeth Nature, and every Creature, + doth more than terrify. + + The Mountains smoak, the Hills are shook, + the Earth is rent and torn, + As if she should be clear dissolv'd, + or from the Center born. + The Sea doth roar, forsakes the shore, + and shrinks away for fear; + The wild beasts flee into the Sea, + so soon as he draws near. + + Before his Throne a Trump is blown, + Proclaiming the day of Doom: + Forthwith he cries, Ye dead arise, + and unto Judgment come. + No sooner said, but 'tis obey'd; + Sepulchres opened are: + Dead bodies all rise at his call, + and 's mighty power declare. + + His winged Hosts flie through all Coasts, + together gathering + Both good and bad, both quick and dead, + and all to Judgment bring. + Out of their holes those creeping Moles, + that hid themselves for fear, + By force they take, and quickly make + before the Judge appear. + + Thus every one before the Throne + of Christ the Judge is brought, + Both righteous and impious + that good or ill hath wrought. + A separation, and diff'ring station + by Christ appointed is + (To sinners sad) 'twixt good and bad, + 'twixt Heirs of woe and bliss. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PHILIP FRENEAU + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, + Hid in this silent, dull retreat, + Untouched thy homed 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A HONEY BEE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, + Or quaff the waters of the stream, + 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 perplex, + 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; + Here bigger bees than you might 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 of wine, + Your epitaph—a tear— + Go, take your seat in Charon's boat; + We'll tell the hive, you died afloat. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 die, 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) + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EUTAW SPRINGS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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: + 'Tis 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 Parthian, 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 bright Phoebus of their own. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRANCIS HOPKINSON + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gallants attend and hear a friend + Trill forth harmonious ditty, + Strange things I'll tell which late befell + In Philadelphia city. + + 'Twas early day, as poets say, + Just when the sun was rising, + A soldier stood on a log of wood, + And saw a thing surprising. + + As in amaze he stood to gaze, + The truth can't be denied, sir, + He spied a score of kegs or more + Come floating down the tide, sir. + + A sailor too in jerkin blue, + This strange appearance viewing, + First damned his eyes, in great surprise, + Then said, "Some mischief's brewing. + + "These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold, + Packed up like pickled herring; + And they're come down to attack the town, + In this new way of ferrying." + + The soldier flew, the sailor too, + And scared almost to death, sir, + Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, + And ran till out of breath, sir. + + Now up and down throughout the town, + Most frantic scenes were acted; + And some ran here, and others there, + Like men almost distracted. + + Some fire cried, which some denied, + But said the earth had quaked; + And girls and boys, with hideous noise, + Ran through the streets half naked. + + Sir William he, snug as a flea, + Lay all this time a snoring, + Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm, + In bed with Mrs. Loring. + + Now in a fright, he starts upright, + Awaked by such a clatter; + He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, + "For God's sake, what's the matter?" + + At his bedside he then espied, + Sir Erskine at command, sir, + Upon one foot he had one boot, + And th' other in his hand, sir. + + "Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries, + "The rebels—more's the pity, + Without a boat are all afloat, + And ranged before the city. + + "The motley crew, in vessels new, + With Satan for their guide, sir, + Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs, + Come driving down the tide, sir. + + "Therefore prepare for bloody war; + These kegs must all be routed, + Or surely we despised shall be, + And British courage doubted." + + The royal band now ready stand + All ranged in dread array, sir, + With stomach' stout to see it out, + And make a bloody day, sir. + + The cannons roar from shore to shore. + The small arms make a rattle; + Since wars began I'm sure no man + E'er saw so strange a battle. + + The rebel dales, the rebel vales, + With rebel trees surrounded, + The distant woods, the hills and floods, + With rebel echoes sounded. + + The fish below swam to and fro, + Attacked from every quarter; + Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay, + 'Mongst folks above the water. + + The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made, + Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, + Could not oppose their powerful foes, + The conquering British troops, sir. + + From morn to night these men of might + Displayed amazing courage; + And when the sun was fairly down, + Retired to sup their porridge. + + A hundred men with each a pen, + Or more upon my word, sir, + It is most true would be too few, + Their valor to record, sir. + + Such feats did they perform that day, + Against these wicked kegs, sir, + That years to come: if they get home, + They'll make their boasts and brags, sir. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOSEPH HOPKINSON + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HAIL COLUMBIA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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, let us be, + Rallying round our Liberty; + As a band of brothers joined, + Peace and safety we shall find. + + Sound, sound, the trump of Fame! + Let WASHINGTON'S great name + Ring through the world with loud applause, + Ring through the world with loud applause; + 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, let us be, + Rallying round our Liberty; + As a band of brothers joined, + Peace and safety we shall find. + + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANONYMOUS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The breezes went steadily through the tall pines, + A-saying "oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "oh! hu-ush!" + As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, + For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush. + + "Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young, + In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road. + "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear + What bodes us no good, what bodes us no good." + + The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home + In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook. + With mother and sister and memories dear, + He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook. + + Cooling shades of the night were coming apace, + The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat. + The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place, + To make his retreat; to make his retreat. + + He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves. + As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood; + And silently gained his rude launch on the shore, + As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood. + + The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, + Had a murderous will; had a murderous will. + They took him and bore him afar from the shore, + To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill. + + No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, + In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell. + But he trusted in love, from his Father above. + In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well. + + An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice, + Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by: + "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, + For he must soon die; for he must soon die." + + The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,— + The cruel general! the cruel general!— + His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, + And said that was all; and said that was all. + + They took him and bound him and bore him away, + Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side. + 'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array, + His cause did deride; his cause did deride. + + Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, + For him to repent; for him to repent. + He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, + To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went. + + The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, + As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage. + And Britons will shudder at gallant Hales blood, + As his words do presage, as his words do presage. + + "Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, + Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave; + Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. + No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FABLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Rejoice, Americans, rejoice! + Praise ye the Lord with heart and voice! + The treaty's signed with faithful France, + And now, like Frenchmen, sing and dance! + + But when your joy gives way to reason, + And friendly hints are not deemed treason, + Let me, as well as I am able, + Present your Congress with a fable. + + Tired out with happiness, the frogs + Sedition croaked through all their bogs; + And thus to Jove the restless race, + Made out their melancholy case. + + "Famed, as we are, for faith and prayer, + We merit sure peculiar care; + But can we think great good was meant us, + When logs for Governors were sent us? + + "Which numbers crushed they fell upon, + And caused great fear,—till one by one, + As courage came, we boldly faced 'em, + Then leaped upon 'em, and disgraced 'em! + + "Great Jove," they croaked, "no longer fool us, + None but ourselves are fit to rule us; + We are too large, too free a nation, + To be encumbered with taxation! + + "We pray for peace, but wish confusion, + Then right or wrong, a—revolution! + Our hearts can never bend to obey; + Therefore no king—and more we'll pray." + + Jove smiled, and to their fate resigned + The restless, thankless, rebel kind; + Left to themselves, they went to work, + First signed a treaty with king Stork. + + He swore that they, with his alliance, + To all the world might bid defiance; + Of lawful rule there was an end on't, + And frogs were henceforth—independent. + + At which the croakers, one and all! + Proclaimed a feast, and festival! + But joy to-day brings grief to-morrow; + Their feasting o'er, now enter sorrow! + + The Stork grew hungry, longed for fish; + The monarch could not have his wish; + In rage he to the marshes flies, + And makes a meal of his allies. + + Then grew so fond of well-fed frogs, + He made a larder of the bogs! + Say, Yankees, don't you feel compunction, + At your unnatural rash conjunction? + + Can love for you in him take root, + Who's Catholic, and absolute? + I'll tell these croakers how he'll treat 'em; + Frenchmen, like storks, love frogs—to eat 'em. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TIMOTHY DWIGHT + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE TO THE CHURCH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I love thy kingdom, Lord, + The house of thine abode, + The church our blest Redeemer saved + With his own precious blood. + + I love thy church, O God! + Her walls before thee stand, + Dear as the apple of thine eye, + And graven on thy hand. + + If e'er to bless thy sons + My voice or hands deny, + These hands let useful skill forsake, + This voice in silence die. + + For her my tears shall fall, + For her my prayers ascend; + To her my cares and toils be given + Till toils and cares shall end. + + Beyond my highest joy + I prize her heavenly ways, + Her sweet communion, solemn vows, + Her hymns of love and praise. + + Jesus, thou friend divine, + Our Saviour and our King, + Thy hand from every snare and foe + Shall great deliverance bring. + + Sure as thy truth shall last, + To Zion shall be given + The brightest glories earth can yield, + And brighter bliss of heaven. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SAMUEL WOODWORTH + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 cataract fell, + The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, + And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well— + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. + + That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, + For often at noon, when returned from the field, + I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, + 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 overflowing, + 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 habitation, + The tear of regret will intrusively swell, + As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THANATOPSIS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 up + Thine individual being, shalt thou go + To mix forever with the elements, + To be a brother to the insensible rock + And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain + Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak + Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. + + Yet not to thine eternal resting place + Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish + Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down + With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, + The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, + Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, + All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills + Rock-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 dashing—yet the dead are there; + And millions in those solitudes, since first + The flight of years began, have laid them down + In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. + So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw + In silence from the living, and no friend + Take note of thy departure? All that breathe + Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh + When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care + Plod on, and each one as before will chase + His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave + Their mirth and their employments, and shall come + And make their bed with thee. As the long train + Of ages glides away, the sons of men— + The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes + In the full strength of years, matron and maid, + The speechless babe, and the grayheaded 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE YELLOW VIOLET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When beechen buds begin to swell, + And woods the blue-bird's warble know, + The yellow violet's modest bell + Peeps from the last year's leaves below. + + Ere russet fields their green resume, + Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, + To meet thee, when thy faint perfume + Alone is in the virgin air. + + Of all her train, the hands of Spring + First plant thee in the watery mould, + And I have seen thee blossoming + Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. + + Thy parent sun, who bade thee view + Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, + Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, + And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. + + Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, + And earthward bent thy gentle eye, + Unapt the passing view to meet, + When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. + + Oft, in the sunless April day, + Thy early smile has stayed my walk; + But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, + I passed thee on thy humble stalk. + + So they, who climb to wealth, forget + The friends in darker fortunes tried. + I copied them—but I regret + That I should ape the ways of pride. + + And when again the genial hour + Awakes the painted tribes of light, + I'll not o'erlook the modest flower + That made the woods of April bright. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A WATERFOWL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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? + + 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 atmosphere, + Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, + Though the dark night is near. + + And soon that toil shall end; + Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, + And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, + Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. + + Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven + Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, in my heart + Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, + And shall not soon depart. + + He who, from zone to zone, + Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, + In the long way that I must tread alone, + Will lead my steps aright. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GREEN RIVER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When breezes are soft and skies are fair, + I steal an hour from study and care, + And hie me away to the woodland scene, + Where wanders the stream with waters of green, + As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink + Had given their stain to the waves they drink; + And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, + Have named the stream from its own fair hue. + + Yet pure its waters—its shallows are bright + With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, + And clear the depths where its eddies play, + And dimples deepen and whirl away, + And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot + The swifter current that mines its root, + Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, + The quivering glimmer of sun and rill + With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, + Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. + Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, + With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum; + The flowers of summer are fairest there, + And freshest the breath of the summer air; + And sweetest the golden autumn day + In silence and sunshine glides away. + + Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, + Beautiful stream! by the village side; + But windest away from haunts of men, + To quiet valley and shaded glen; + And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, + Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still, + Lonely—save when, by thy rippling tides, + From thicket to thicket the angler glides; + Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, + For herbs of power on thy banks to look; + Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, + To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. + Still—save the chirp of birds that feed + On the river cherry and seedy reed, + And thy own wild music gushing out + With mellow murmur of fairy shout, + From dawn to the blush of another day, + Like traveller singing along his way. + + That fairy music I never hear, + Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, + And mark them winding away from sight, + Darkened with shade or flashing with light, + While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, + And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, + But I wish that fate had left me free + To wander these quiet haunts with thee, + Till the eating cares of earth should depart, + And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; + And I envy thy stream, as it glides along + Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. + + Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, + And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, + And mingle among the jostling crowd, + Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud— + I often come to this quiet place, + To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, + And gaze upon thee in silent dream, + For in thy lonely and lovely stream + An image of that calm life appears + That won my heart in my greener years. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WEST WIND + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath the forest's skirt I rest, + Whose branching pines rise dark and high, + And hear the breezes of the West + Among the thread-like foliage sigh. + + Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of woe? + Is not thy home among the flowers? + Do not the bright June roses blow, + To meet thy kiss at morning hours? + + And lo! thy glorious realm outspread— + Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, + And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose head + The loose white clouds are borne away. + + And there the full broad river runs, + And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, + To cool thee when the mid-day suns + Have made thee faint beneath their heat. + + Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love; + Spirit of the new-wakened year! + The sun in his blue realm above + Smooths a bright path when thou art here. + + In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, + The wooing ring-dove in the shade; + On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird + Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. + + Ah! thou art like our wayward race;— + When not a shade of pain or ill + Dims the bright smile of Nature's face, + Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + "I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG" + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I broke the spell that held me long, + The dear, dear witchery of song. + I said, the poet's idle lore + Shall waste my prime of years no more, + For Poetry, though heavenly born, + Consorts with poverty and scorn. + + I broke the spell—nor deemed its power + Could fetter me another hour. + Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget + Its causes were around me yet? + For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, + Was Nature's everlasting smile. + + Still came and lingered on my sight + Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, + And glory of the stars and sun;— + And these and poetry are one. + They, ere the world had held me long, + Recalled me to the love of song. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FOREST HYMN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 influences + 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 green 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, neglect + 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 pride + Report not. No fantastic carvings show + The boast of our vain race to change the form + Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill'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 barley 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 halt 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 + Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, + With scented breath and look so like a smile, + Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, + Au 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 himself + Upon the tyrant's throne—the sepulchre, + And of the triumphs 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 themselves + 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 tempest, set on fire + The heavens with falling thunderbolts, 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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, but the cold November rain + Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. + + The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, + And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; + But on the hills 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 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 forests 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GLADNESS OF NATURE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, + When our mother Nature laughs around; + When even the deep blue heavens look glad, + And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? + + There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, + And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; + The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, + And the wilding bee hums merrily by. + + The clouds are at play in the azure space + And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, + And here they stretch to the frolic chase, + And there they roll on the easy gale. + + There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, + There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, + There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, + And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. + + And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles + On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, + On the leaping waters and gay young isles; + Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 unseen, + 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 frosts 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONG OF MARION'S MEN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + 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 tents 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 hollow wind. + + Then sweet the hour that brings release + From danger and from toil: + 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. + + 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 moonlight plain; + 'Tis life to feel the night-wind + That lifts the tossing mane. + A moment in the British camp— + A moment—and away + Back to the pathless forest, + Before the peep of day. + + 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, + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CROWDED STREET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let me move slowly through the street, + Filled with an ever-shifting train, + Amid the sound of steps that beat + The murmuring walks like autumn rain. + + How fast the flitting figures come! + The mild, the fierce, the stony face; + Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some + + Where secret tears have left their trace. + + They pass—to toil, to strife, to rest; + To halls in which the feast is spread; + To chambers where the funeral guest + In silence sits beside the dead. + + And some to happy homes repair, + Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, + These struggling tides of life that seem + With mute caresses shall declare + The tenderness they cannot speak. + + And some, who walk in calmness here, + Shall shudder as they reach the door + Where one who made their dwelling dear, + Its flower, its light, is seen no more. + + Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, + And dreams of greatness in thine eye! + Go'st thou to build an early name, + Or early in the task to die? + + Keen son of trade, with eager brow! + Who is now fluttering in thy snare! + Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, + Or melt the glittering spires in air? + + Who of this crowd to-night shall tread + The dance till daylight gleam again? + Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? + Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? + + Some, famine-struck, shall think how long + The cold dark hours, how slow the light; + And some, who flaunt amid the throng, + Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. + + Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, + They pass, and heed each other not. + There is who heeds, who holds them all, + In His large love and boundless thought. + + These struggling tides of life that seem + In wayward, aimless course to tend, + Are eddies of the mighty stream + That rolls to its appointed end. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SNOW-SHOWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, + On the lake below thy gentle eyes; + The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, + And dark and silent the water lies; + And out of that frozen mist the snow + In wavering flakes begins to flow; + Flake after flake + They sink in the dark and silent lake. + + See how in a living swarm they come + From the chambers beyond that misty veil; + Some hover awhile in air, and some + Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. + All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, + West, and are still in the depths below; + Flake after flake + Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. + + Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, + Come floating downward in airy play, + Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd + That whiten by night the milky way; + There broader and burlier masses fall; + The sullen water buries them all— + Flake after flake— + All drowned in the dark and silent lake. + + And some, as on tender wings they glide + From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, + Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, + Come clinging along their unsteady way; + As friend with friend, or husband with wife, + Makes hand in hand the passage of life; + Each mated flake + Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. + + Lo! While we are gazing, in swifter haste + Stream down the snows, till the air is white, + As, myriads by myriads madly chased, + They fling themselves from their shadowy height. + The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, + What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; + Flake after flake + To lie in the dark and silent lake! + + I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; + They turn to me in sorrowful thought; + Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, + Who were for a time, and now are not; + Like those fair children and cloud and frost, + That glisten for a moment and then are lost, + Flake after flake + All lost in the dark and silent lake. + + Yet look again, for the clouds divide; + A gleam of blue on the water lies; + And far away, on the mountain-side, + A sunbeam falls from the opening skies, + But the hurrying host that flew between + The cloud and the water, no more is seen; + Flake after flake, + + At rest in the dark and silent lake. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROBERT OF LINCOLN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Merrily swinging on brier and weed, + Near to the nest of his little dame, + Over the mountain-side or mead, + Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Snug and safe is that nest of ours, + Hidden among the summer flowers, + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, + Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; + White are his shoulders and white his crest + Hear him call in his merry note: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Look, what a nice coat is mine. + Sure there was never a bird so fine. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, + Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, + Passing at home a patient life, + Broods in the grass while her husband sings + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Brood, kind creature; you need not fear + Thieves and robbers while I am here. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Modest and shy is she; + One weak chirp is her only note. + Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, + Pouring boasts from his little throat: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Never was I afraid of man; + Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! + Chee, chee, chee. + + Six white eggs on a bed of hay, + Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! + There as the mother sits all day, + Robert is singing with all his might: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Nice good wife, that never goes out, + Keeping house while I frolic about. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Soon as the little ones chip the shell, + Six wide mouths are open for food; + Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, + Gathering 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. + + 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, + Nobody knows but my mate and I + Where our nest and out nestlings lie. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Summer wanes; the children are grown; + Fun and frolic no more he knows; + Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; + Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + When you can pipe that merry old strain, + Robert of Lincoln, come back again. + Chee, chee, chee. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thou, who wouldst wear the name + Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind, + And clothe in words of flame + Thoughts that shall live within the general mind! + Deem not the framing of a deathless lay + The pastime of a drowsy summer day. + + But gather all thy powers, + And wreak them on the verse that thou dust 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 windless 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 rampart'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!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ABRAHAM LINCOLN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, + Gentle and merciful and just! + Who, in the fear of God, didst bear + The sword of power, a nation's trust! + + In sorrow by thy bier we stand, + Amid the awe that hushes all, + And speak the anguish of a land + That shook with horror at thy fall. + + Thy task is done; the bond are free: + We bear thee to an honored grave + Whose proudest monument shall be + The broken fetters of the slave. + + Pure was thy life; its bloody close + Hath placed thee with the sons of light, + Among the noble host of those + Who perished in the cause of Right. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRANCIS SCOTT KEY + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, + What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? + Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous 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 star-spangled banner yet wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? + + On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, + Where the foes 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; + 'Tis 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 and the gloom of the grave; + And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave + 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 preserved us a nation. + Then conquer we must, for 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE AMERICAN FLAG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + And 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 trumpings 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 'tis 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 of 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 + In 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? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CULPRIT FAY (Selection) + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell: + The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; + He has counted them all with click and stroke, + Deep in the heart of the mountain oak, + And he has awakened the sentry elve + Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, + To bid him ring the hour of twelve, + And call the fays to their revelry; + Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell + ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell) + "Midnight comes, and all is well! + Hither, hither, wing your way! + 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day." + + They come from beds of lichen green, + They creep from the mullen's velvet screen; + Some on the backs of beetles fly + From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, + Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high, + And rocked about in the evening breeze; + Some from the hum-bird's downy nest— + They had driven him out by elfin power, + And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, + Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; + Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, + With glittering ising-stars' inlaid; + And some had opened the four-o'clock, + And stole within its purple shade. + And now they throng the moonlight glade, + Above, below, on every side, + Their little minim forms arrayed + In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. + + They come not now to print the lea, + In freak and dance around the tree, + Or at the mushroom board to sup + And drink the dew from the buttercup. + A scene of sorrow waits them now, + For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow + He has loved an earthly maid, + And left for her his woodland shade; + He has lain upon her lip of dew, + And sunned him in her eye of blue, + Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, + Played in the ringlets of her hair, + And, nestling on her snowy breast, + Forgot the lily-king's behest. + For this the shadowy tribes of air + To the elfin court must haste away; + And now they stand expectant there, + To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. + + The throne was reared upon the grass, + Of spice-wood and of sassafras; + On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell + Hung the burnished canopy,— + And over it gorgeous curtains fell + Of the tulip's crimson drapery. + 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 halt 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 bast 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 punishment + Tied to the hornet's shardy wings, + Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings, + Or seven long ages doomed to dwell + With the lazy worm in the walnut-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 murdered 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 shaft seek the beach of sand + Where the water bounds the elfin land; + Thou shaft watch the oozy brine + Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine; + 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." . . . + + The goblin marked his monarch well; + He spake not, but he bowed him low; + Then plucked a crimson colen-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 over 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 leaped 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 silkweed 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 the sea-silk beds in their coral caves; + 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 quad'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 howls 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. + + Soon he gathered the balsam dew + From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud; + Over each wound the balm he drew, + And with cobweb lint he stanched the blood. + The mild west wind was soft and low; + It cooled the heat of his burning brow, + And he felt new life in his sinews shoot + As he drank the juice of the calamus root. + And now he treads the fatal shore + As fresh and vigorous as before. + + Wrapped in musing stands the sprite + 'Tis the middle wane of night; + His task is hard, his way is far, + But he must do his errand right + Ere dawning mounts her beamy car, + And rolls her chariot wheels of light; + And vain are the spells of fairy-land, + He must work with a human hand. + + He cast a saddened look around; + But he felt new joy his bosom swell, + When glittering on the shadowed ground + He saw a purple mussel-shell; + Thither he ran, and he bent him low, + He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow, + And he pushed her over the yielding sand + Till he came; to the verge of the haunted land. + She was as lovely a pleasure-boat + As ever fairy had paddled in, + For she glowed with purple paint without, + And shone with silvery pearl within + A sculler's notch in the stern he made, + An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade; + Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap, + And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. + + The imps of the river yell and rave + They had no power above the wave, + But they heaved the billow before the prow, + And they dashed the surge against her side, + And they struck her keel with jerk and blow, + Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. + She wimpled about to the pale moonbeam, + Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed stream; + And momently athwart her track + The quad upreared his island back, + And the fluttering scallop behind would float, + And patter the water about the boat; + But he bailed her out with his colon-bell, + And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread, + While on every side like lightning fell + The heavy strokes of his Bootle-blade. + + Onward still he held his way, + Till he came where the column of moonshine lay, + And saw beneath the surface dim + The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim. + Around him were the goblin train; + But he sculled with all his might and main, + And followed wherever the sturgeon led, + Till he saw him upward point his head; + "Mien he dropped his paddle-blade, + And held his colen-goblet up + To catch the drop in its crimson cup. + + With sweeping tail and quivering fin + Through the wave the sturgeon flew, + And like the heaven-shot javelin + He sprung above the waters blue. + Instant as the star-fall light, + He plunged him in the deep again, + But left an arch of silver bright, + The rainbow of the moony main. + It was a strange and lovely sight + To see the puny goblin there: + He seemed an angel form of light, + With azure wing and sunny hair, + Throned on a cloud of purple fair, + Circled with blue and edged with white, + And sitting at the fall of even + Beneath the bow of summer heaven. + + A moment, and its lustre fell; + But ere it met the billow blue + He caught within his crimson bell + A droplet of its sparkling dew. + Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done; + Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won. + Cheerly ply thy dripping oar, + And haste away to the elfin shore! + + He turns, and to on either side + The ripples on his path divide; + And the track o'er which his boat must pass + Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass. + Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, + With snowy arms half swelling out, + While on the glossed and gleamy wave + Their sea-green ringlets loosely float: + They swim around with smile and song; + They press the bark with pearly hand, + And gently urge her course along, + Toward the beach of speckled sand; + And as he lightly leaped to land + They bade adieu with nod and bow, + Then gaily kissed each little hand, + And dropped in the crystal deep below. + + A moment stayed the fairy there: + He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer; + Then spread his wings of gilded blue, + And on to the elfin court he flew. + As ever ye saw a bubble rise, + And shine with a thousand changing dyes, + Till, lessening far, through ether driven, + It mingles with the hues of heaven; + As, at the glimpse of morning pale, + The lance-fly spreads his silken sail + And gleams with bleedings soft and bright + Till lost in the shades of fading night; + So rose from earth the lovely Fay, + So vanished far in heaven away! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FITZ-GREENE HALLECK + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MARCO BOZZARIS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 Plataea'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 mountain-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-horn'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. + + 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 oer the Haytian seas. + + Bozzaris, with the storied brave + Greece nurtured in her glory's time, + Rest thee—there is no prouder gave. + 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 babes' first lisping tells; + For throe 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 went 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 throe, 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 I 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOHN HOWARD PAYNE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOME, SWEET HOME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; + A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, + Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; + O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! + The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,— + Give me them,—and the peace of mind, dearer than all! + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, + And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile! + Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam, + But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home! + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; + The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; + No more from that, cottage again will I roam; + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EDGAR ALLAN POE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HELEN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Helen, thy beauty is to me + Like those Nicean barks of yore, + That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, + The weary, way-worn wanderer bore + To his own native shore. + + On desperate seas long wont to roam, + Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, + Thy Naiad airs have brought me home + To the glory that was Greece, + And the grandeur that was Rome. + + Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche + How statue-like I see thee stand, + The agate lamp within thy hand! + Ah, Psyche, from the regions which + Are Holy-Land! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ISRAFEL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In Heaven a spirit doth dwell + "Whose heart-strings are a lute;" + None sing so wildly well + As the angel Israel, + And the giddy stars (so legends tell) + Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell + Of his voice, all mute. + + Tottering above + In her highest noon, + The enamoured moon + Blushes with love, + While, to listen, the red levin + (With the rapid Pleiads, even, + Which were seven,) + Pauses in Heaven. + + And they say (the starry choir + And the other listening things) + That Israeli's fire + Is owing to that lyre + By which he sits and sings— + The trembling living wire + Of those unusual strings. + + But the skies that angel trod, + Where deep thoughts are a duty— + Where Love's a grown-up God— + Where the Houri glances are + Imbued with all the beauty + Which we worship in a star. + + Therefore, thou art not wrong, + Israfeli, who despisest + An unimpassioned song; + To thee the laurels belong, + Best bard, because the wisest! + Merrily live, and long! + + The ecstasies above + With thy burning measures suit— + Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, + With the fervour of thy lute— + Well may the stars be mute! + + Yes, Heaven is thin-e; but this + Is a world of sweets and sours; + Our flowers are merely—flowers, + And the shadow of thy perfect bliss + Is the sunshine of ours. + + If I could dwell + Where Israfel + Hath dwelt, and he where I, + He might not sing so wildly well + A mortal melody, + While a bolder note than this might swell + From my lyre within the sky. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LENORE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! + Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; + And, Guy De Vere, halt thou no tear?—weep now or never more! + See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! + Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!— + An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young— + A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. + + "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, + "And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! + "How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung + "By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue + "That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" + + Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song + Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! + The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, + Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride + For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, + The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes— + The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes. + "Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven— + "From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven— + "From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of + Heaven." + Let no bell toll then!—lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth, + Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth! + And I!—to-night my heart is light! No dirge will I upraise, + But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COLISEUM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary + Of lofty contemplation left to Time + By bunted centuries of pomp and power! + At length—at length—after so many days + Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, + (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) + I kneel, an altered and an humble man, + Amid thy shadows, and so drink within + My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! + + Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! + Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! + I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— + O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king + Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! + O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee + Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! + + Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! + Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, + A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! + Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair + Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! + Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, + Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, + Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, + The swift and silent lizard of the stones! + + But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— + These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts— + These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze— + These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin— + These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all— + All of the famed, and the colossal left + By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? + + "Not all"—the Echoes answer me—"not all! + "Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever + "From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, + "As melody from Memnon to the Sun. + "We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule + "With a despotic sway all giant minds. + "We are not impotent—we pallid stones. + "Not all our power is gone—not all our fame— + "Not all the magic of our high renown— + "Not all the wonder that encircles us— + "Not all the mysteries that in us lie— + "Not all the memories that hang upon + "And cling around about us as a garment, + "Clothing us in a robe of more than glory." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HAUNTED PALACE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the greenest of our valleys + By good angels tenanted, + Once a fair and stately palace— + Radiant palace—reared its head. + In the monarch Thought's dominion— + It stood there! + Never seraph spread a pinion + Over fabric half so fair! + + Banners yellow, glorious, golden, + On its roof did float and flow, + (This—all this—was in the olden + Time long ago,) + And every gentle air that dallied; + In that sweet day, + Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, + A winged odor went away. + + Wanderers in that happy valley, + Through two luminous windows, saw + Spirits moving musically, + To a lute's well-tuned law, + Round about a throne where, sitting, + (Porphyrogene!) + In state his glory well befitting, + The ruler of the realm was seen. + + And all with pearl and ruby glowing + Was the fair palace door, + Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing + And sparkling evermore, + A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty + Was but to sing, + In voices of surpassing beauty, + The wit and wisdom of their king. + + But evil things, in robes of sorrow, + Assailed the monarch's high estate. + (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow + Shall dawn upon him desolate!) + And round about his home the glory + That blushed and bloomed, + Is but a dim-remembered story + Of the old time entombed. + + And travellers, now, within that valley, + Through the red-litten windows see + Vast forms, that move fantastically + To a discordant melody, + While, like a ghastly rapid river, + Through the pale door + A hideous throng rush out forever + And laugh—but smile no more. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO ONE IN PARADISE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thou wast all that to me, love, + For which my soul did pine— + A green isle in the sea, love, + A fountain and a shrine + All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, + And all the flowers were mine. + + Ah, dream too bright to last! + Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise + But to be overcast! + A voice from out the Future cries, + "On! on!"—but o'er the Past + (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies + Mute, motionless, aghast! + + For, alas! alas! with me + The light of Life is o'er! + "No more—no more—no more—" + (Such language holds the solemn sea + To the sands upon the shore) + Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, + Or the stricken eagle soar! + + And all my days are trances, + And all my nightly dreams + Are where thy grey eye glances, + And where thy footstep gleams— + In what ethereal dances, + By what eternal streams. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EULALIE.—A SONG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I dwelt alone + In a world of moan, + And my soul was a stagnant tide, + Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride— + Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. + + Ah, less—less bright + The stars of the night + Than the eyes of the radiant girl! + And never a flake + That the vapor can make + With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, + Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl— + Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble + and careless curl. + + Now Doubt—now Pain + Come never again, + For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, + And all day long + Shines, bright and strong, + Astarte within the sky, + While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye— + While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RAVEN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore + While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, + As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door + "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door— + Only this and nothing more." + + Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; + And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor— + Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow + From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— + For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— + Nameless here for evermore. + + And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain + Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; + So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating + + "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— + Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— + This it is and nothing more." + + Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, + "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; + But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping + And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, + That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;— + Darkness there and nothing more. + + Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, + fearing, + Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; + But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, + And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" + This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!" + Merely this and nothing more. + + Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, + Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. + "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; + Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— + Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— + 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" + + Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter + In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. + Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; + But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— + Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— + Perched, and sat, and nothing more. + + Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, + By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, + "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art + sure no craven, + Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— + Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, + Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; + For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being + Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— + Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, + With such name as "Nevermore." + + But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only + That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. + Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— + Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before— + On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." + Then the bird said "Nevermore." + + Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, + "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, + Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster + Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore + Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore— + Of 'Never—nevermore.'" + + But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, + Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and + door; + Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking + Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— + What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore + Meant in croaking "Nevermore." + + Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing + To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; + This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining + On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, + But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, + She shall press, ah, nevermore! + + Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer + Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. + "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath + sent thee + + Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; + Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!- + Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, + Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted + On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— + Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! + By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— + Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, + It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore: + Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, + upstarting— + "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! + Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! + Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! + Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my + door!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting + On the pallid bust of Pallas dust above my chamber door; + And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, + And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor + And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor + Shall be lifted—nevermore! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HELEN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw thee once—once only—years ago + I must not say how many—but not many. + It was a July midnight; and from out + A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, + Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, + There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, + With quietude and sultriness and slumber, + Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand + Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, + Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe— + Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses + That gave out, in return for the love-light, + Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death— + Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses + That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted + By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. + + Clad all in white, upon a violet bank + I saw thee half reclining; while the moon + Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, + And on throe own, upturn'd—alas, in sorrow! + + Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight— + Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow), + That bade me pause before that garden-gate, + To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? + No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, + Save only thee and me. (Oh, heaven!—oh, God! + How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) + Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked— + And in an instant all things disappeared. + (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) + The pearly lustre of the moon went out: + The mossy banks and the meandering paths, + The happy flowers and the repining trees, + Were seen no more: the very roses' odors + Died in the arms of the adoring airs. + All—all expired save thee—save less than thou: + Save only the divine light in throe eyes— + Save but the soul in throe uplifted eyes. + I saw but them—they were the world to me. + I saw but them—saw only them for hours— + Saw only there until the moon went down. + What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten + + Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! + How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope! + How silently serene a sea of pride! + How daring an ambition! yet how deep— + How fathomless a capacity for love! + + But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, + Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; + And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees + Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. + They would not go—they never yet have gone. + Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, + They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. + They follow me—they lead me through the years— + They are my ministers—yet I their slave. + Their office is to illumine and enkindle— + My duty, to be saved by their bright light, + And purified in their electric fire, + And sanctified in their elysian fire. + They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), + And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to + In the sad, silent watches of my night; + While even in the meridian glare of day + I see them still—two sweetly scintillant + Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANNABEL LEE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was many and many a year ago, + In a kingdom by the sea + That a maiden there lived whom you may know + By the name of ANNABEL LEE; + And this maiden she lived with no other thought + Than to love and be loved by me. + + I was a child and she was a child, + In this kingdom by the sea, + But we loved with a love that was more than love— + I and my ANNABEL LEE— + With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven + Coveted her and me. + + And this was the reason that, long ago, + In this kingdom by the sea, + A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling + My beautiful ANNABEL LEE; + So that her highborn kinsmen came + And bore her away from me, + To shut her up in a sepulchre + In this kingdom by the sea. + + The angels, not half so happy in heaven, + Went envying her and me— + Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, + In this kingdom by the sea) + That the wind came out of the cloud by night, + Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE. + + But our love it was stronger by far than the love + Of those who were older than we— + Of many far wiser than we— + And neither the angels in heaven above, + Nor the demons down under the sea, + Can ever dissever my soul from the soul + Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE: + + For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams + Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; + And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes + Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE: + And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side + Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride + In the sepulchre there by the sea— + In her tomb by the sounding sea. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BELLS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hear the sledges with the bells— + Silver bells! + What a world of merriment their melody foretells! + How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, + In the icy air of night! + While the stars that oversprinkle + All the heavens, seem to twinkle + With a crystalline delight + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells + From the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells— + From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. + + Hear the mellow wedding bells, + Golden bells! + What a world of happiness their harmony foretell: + Through the balmy air of night + How they ring out their delight! + From the molten-golden notes, + And all in tune, + What a liquid ditty floats, + To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats + On the moon! + + Oh, from out the sounding cells, + What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! + How it swells! + How it dwells + On the Future!—how it tells + Of the rapture that impels + To the swinging and the ringing + Of the bells, bells, bells— + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells— + To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! + + Hear the loud alarum bells— + Brazen bells! + What a tale of terror, now their turbulency tells! + In the startled ear of night + How they scream out their affright! + Too much horrified to speak, + They can only shriek, shriek, + Out of tune, + In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, + In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, + Leaping higher, higher, higher, + With a desperate desire, + And a resolute endeavor + Now—now to sit, or never, + By the side of the pale-faced moon. + Oh, the bells, bells, bells! + What a tale their terror tells + Of Despair! + How they clang, and clash, and roar! + What a horror they outpour + On the bosom of the palpitating air! + + Yet, the ear, it fully knows, + By the twanging, + And the clanging, + How the danger ebbs and flows; + Yet the ear distinctly tells, + In the jangling, + And the wrangling, + How the danger sinks and swells, + + By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells + Of the bells— + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, belts, bells— + In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! + + Hear the tolling of the bells— + Iron bells + What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! + In the silence of the night, + How we shiver with affright + At the melancholy menace of their tone: + + For every sound that floats + From the rust within their throats + Is a groan. + And the people—ah, the people— + They that dwell up in the steeple, + All alone, + And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, + In that muffled monotone, + Feel a glory in so rolling, + + On the human heart a stone— + They are neither man or woman— + They are neither brute nor human— + They are Ghouls:— + And their king it is who tolls:— + And he rolls, rolls, rolls, + Rolls + A paean from the bells! + And his merry bosom swells + With the paean of the bells! + And he dances, and he yells; + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the paean of the bells:— + Of the bells + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the throbbing of the bells— + Of the bells, bells, bells— + To the sobbing of the bells:— + Keeping time, time, time, + As he knells, knells, knells, + In a happy Runic rhyme, + To the rolling of the bells— + Of the bells, bells, bells:— + To the tolling of the bells— + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells + To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELDORADO + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gaily bedight, + A gallant knight, + In sunshine and in shadow, + Had journeyed long, + Singing a song, + In search of Eldorado. + + But he grew old— + This knight so bold— + And o'er his heart a shadow + Fell as he found + No spot of ground + That looked like Eldorado. + + And, as his strength + Failed him at length, + He met a pilgrim shadow— + "Shadow," said he, + "Where can it be— + This land of Eldorado?" + + "Over the Mountains + Of the Moon, + Down the Valley of the Shadow, + Ride, boldly ride," + The shade replied, + "If you seek for Eldorado." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HYMN TO THE NIGHT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I heard the trailing garments of the Night + Sweep through her marble halls! + I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light + From the celestial walls! + + I felt her presence, by its spell of might, + Stoop o'er me from above; + The calm, majestic presence of the Night, + As of the one I love. + + I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, + The manifold, soft chimes, + That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, + Like some old poet's rhymes. + + From the cool cisterns of the midnight air + My spirit drank repose; + The fountain of perpetual peace flows there— + From those deep cisterns flows. + + O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear + What man has borne before! + Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, + And they complain no more. + + Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! + Descend with broad-winged flight, + The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, + The best-beloved Night! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PSALM OF LIFE + </h2> + <h3> + WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tell me not, in mournful numbers, + "Life is but an empty dream!" + For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + + Life is real! Life is earnest! + And the grave is not its goal; + "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," + Was not spoken of the soul. + + Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, + Is our destined end or way; + But to act, that each to-morrow + Find us farther than to-day. + + Art is long, and Time is fleeting, + And our hearts, though stout and brave, + Still, like muffled drums, are beating + Funeral marches to the grave. + + In the world's broad field of battle, + In the bivouac of Life, + Be not like dumb, driven cattle; + Be a hero in the strife! + + Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant + Let the dead Past bury its dead! + Act,—act in the living Present! + Heart within, and God o'erhead! + + Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime, + And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time; + + Footprints, that perhaps another, + Sailing o'er life's solemn main, + A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, + Seeing, shall take heart again. + + Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; + Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labor and to wait. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SKELETON IN ARMOR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! + Who, with thy hollow breast + Still in rude armor drest, + Comest to daunt me! + + Wrapt not in Eastern balms, + But with thy fleshless palms + Stretched, as if asking alms, + Why dost thou haunt me?" + + Then, from those cavernous eyes + Pale flashes seemed to rise, + As when the Northern skies + Gleam in December; + And, like the water's flow + Under December's snow, + Came a dull voice of woe + From the heart's chamber. + + "I was a Viking old! + My deeds, though manifold, + No Skald in song has told, + No Saga taught thee! + Take heed, that in thy verse + Thou dost the tale rehearse, + Else dread a dead man's curse; + For this I sought thee. + + "Far in the Northern Land, + By the wild Baltic's strand, + I, with my childish hand, + Tamed the ger-falcon; + And, with my skates fast-bound, + Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, + That the poor whimpering hound + Trembled to walk on. + + "Oft to his frozen lair + Tracked I the grisly bear, + While from my path the hare + Fled like a shadow; + Oft through the forest dark + Followed the were-wolf's bark, + Until the soaring lark + Sang from the meadow. + + "But when I older grew, + Joining a corsair's crew, + O'er the dark sea I flew + With the marauders. + Wild was the life we led; + Many the souls that sped, + Many the hearts that bled, + By our stern orders. + + "Many a wassail-bout + Wore the long Winter out; + Often our midnight shout + Set the cocks crowing, + As we the Berserk's tale + Measured in cups of ale, + Draining the oaken pail, + Filled to o'erflowing. + + "Once as I told in glee + Tales of the stormy sea, + Soft eyes did gaze on me, + Burning yet tender; + And as the white stars shine + On the dark Norway pine, + On that dark heart of mine + Fell their soft splendor. + + "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, + Yielding, yet half afraid, + And in the forest's shade + Our vows were plighted. + Under its loosened vest + Fluttered her little breast, + Like birds within their nest + By the hawk frighted. + + "Bright in her father's hall + Shields gleamed upon the wall, + Loud sang the minstrels all, + Chaunting his glory; + When of old Hildebrand + I asked his daughter's hand, + Mute did the minstrels stand + To hear my story. + + "While the brown ale he quaffed, + Loud then the champion laughed, + And as the wind-gusts waft + The sea-foam brightly, + So the loud laugh of scorn, + Out of those lips unshorn, + From the deep drinking-horn + Blew the foam lightly. + + "She was a Prince's child, + I but a Viking wild, + And though she blushed and smiled, + I was discarded! + Should not the dove so white + Follow the sea-mew's flight, + Why did they leave that night + Her nest unguarded? + + "Scarce had I put to sea, + Bearing the maid with me,— + Fairest of all was she + Among the Norsemen!— + When on the white sea-strand, + Waving his armed hand, + Saw we old Hildebrand, + With twenty horsemen. + + "Then launched they to the blast, + Bent like a reed each mast, + Yet we were gaining fast, + When the wind failed us; + And with a sudden flaw + Come round the gusty Skaw, + So that our foe we saw + Laugh as he hailed us. + + "And as to catch the gale + Round veered the flapping sail, + Death! was the helmsman's hail + Death without quarter! + Mid-ships with iron keel + Struck we her ribs of steel; + Down her black hulk did reel + Through the black water! + + "As with his wings aslant, + Sails the fierce cormorant, + Seeking some rocky haunt, + With his prey laden, + So toward the open main, + Beating to sea again, + Through the wild hurricane, + Bore I the maiden. + + "Three weeks we westward bore, + And when the storm was o'er, + Cloud-like we saw the shore + Stretching to lee-ward; + There for my lady's bower + Built I the lofty tower, + Which to this very hour, + Stands looking sea-ward. + + "There lived we many years; + Time dried the maiden's tears; + She had forgot her fears, + She was a mother; + Death closed her mild blue eyes, + Under that tower she lies; + Ne'er shall the sun arise + On such another! + + "Still grew my bosom then, + Still as a stagnant fen! + Hateful to me were men, + The sun-light hateful. + In the vast forest here, + Clad in my warlike gear, + Fell I upon my spear, + O, death was grateful! + + "Thus, seamed with many scars + Bursting these prison bars, + Up to its native stars + My soul ascended! + There from the flowing bowl + Deep drinks the warrior's soul, + Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" + —Thus the tale ended. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was the schooner Hesperus, + That sailed the wintry sea: + And the skipper had taken his little daughter, + To bear him company. + + Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, + Her cheeks like the dawn of day, + And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, + That ope in the month of May. + + The skipper he stood beside the helm, + His pipe was in his mouth, + And he watched how the veering flaw did blow + The smoke now West, now South. + + Then up and spake an old Sailor, + Had sailed the Spanish Main, + "I pray thee, put into yonder port + For I fear a hurricane. + + "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, + And to-night no moon we see!" + The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, + And a scornful laugh laughed he. + + Colder and louder blew the wind, + A gale from the Northeast; + The snow fell hissing in the brine, + And the billows frothed like yeast. + + Down came the storm, and smote amain, + The vessel in its strength; + She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, + Then leaped her cable's length, + + "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, + And do not tremble so; + For I can weather the roughest gale, + That ever wind did blow." + + He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat + Against the stinging blast; + He cut a rope from a broken spar, + And bound her to the mast. + + "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, + O say, what may it be?" + "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" + And he steered for the open sea. + + "O father! I hear the sound of guns, + O say, what may it be?" + "Some ship in distress, that cannot live + In such an angry sea!" + + "O father! I see a gleaming light, + O say, what may it be?" + But the father answered never a word, + A frozen corpse was he. + + Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, + With his face turned to the skies, + The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + + Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That saved she might be; + And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, + On the Lake of Galilee. + + And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, + Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept + Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. + + And ever the fitful gusts between, + A sound came from the land; + It was the sound of the trampling surf, + On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. + + The breakers were right beneath her bows, + She drifted a dreary wreck, + And a whooping billow swept the crew + Like icicles from her deck. + + She struck where the white and fleecy waves + Looked soft as carded wool, + But the cruel rocks, they gored her side + Like the horns of an angry bull. + + Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, + With the masts went by the board; + Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, + Ho! ho! the breakers roared! + + At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, + A fisherman stood aghast, + To see the form of a maiden fair, + Lashed close to a drifting mast. + + The salt sea was frozen on her breast, + The salt tears in her eyes; + And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, + On the billows fall and rise. + + Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, + In the midnight and the snow! + Christ save us all from a death like this, + On the reef of Norman's Woe! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Under a spreading chestnut tree + The village smithy stands; + The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands; + And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + + His hair is crisp, and black, and long, + His face is like the tan; + His brow is wet with honest sweat, + He earns whate'er he can, + And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + + Week in, week out, from morn till night, + You can hear his bellows blow; + You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, + Like a sexton ringing the village bell, + When the evening sun is low. + + And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door; + They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, + And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing-floor. + + He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys + He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter's voice, + Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + + It sounds to him like her mother's voice, + Singing in Paradise! + He needs must think of her once more, + How in the grave she lies; + And with his hard, rough hand he wipe + A tear out of his eyes. + + Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; + Each morning sees some task begin, + Each evening sees it close; + Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night's repose. + + Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, + For the lesson thou hast taught! + Thus at the flaming forge of life + Our fortunes must be wrought; + Thus on its sounding anvil shaped + Each burning deed and thought! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY + </h2> + <h3> + NO HAY PAJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTANO + </h3> + <p> + Spanish Proverb, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sun is bright,—the air is clear, + The darting swallows soar and sing, + And from the stately elms I hear + The bluebird prophesying Spring. + + So blue yon winding river flows, + It seems an outlet from the sky, + Where, waiting till the west wind blows, + The freighted clouds at anchor lie. + + All things are new;—the buds, the leaves, + That gild the elm tree's nodding crest. + And even the nest beneath the eaves; + There are no birds in last year's nest! + + All things rejoice in youth and love, + The fulness of their first delight! + And learn from the soft heavens above + The melting tenderness of night. + + Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, + Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; + Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, + For O! it is not always May! + + Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, + To some good angel leave the rest; + For Time will teach thee soon the truth, + There are no birds in last year's nest! +</pre> + <p> + EXCELSIOR + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The shades of night were falling fast, + As through an Alpine village passed + A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, + A banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + + His brow was sad; his eye beneath, + Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, + And like a silver clarion rung + The accents of that unknown tongue, + Excelsior! + + In happy homes he saw the light + Of household fires gleam warm and bright; + Above, the spectral glaciers shone, + And from his lips escaped a groan, + Excelsior! + + "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; + "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, + The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" + And loud that clarion voice replied, + Excelsior! + + "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest + Thy weary head upon this breast!" + A tear stood in his bright blue eye, + But still he answered, with a sigh, + Excelsior! + + "Beware the pine tree's withered branch! + Beware the awful avalanche!" + This was the peasant's last Good-night, + A voice replied, far up the height, + Excelsior! + + At break of day, as heavenward + The pious monks of Saint Bernard + Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, + A voice cried through the startled air, + Excelsior! + + A traveller, by the faithful hound, + Half-buried in the snow was found, + Still grasping in his hand of ice + That banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + + There in the twilight cold and gray, + Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, + And from the sky, serene and far, + A voice fell, like a falling star, + Excelsior! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RAINY DAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; + It rains, and the wind is never weary; + The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, + But at every gust the dead leaves fall, + And the day is dark and dreary. + + My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; + It rains, and the wind is never weary; + My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, + But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, + And the days are dark and dreary. + + Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; + Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; + Thy fate is the common fate of all, + Into each life some rain must fall, + Some days must be dark and dreary. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ARROW AND THE SONG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I shot an arrow into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For, so swiftly it flew, the sight + Could not follow it in its flight. + + I breathed a song into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For who has sight so keen and strong, + That it can follow the flight of song? + + Long, long afterward, in an oak + I found the arrow, still unbroke; + And the song, from beginning to end, + I found again in the heart of a friend. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DAY IS DONE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The day is done, and the darkness + Falls from the wings of Night, + As a feather is wafted downward + From an eagle in his flight. + + I see the lights of the village + Gleam through the rain and the mist, + And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, + That my soul cannot resist: + + A feeling of sadness and longing, + That is not akin to pain, + And resembles sorrow only + As the mist resembles the rain. + + Come, read to me some poem, + Some simple and heartfelt lay, + That shall soothe this restless feeling, + And banish the thoughts of day. + + Not from the grand old masters, + Not from the bards sublime, + Whose distant footsteps echo + Through the corridors of Time. + + For, like strains of martial music, + Their mighty thoughts suggest + Life's endless toil and endeavor; + And to-night I long for rest. + + Read from some humbler poet, + Whose songs gushed from his heart, + As showers from the clouds of summer, + Or tears from the eyelids start; + + Who, through long days of labor, + And nights devoid of ease, + Still heard in his soul the music + Of wonderful melodies. + + Such songs have power to quiet + The restless pulse of care, + And come like the benediction + That follows after prayer. + + Then read from the treasured volume + The poem of thy choice, + And lend to the rhyme of the poet + The beauty of thy voice. + + And the night shall be filled with music, + And the cares, that infest the day, + Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, + And as silently steal away. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VOGELWEID, the Minnesinger, + When he left this world of ours, + Laid his body in the cloister, + Under Wurtzburg's minster towers. + + And he gave the monks his treasures, + Gave them all with this behest + They should feed the birds at noontide + Daily on his place of rest; + + Saying, "From these wandering minstrels + I have learned the art of song; + Let me now repay the lessons + They have taught so well and long." + + Thus the bard of love departed; + And, fulfilling his desire, + On his tomb the birds were feasted + By the children of the choir. + + Day by day, o'er tower and turret, + In foul weather and in fair, + Day by day, in vaster numbers, + Flocked the poets of the air. + + On the tree whose heavy branches + Overshadowed all the place, + On the pavement, on the tombstone; + On the poet's sculptured face, + + On the cross-bars of each window, + On the lintel of each door, + They renewed the War of Wartburg, + Which the bard had fought before. + + There they sang their merry carols, + Sang their lauds on every side; + And the name their voices uttered + Was the name of Vogelweid. + + Till at length the portly abbot + Murmured, "Why this waste of food? + Be it changed to loaves henceforward + For our fasting brotherhood." + + Then in vain o'er tower and turret, + From the walls and woodland nests, + When the minster bells rang noontide, + Gathered the unwelcome guests. + + Then in vain, with cries discordant, + Clamorous round the Gothic spire, + Screamed the feathered Minnesingers + For the children of the choir. + + Time has long effaced the inscriptions + On the cloister's funeral stones, + And tradition only tells us + Where repose the poet's bones. + + But around the vast cathedral, + By sweet echoes multiplied, + Still the birds repeat the legend, + And the name of Vogelweid. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BUILDERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All are architects of Fate, + Working in these walls of Time; + Some with massive deeds and great, + Some with ornaments of rhyme. + + Nothing useless is, or low: + Each thing in its place is best; + And what seems but idle show + Strengthens and supports the rest. + + For the structure that we raise, + Time is with materials filled; + Our to-days and yesterdays + Are the blocks with which we build. + + Truly shape and fashion these; + Leave no yawning gaps between + Think not, because no man sees, + Such things will remain unseen. + + In the elder days of Art, + Builders wrought with greatest care + Each minute and unseen part! + For the Gods see everywhere. + + Let us do our work as well, + Both the unseen and the seen; + Make the house, where Gods may dwell, + Beautiful, entire, and clean. + + Else our lives are incomplete, + Standing in these walls of Time, + Broken stairways, where the feet + Stumble as they seek to climb. + + Build to-day, then, strong and sure, + With a firm and ample base + And ascending and secure + Shall to-morrow find its place. + + Thus alone can we attain + To those turrets, where the eye + Sees the world as one vast plain, + And one boundless reach of sky. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SANTA FILOMENA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, + Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, + Our hearts, in glad surprise, + To higher levels rise. + + The tidal wave of deeper souls + Into our inmost being rolls, + And lifts us unawares + Out of all meaner cares. + + Honor to those whose words or deeds + Thus help us in our daily needs, + And by their overflow + Raise us from what is low! + + Thus thought I, as by night I read + Of the great army of the dead, + The trenches cold and damp, + The starved and frozen camp, + + The wounded from the battle-plain, + In dreary hospitals of pain, + The cheerless corridors, + The cold and stony floors. + + Lo! in that house of misery + A lady with a lamp I see + Pass through the glimmering gloom, + And flit from room to room. + + And slow, as in a dream of bliss, + The speechless sufferer turns to kiss + Her shadow, as it falls + Upon the darkening walls. + + As if a door in heaven should be + Opened and then closed suddenly, + The vision came and went, + The light shone and was spent. + + On England's annals, through the long + Hereafter of her speech and song, + That light its rays shall cast + From portals of the past. + + A Lady with a Lamp shall stand + In the great history of the land, + A noble type of good, + Heroic womanhood. + + Nor even shall be wanting here + The palm, the lily, and the spear, + The symbols that of yore + Saint Filomena bore. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE + </h2> + <h3> + A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Othere, the old sea-captain, + Who dwelt in Helgoland, + To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, + Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, + Which he held in his brown right hand. + + His figure was tall and stately, + Like a boy's his eye appeared; + His hair was yellow as hay, + But threads of a silvery gray + Gleamed in his tawny beard. + + Hearty and hale was Othere, + His cheek had the color of oak; + With a kind of laugh in his speech, + Like the sea-tide on a beach, + As unto the King he spoke. + + And Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Had a book upon his knees, + And wrote down the wondrous tale + Of him who was first to sail + Into the Arctic seas. + + "So far I live to the northward, + No man lives north of me; + To the east are wild mountain-chains, + And beyond them meres and plains; + To the westward all is sea. + + "So far I live to the northward, + From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, + If you only sailed by day, + With a fair wind all the way, + More than a month would you sail. + + "I own six hundred reindeer, + With sheep and swine beside; + I have tribute from the Finns, + Whalebone and reindeer-skins, + And ropes of walrus-hide. + + "I ploughed the land with horses, + But my heart was ill at ease, + For the old seafaring men + Came to me now and then, + With their sagas of the seas; + + "Of Iceland and of Greenland + And the stormy Hebrides, + And the undiscovered deep;— + I could not eat nor sleep + For thinking of those seas. + + "To the northward stretched the desert, + How far I fain would know; + So at last I sallied forth, + And three days sailed due north, + As far as the whale-ships go. + + "To the west of me was the ocean, + To the right the desolate shore, + But I did not slacken sail + For the walrus or the whale, + Till after three days more, + + "The days grew longer and longer, + Till they became as one, + And southward through the haze + I saw the sullen blaze + Of the red midnight sun. + + "And then uprose before me, + Upon the water's edge, + The huge and haggard shape + Of that unknown North Cape, + Whose form is like a wedge. + + "The sea was rough and stormy, + The tempest howled and wailed, + And the sea-fog, like a ghost, + Haunted that dreary coast, + But onward still I sailed. + + "Four days I steered to eastward, + Four days without a night + Round in a fiery ring + Went the great sun, O King, + With red and lurid light." + + Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Ceased writing for a while; + And raised his eyes from his book, + With a strange and puzzled look, + And an incredulous smile. + + But Othere, the old sea-captain, + He neither paused nor stirred, + Till the King listened, and then + Once more took up his pen, + And wrote down every word. + + "And now the land," said Othere, + "Bent southward suddenly, + And I followed the curving shore + And ever southward bore + Into a nameless sea. + + "And there we hunted the walrus, + The narwhale, and the seal; + Ha! 't was a noble game! + And like the lightning's flame + Flew our harpoons of steel. + + "There were six of us all together, + Norsemen of Helgoland; + In two days and no more + We killed of them threescore, + And dragged them to the strand! + + Here Alfred the Truth-Teller + Suddenly closed his book, + And lifted his blue eyes, + with doubt and strange surmise + Depicted in their look. + + And Othere the old sea-captain + Stared at him wild and weird, + Then smiled, till his shining teeth + Gleamed white from underneath + His tawny, quivering beard. + + And to the King of the Saxons, + In witness of the truth, + Raising his noble head, + He stretched his brown hand, and said, + "Behold this walrus-tooth!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SANDALPHON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Have you read in the Talmud of old, + In the Legends the Rabbins have told + Of the limitless realms of the air,— + Have you read it.—the marvellous story + Of Sandalphon, te Angel of Glory, + Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? + + How, erect, at the outermost gates + Of the City Celestial he waits, + With his feet on the ladder of light, + That, crowded with angels unnumbered, + By Jacob was seen as he slumbered + Alone in the desert at night? + + The Angels of Wind and of Fire, + Chant only one hymn, and expire + With the song's irresistible stress; + Expire in their rapture and wonder, + As harp-strings are broken asunder + By music they throb to express. + + But serene in the rapturous throng, + Unmoved by the rush of the song, + With eyes unimpassioned and slow, + Among the dead angels, the deathless + Sandalphon stands listening breathless + To sounds that ascend from below;— + + From the spirits on earth that adore, + From the souls that entreat and implore + In the fervor and passion of prayer; + From the hearts that are broken with losses, + And weary with dragging the crosses + Too heavy for mortals to bear. + + And he gathers the prayers as he stands, + And they change into flowers in his hands, + Into garlands of purple and red; + And beneath the great arch of the portal, + Through the streets of the City Immortal + Is wafted the fragrance they shed. + + It is but a legend, I know,— + A fable, a phantom, a show, + Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; + Yet the old mediaeval tradition, + The beautiful, strange superstition + But haunts me and holds me the more. + + When I look from my window at night, + And the welkin above is all white, + All throbbing and panting with stars, + Among them majestic is standing + Sandalphon the angel, expanding + His pinions in nebulous bars. + + And the legend, I feel, is a part + Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, + The frenzy and fire of the brain, + That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, + The golden pomegranates of Eden, + To quiet its fever and pain. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LANDLORD'S TALE + </h2> + <h3> + PAUL REVERES RIDE + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Listen, my children, and you shall hear + Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, + On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; + Hardly a man is now alive + Who remembers that famous day and year. + + He said to his friend, "If the British march + By land or sea from the town to-night, + Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch + Of the North Church tower as a signal light,— + One, if by land, and two, if by sea; + And I on the opposite shore will be, + Ready to ride and spread the alarm + Through every Middlesex village and farm, + For the country-folk to be up and to arm." + + Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar + Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, + Just as the moon rose over the bay, + Where swinging wide at her moorings lay + The Somerset, British man-of-war; + A phantom ship, with each mast and spar + Across the moon like a prison bar, + And a huge black hulk that was magnified + By its own reflection in the tide. + + Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, + Wanders and watches with eager ears, + Till in the silence around him he hears + The muster of men at the barrack door, + The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, + And the measured tread of the grenadiers, + Marching down to their boats on the shore. + + Then he climbed to the tower of the church, + Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, + To the belfry-chamber overhead, + And startled the pigeons from their perch + On the sombre rafters, that round him made + Masses and moving shapes of shade,— + Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, + To the highest window in the wall, + Where he paused to listen and look down + A moment on the roofs of the town, + And the moonlight flowing over all. + Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, + In their night-encampment on the hill, + Wrapped in silence so deep and still + That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, + The watchful night-wind, as it went + Creeping along from tent to tent, + And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" + A moment only he feels the spell + Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread + Of the lonely belfry and the dead; + For suddenly all his thoughts are bent + On a shadowy something far away, + Where the river widens to meet the bay, + A line of black that bends and floats + On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. + + Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, + Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride + On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. + Now he patted his horse's side, + Now gazed at the landscape far and near, + Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, + And turned and tightened his saddlegirth; + But mostly he watched with eager search + The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, + As it rose above the graves on the hill, + Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. + And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height + A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! + He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, + But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight + A second lamp in the belfry burns! + + A hurry of hoofs in a village street, + A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, + And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark + Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; + That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, + The fate of a nation was riding that night; + And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, + Kindled the land into flame with its heat. + + He has left the village and mounted the steep, + And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, + Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; + And under the alders, that skirt its edge, + Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, + Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. + It was twelve by the village clock + When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. + He heard the crowing of the cock, + And the barking of the farmer's dog, + And felt the damp of the river fog, + That rises after the sun goes down. + + It was one by the village clock, + When he galloped into Lexington. + He saw the gilded weathercock + Swim in the moonlight as he passed, + And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, + Gaze at him with a spectral glare, + As if they already stood aghast + At the bloody work they would look upon. + + It was two by the village clock, + When he came to the bridge in Concord town. + He heard the bleating of the flock, + And the twitter of birds among the trees, + And felt the breath of the morning breeze + Blowing over the meadows brown. + And one was safe and asleep in his bed + Who at the bridge would be first to fall, + Who that day would be lying dead, + Pierced by a British musket-ball. + + You know the rest. + In the books you have read, + How the British Regulars fired and fled,— + How the farmers gave them ball for ball, + From behind each fence and farmyard wall, + Chasing the red-coats down the lane, + Then crossing the fields to emerge again + Under the trees at the turn of the road, + And only pausing to fire and load. + + So through the night rode Paul Revere; + And so through the night went his cry of alarm + To every Middlesex village and farm, + A cry of defiance and not of fear, + A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, + And a word that shall echo forevermore! + For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, + Through all our history, to the last, + In the hour of darkness and peril and need, + The people will waken and listen to hear + The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, + And the midnight message of Paul Revere. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SICILIAN'S TALE + </h2> + <h3> + KING ROBERT OF SICILY + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Apparelled in magnificent attire, + With retinue of many a knight and squire, + On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat + And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. + And as he listened, o'er and o'er again + Repeated, like a burden or refrain, + He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes + De sede, et exaltavit humiles;" + And slowly lifting up his kingly head + He to a learned clerk beside him said, + "What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet, + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree." + Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, + "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung + Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; + For unto priests and people be it known, + There is no power can push me from my throne!" + And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, + Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. + + When he awoke, it was already night; + The church was empty, and there was no light, + Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, + Lighted a little space before some saint. + He started from his seat and gazed around, + But saw no living thing and heard no sound. + He groped towards the door, but it was locked; + He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, + And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, + And imprecations upon men and saints. + The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls + As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls! + + At length the sexton, hearing from without + The tumult of the knocking and the shout, + And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, + Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?" + Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, + "Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?" + The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, + "This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!" + Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; + A man rushed by him at a single stride, + Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, + Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, + But leaped into the blackness of the night, + And vanished like a spectre from his sight. + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Despoiled of his magnificent attire, + Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, + With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, + Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; + Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage + To right and left each seneschal and page, + And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, + His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. + From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; + Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, + Until at last he reached the banquet—room, + Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. + + There on the dais sat another king, + Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, + King Robert's self in features, form, and height, + But all transfigured with angelic light! + It was an Angel; and his presence there + With a divine effulgence filled the air, + An exaltation, piercing the disguise, + Though none the hidden Angel recognize. + + A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, + The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, + Who met his looks of anger and surprise + With the divine compassion of his eves; + Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?" + To which King Robert answered with a sneer, + "I am the King, and come to claim my own + From an impostor, who usurps my throne!" + And suddenly, at these audacious words, + Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; + The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, + "Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou + Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, + And for thy counsellor shaft lead an ape; + Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, + And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!" + + Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, + They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; + A group of tittering pages ran before, + And as they opened wide the folding-door, + His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, + The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, + And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring + With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King! + + Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, + He said within himself, "It was a dream!" + But the straw rustled as he turned his head, + There were the cap and bells beside his bed, + Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, + Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, + And in the corner, a revolting shape, + Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. + It was no dream; the world he loved so much + Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! + + Days came and went; and now returned again + To Sicily the old Saturnian reign + Under the Angel's governance benign + The happy island danced with corn and wine, + And deep within the mountain's burning breast + Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. + + Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, + Sullen and silent and disconsolate. + Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, + With looks bewildered and a vacant stare, + Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, + By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, + His only friend the ape, his only food + What others left,—he still was unsubdued. + And when the Angel met him on his way, + And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, + Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel + The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, + "Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe + Burst from him in resistless overflow, + And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling + The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the King!" + + Almost three years were ended; when there came + Ambassadors of great repute and name + From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine. + Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane + By letter summoned them forthwith to come + On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. + The Angel with great joy received his guests, + And gave them presents of embroidered vests, + And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, + And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. + Then he departed with them o'er the sea + Into the lovely land of Italy, + Whose loveliness was more resplendent made + By the mere passing of that cavalcade, + With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir + Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. + And lo! among the menials, in mock state, + Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, + His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, + The solemn ape demurely perched behind, + King Robert rode, making huge merriment + In all the country towns through which they went. + + The Pope received them with great pomp and blare + Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, + Giving his benediction and embrace, + Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. + While with congratulations and with prayers + He entertained the Angel unawares, + Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, + Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, + "I am the King! Look, and behold in me + Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! + This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, + Is an impostor in a king's disguise. + + Do you not know me? does no voice within + Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" + The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, + Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene; + The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport + To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!" + And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace + Was hustled back among the populace. + + In solemn state the Holy Week went by, + And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; + The presence of the Angel, with its light, + Before the sun rose, made the city bright, + And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, + Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. + Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, + With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, + He felt within a power unfelt before, + And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, + He heard the rushing garments of the Lord + Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. + + And now the visit ending, and once more + Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, + Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again + The land was made resplendent with his train, + Flashing along the towns of Italy + Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. + And when once more within Palermo's wall, + And, seated on the throne in his great hall, + He heard the Angelus from convent towers, + As if the better world conversed with ours, + He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, + And with a gesture bade the rest retire; + And when they were alone, the Angel said, + "Art thou the King?" Then bowing down his head, + King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, + And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best! + My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, + And in some cloister's school of penitence, + Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, + Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!" + + The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face + A holy light illumined all the place, + And through the open window, loud and clear, + They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, + Above the stir and tumult of the street + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree!" + And through the chant a second melody + Rose like the throbbing of a single string + "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!" + + King Robert, who was standing near the throne, + Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! + But all apparelled as in days of old, + With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; + And when his courtiers came, they found him there + Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE + </h2> + <h3> + THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "HADST thou stayed, I must have fled!" + That is what the Vision said. + + In his chamber all alone, + Kneeling on the floor of stone, + Prayed the Monk in deep contrition + For his sins of indecision, + Prayed for greater self-denial + In temptation and in trial; + It was noonday by the dial, + And the Monk was all alone. + + Suddenly, as if it lightened, + An unwonted splendor brightened + All within him and without him + In that narrow cell of stone; + And he saw the Blessed Vision + Of our Lord, with light Elysian + Like a vesture wrapped about Him, + Like a garment round Him thrown. + + Not as crucified and slain, + Not in agonies of pain, + Not with bleeding hands and feet, + Did the Monk his Master see; + But as in the village street, + In the house or harvest-field, + Halt and lame and blind He healed, + When He walked in Galilee. + + In an attitude imploring, + Hands upon his bosom crossed, + Wondering, worshipping, adoring, + Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. + Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, + Who am I, that thus thou deignest + To reveal thyself to me? + Who am I, that from the centre + Of thy glory thou shouldst enter + This poor cell, my guest to be? + + Then amid his exaltation, + Loud the convent bell appalling, + From its belfry calling, calling, + Rang through court and corridor + With persistent iteration + He had never heard before. + It was now the appointed hour + When alike in shine or shower, + Winter's cold or summer's heat, + To the convent portals came + All the blind and halt and lame, + All the beggars of the street, + For their daily dole of food + Dealt them by the brotherhood; + And their almoner was he + Who upon his bended knee, + Rapt in silent ecstasy + Of divinest self-surrender, + Saw the Vision and the Splendor. + Deep distress and hesitation + Mingled with his adoration; + Should he go or should he stay? + Should he leave the poor to wait + Hungry at the convent gate, + Till the Vision passed away? + Should he slight his radiant guest, + Slight this visitant celestial, + For a crowd of ragged, bestial + Beggars at the convent gate? + Would the Vision there remain? + Would the Vision come again? + Then a voice within his breast + Whispered, audible and clear + As if to the outward ear + "Do thy duty; that is best; + Leave unto thy Lord the rest!" + + Straightway to his feet he started, + And with longing look intent + On the Blessed Vision bent, + Slowly from his cell departed, + Slowly on his errand went. + + At the gate the poor were waiting, + Looking through the iron grating, + With that terror in the eye + That is only seen in those + Who amid their wants and woes + Hear the sound of doors that close, + And of feet that pass them by; + Grown familiar with disfavor, + Grown familiar with the savor + Of the bread by which men die! + + But to-day, they know not why, + Like the gate of Paradise + Seemed the convent gate to rise, + Like a sacrament divine + Seemed to them the bread and wine. + In his heart the Monk was praying, + Thinking of the homeless poor, + What they suffer and endure; + What we see not, what we see; + And the inward voice was saying + "Whatsoever thing thou doest + To the least of mine and lowest, + That thou doest unto me!" + + Unto me! but had the Vision + Come to him in beggar's clothing, + Come a mendicant imploring. + Would he then have knelt adoring, + Or have listened with derision, + And have turned away with loathing? + + Thus his conscience put the question, + Full of troublesome suggestion, + As at length, with hurried pace, + Towards his cell he turned his face, + And beheld the convent bright + With a supernatural light, + Like a luminous cloud expanding + Over floor and wall and ceiling. + + But he paused with awe-struck feeling + At the threshold of his door, + For the Vision still was standing + As he left it there before, + When the convent bell appalling, + From its belfry calling, calling, + Summoned him to feed the poor. + Through the long hour intervening + It had waited his return, + And he felt his bosom burn, + Comprehending all the meaning, + When the Blessed Vision said, + "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PROEM + </h2> + <p> + To EDITION of 1847 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I love the old melodious lays + Which softly melt the ages through, + The songs of Spenser's golden days, + Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, + Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. + + Yet, vainly in my quiet hours + To breathe their marvellous notes I try; + I feel them, as the leaves and flowers + In silence feel the dewy showers, + And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky. + + The rigor of a frozen clime, + The harshness of an untaught ear, + The jarring words of one whose rhyme + Beat often Labor's hurried time, + Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. + + Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, + No rounded art the lack supplies; + Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, + Or softer shades of Nature's face, + I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. + + Nor mine the seer-like power to show + The secrets of the hear and mind; + To drop the plummet-line below + Our common world of joy and woe, + A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. + + Yet here at least an earnest sense + Of human right and weal is shown; + A hate of tyranny intense, + And hearty in its vehemence, + As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. + + O Freedom! if to me belong + Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, + Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, + Still with a love as deep and strong + As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FROST SPIRIT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! You + may trace his footsteps now + On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown + hill's withered brow. + He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their + pleasant green came forth, + And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken + them down to earth. + + He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—from + the frozen Labrador,— + From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white + bear wanders o'er,— + Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless + forms below + In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues + grow! + + He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—on the + rushing Northern blast, + And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful + breath went past. + With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires + of Hecla glow + On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below. + + He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—and + the quiet lake shall feel + The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the + skater's heel; + And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang + to the leaning grass, + Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful + silence pass. + + He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—let us + meet him as we may, + And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil + power away; + And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light + dances high, + And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding + wing goes by! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONGS OF LABOR + </h2> + <h3> + DEDICATION + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I would the gift I offer here + Might graces from thy favor take, + And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere, + On softened lines and coloring, wear + The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake. + + Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain + But what I have I give to thee,— + The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain, + And paler flowers, the latter rain + Calls from the weltering slope of life's autumnal + + Above the fallen groves of green, + Where youth's enchanted forest stood, + Dry root and mossed trunk between, + A sober after-growth is seen, + As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple wood! + + Yet birds will sing, and breezes play + Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree, + And through the bleak and wintry day + It keeps its steady green alway,— + So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee. + + Art's perfect forms no moral need, + And beauty is its own excuse; + But for the dull and flowerless weed + Some healing virtue still must plead, + And the rough ore must find its honors in its use. + + So haply these, my simple lays + Of homely toil, may serve to show + The orchard bloom and tasseled maize + That skirt and gladden duty's ways, + The unsung beauty hid life's common things below. + + Haply from them the toiler, bent + Above his forge or plough, may gain + A manlier spirit of content, + And feel that life is wisest spent + Where the strong working hand makes strong the working brain. + + The doom which to the guilty pair + Without the walls of Eden came, + Transforming sinless ease to care + And rugged toil, no more shall bear + The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. + + A blessing now,—a curse no more; + Since He whose name we breathe with awe. + The coarse mechanic vesture wore, + A poor man toiling with the poor, + In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LUMBERMEN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wildly round our woodland quarters, + Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; + Thickly down these swelling waters + Float his fallen leaves. + Through the tall and naked timber, + Column-like and old, + Gleam the sunsets of November, + From their skies of gold. + + O'er us, to the southland heading, + Screams the gray wild-goose; + On the night-frost sounds the treading + Of the brindled moose. + Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, + Frost his task-work plies; + Soon, his icy bridges heaping, + Shall our log-piles rise. + + When, with sounds of smothered thunder, + On some night of rain, + Lake and river break asunder + Winter's weakened chain, + Down the wild March flood shall bear them + To the saw-mill's wheel, + Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them + With his teeth of steel. + + Be it starlight, be it moonlight, + In these vales below, + When the earliest beams of sunlight + Streak the mountain's snow, + Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early, + To our hurrying feet, + And the forest echoes clearly + All our blows repeat. + + Where the crystal Ambijejis + Stretches broad and clear, + And Millnoket's pine-black ridges + Hide the browsing deer: + Where, through lakes and wide morasses, + Or through rocky walls, + Swift and strong, Penobscot passes + White with foamy falls; + + Where, through clouds, are glimpses given + Of Katahdin's sides,— + Rock and forest piled to heaven, + Torn and ploughed by slides! + Far below, the Indian trapping, + In the sunshine warm; + Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping + Half the peak in storm! + + Where are mossy carpets better + Than the Persian weaves, + And than Eastern perfumes sweeter + Seem the fading leaves; + And a music wild and solemn + From the pine-tree's height, + Rolls its vast and sea-like volumes + On the wind of night; + + Not for us the measured ringing + From the village spire, + Not for us the Sabbath singing + Of the sweet-voiced choir + Ours the old, majestic temple, + Where God's brightness shines + Down the dome so grand and ample, + Propped by lofty pines! + + Keep who will the city's alleys, + Take the smooth-shorn plain,— + Give to us the cedar valleys, + Rocks and hills of Maine! + In our North-land, wild and woody, + Let us still have part: + Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, + Hold us to thy heart! + + O, our free hearts beat the warmer + For thy breath of snow; + And our tread is all the firmer + For thy rocks below. + Freedom, hand in hand with labor, + Walketh strong and brave; + On the forehead of his neighbor + No man writeth Slave! + + Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's + Pine-trees show its fires, + While from these dim forest gardens + Rise their blackened spires. + Up, my comrades! up and doing! + Manhood's rugged play + Still renewing, bravely hewing + Through the world our way! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BARCLAY OF URY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Up the streets of Aberdeen, + By the kick and college green, + Rode the Laird of Ury; + Close behind him, close beside, + Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, + Pressed the mob in fury. + + Flouted him the drunken churl, + Jeered at him the serving-girl, + Prompt to please her master; + And the begging carlin, late + Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, + Cursed him as he passed her. + + Yet, with calm and stately mien, + Up the streets of Aberdeen + Came he slowly riding; + And, to all he saw and heard, + Answering not with bitter word, + Turning not for chiding. + + Came a troop with broadswords swinging, + Bits and bridles sharply ringing, + Loose and free and froward; + Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! + Push him! prick him! through the town + Drive the Quaker coward!" + + But from out the thickening crowd + Cried a sudden voice and loud + "Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!" + And the old man at his side + Saw a comrade, battle tried, + Scarred and sunburned darkly; + + Who with ready weapon bare, + Fronting to the troopers there, + Cried aloud: "God save us, + Call ye coward him who stood + Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood, + With the brave Gustavus?" + + "Nay, I do not need thy sword, + Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; + "Put it up, I pray thee: + Passive to His holy will, + Trust I in my Master still, + Even though He slay me. + + "Pledges of thy love and faith, + Proved on many a field of death, + Not, by me are needed." + Marvelled much that henchman bold, + That his laud, so stout of old, + Now so meekly pleaded. + + "Woe's the day!" he sadly said, + With a slowly shaking head, + And a look of pity; + "Ury's honest lord reviled, + Mock of knave and sport of child, + In his own good city! + + "Speak the word, and, master mine, + As we charged on Tilly's line, + And his Walloon lancers, + Smiting through their midst we'll teach + Civil look and decent speech + To these boyish prancers!" + + "Marvel not, mine ancient friend, + Like beginning, like the end:" + Quoth the Laird of Ury, + "Is the sinful servant more + Than his gracious Lord who bore + Bonds and stripes in Jewry? + + "Give me joy that in His name + I can bear, with patient frame, + All these vain ones offer; + While for them He suffereth long, + Shall I answer wrong with wrong, + Scoffing with the scoffer? + + "Happier I, with loss of all, + Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, + With few friends to greet me, + Than when reeve and squire were seen, + Riding out from Aberdeen, + With bared heads to meet me. + + "When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, + Blessed me as I passed her door; + And the snooded daughter, + Through her casement glancing down, + Smiled on him who bore renown + From red fields of slaughter. + + "Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, + Hard the old friend's falling off, + Hard to learn forgiving; + But the Lord His own rewards, + And His love with theirs accords, + Warm and fresh and living. + + "Through this dark and stormy night + Faith beholds a feeble light + Up the blackness streaking; + Knowing God's own time is best, + In a patient hope I rest + For the full day-breaking!" + + So the Laird of Ury said, + Turning slow his horse's head + Toward the Tolbooth prison, + Where, through iron grates, he heard + Poor disciples of the Word + Preach of Christ arisen! + + Plot in vain, Confessor old, + Unto us the tale is told + Of thy day of trial; + Every age on him who strays + From its broad and beaten ways + Pours its sevenfold vial. + + Happy he whose inward ear + Angel comfortings can hear, + O'er the rabble's laughter; + And, while Hatred's fagots burn, + Glimpses through the smoke discern + Of the good hereafter. + + Knowing this, that never yet + Share of Truth was vainly set + In the world's wide fallow; + After hands shall sow the seed, + After hands from hill and mead + Reap the harvest yellow. + + Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, + Must the moral pioneer + From the Future borrow; + Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, + And, on midnight's sky of rain, + Paint the golden morrow! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALL'S WELL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake + Our thirsty souls with rain; + The blow most dreaded falls to break + From off our limbs a chain; + And wrongs of man to man but make + The love of God more plain. + As through the shadowy lens of even + The eye looks farthest into heaven + On gleams of star and depths of blue + The glaring sunshine never knew! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RAPHAEL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I shall not soon forget that sight: + The glow of autumn's westering day, + A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, + On Raphael's picture lay. + + It was a simple print I saw, + The fair face of a musing boy; + Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe + Seemed blending with my joy. + + A simple print:—the graceful flow + Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, + And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow + Unmarked and clear, were there. + + Yet through its sweet and calm repose + I saw the inward spirit shine; + It was as if before me rose + The white veil of a shrine. + + As if, as Gothland's sage has told, + The hidden life, the man within, + Dissevered from its frame and mould, + By mortal eye were seen. + + Was it the lifting of that eye, + The waving of that pictured hand? + Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, + I saw the walls expand. + + The narrow room had vanished,—space, + Broad, luminous, remained alone, + Through which all hues and shapes of grace + And beauty looked or shone. + + Around the mighty master came + The marvels which his pencil wrought, + Those miracles of power whose fame + Is wide as human thought. + + There drooped thy more than mortal face, + O Mother, beautiful and mild! + Enfolding in one dear embrace + Thy Saviour and thy Child! + + The rapt brow of the Desert John; + The awful glory of that day + When all the Father's brightness shone + Through manhood's veil of clay. + + And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild + Dark visions of the days of old, + How sweetly woman's beauty smiled + Through locks of brown and gold! + + There Fornarina's fair young face + Once more upon her lover shone, + Whose model of an angel's grace + He borrowed from her own. + + Slow passed that vision from my view, + But not the lesson which it taught; + The soft, calm shadows which it threw + Still rested on my thought + + The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, + Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, + Plant for their deathless heritage + The fruits and flowers of time. + + We shape ourselves the joy or fear + Of which the coming life is made, + And fill our Future's atmosphere + With sunshine or with shade. + + The tissue of the Life to be + We weave with colors all our own, + And in the field of Destiny + We reap as we have sown. + + Still shall the soul around it call + The shadows which it gathered here, + And, painted on the eternal wall, + The Past shall reappear. + + Think ye the notes of holy song + On Milton's tuneful ear have died? + Think ye that Raphael's angel throng + Has vanished from his side? + + O no!—We live our life again + Or warmly touched, or coldly dim, + The pictures of the Past remain,— + Man's works shall follow him! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SEED-TIME AND HARVEST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As o'er his furrowed fields which lie + Beneath a coldly-dropping sky, + Yet chill with winter's melted snow, + The husbandman goes forth to sow, + + Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast + The ventures of thy seed we cast, + And trust to warmer sun and rain + To swell the germ, and fill the grain. + + Who calls thy glorious service hard? + Who deems it not its own reward? + Who, for its trials, counts it less + A cause of praise and thankfulness? + + It may not be our lot to wield + The sickle in the ripened field; + Nor ours to hear, on summer eves, + The reaper's song among the sheaves. + + Yet where our duty's task is wrought + In unison with God's great thought, + The near and future blend in one, + And whatsoe'er is willed, is done! + + And ours the grateful service whence + Comes, day by day, the recompense; + The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed, + The fountain and the noonday shade. + + And were this life the utmost span, + The only end and aim of man, + Better the toil of fields like these + Than waking dream and slothful ease. + + But life, though falling like our grain, + Like that revives and springs again; + And, early called, how blest are they + Who wait in heaven their harvest-day! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL + </h2> + <h3> + 1697 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Up and gown the village streets + Strange are the forms my fancy meets, + For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid, + And through the veil of a closed lid + The ancient worthies I see again: + I hear the tap of the elder's cane, + And his awful periwig I see, + And the silver buckles of shoe and knee. + Stately and slow, with thoughtful air, + His black cap hiding his whitened hair, + Walks the Judge of the great Assize, + Samuel Sewall the good and wise. + His face with lines of firmness wrought, + He wears the look of a man unbought, + Who swears to his hurt and changes not; + Yet, touched and softened nevertheless + With the grace of Christian gentleness, + The face that a child would climb to kiss! + True and tender and brave and just, + That man might honor and woman trust. + + Touching and sad, a tale is told, + Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist old, + Of the fast which the good man lifelong kept + With a haunting sorrow that never slept, + As the circling year brought round the time + Of an error that left the sting of crime, + When he sat on the bunch of the witchcraft courts, + With the laws of Moses and Hales Reports, + And spake, in the name of both, the word + That gave the witch's neck to the cord, + And piled the oaken planks that pressed + The feeble life from the warlock's breast! + All the day long, from dawn to dawn, + His door was bolted, his curtain drawn; + No foot on his silent threshold trod, + No eye looked on him save that of God, + As he baffled the ghosts of the dead with charms + Of penitent tears, and prayers, and psalms, + And, with precious proofs from the sacred word + Of the boundless pity and love of the Lord, + His faith confirmed and his trust renewed + That the sin of his ignorance, sorely rued, + Might be washed away in the mingled flood + Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear blood! + + Green forever the memory be + Of the Judge of the old Theocracy, + Whom even his errors glorified, + Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain-side + By the cloudy shadows which o'er it glide! + Honor and praise to the Puritan + Who the halting step of his age outran, + And, seeing the infinite worth of man + In the priceless gift the Father gave, + In the infinite love that stooped to save, + Dared not brand his brother a slave! + "Who doth such wrong," he was wont to say, + In his own quaint, picture-loving way, + "Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade + Which God shall cast down upon his head!" + + Widely as heaven and hell, contrast + That brave old jurist of the past + And the cunning trickster and knave of courts + Who the holy features of Truth distorts,— + Ruling as right the will of the strong, + Poverty, crime, and weakness wrong; + Wide-eared to power, to the wronged and weak + Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek; + Scoffing aside at party's nod, + Order of nature and law of God; + For whose dabbled ermine respect were waste, + Reverence folly, and awe misplaced; + Justice of whom 't were vain to seek + As from Koordish robber or Syrian Sheik! + O, leave the wretch to his bribes and sins; + Let him rot in the web of lies he spins! + To the saintly soul of the early day, + To the Christian judge, let us turn and say + "Praise and thanks for an honest man!— + Glory to God for the Puritan!" + + I see, far southward, this quiet day, + The hills of Newbury rolling away, + With the many tints of the season gay, + Dreamily blending in autumn mist + Crimson, and gold, and amethyst. + Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned, + Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, + A stone's toss over the narrow sound. + Inland, as far as the eye can go, + The hills curve round like a bonded bow; + A silver arrow from out them sprung, + I see the shine of the Quasycung; + And, round and round, over valley and hill, + Old roads winding, as old roads will, + Here to a ferry, and there to a mill; + And glimpses of chimneys and gabled eaves, + Through green elm arches and maple leaves,— + Old homesteads sacred to all that can + Gladden or sadden the heart of man,— + Over whose thresholds of oak and stone + Life and Death have come and gone! + There pictured tiles in the fireplace show, + Great beams sag from the ceiling low, + The dresser glitters with polished wares, + The long clock ticks on the foot-worn stairs, + And the low, broad chimney shows the crack + By the earthquake made a century back. + Lip from their midst springs the collage spire + With the crest of its cock in the sun afire; + Beyond are orchards and planting lands, + And great salt marshes and glimmering sands, + And, where north and south the coast-lines run, + The blink of the sea in breeze and sun! + + I see it all like a chart unrolled, + But my thoughts are full of the past and old, + I hear the tales of my boyhood told; + And the shadows and shapes of early days + Flit dimly by in the veiling haze, + With measured movement and rhythmic chime + Weaving like shuttles my web of rhyme. + I think of the old man wise and good + Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, + (A poet who never measured rhyme, + A seer unknown to his dull-eared time,) + And, propped on his staff of age, looked down, + With his boyhood's love, on his native town, + Where, written, as if on its hills and plains, + His burden of prophecy yet remains, + For the voices of wood, and wave, and wind + To read in the ear of the musing mind:— + + "As long as Plum Island, to guard the coast + As God appointed, shall keep its post; + As long as a salmon shall haunt the deep + Of Merrimack River, or sturgeon leap; + As long as pickerel swift and slim, + Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim; + As long as the annual sea-fowl know + Their time to come and their time to go; + As long as cattle shall roam at will + The green, grass meadows by Turkey Hill; + As long as sheep shall look from the side + Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide, + And Parker River, and salt-sea tide; + As long as a wandering pigeon shall search + The fields below from his white-oak perch, + When the barley-harvest is ripe and shorn, + And the dry husks fall from the standing corn; + As long as Nature shall not grow old, + Nor drop her work from her doting hold, + And her care for the Indian corn forget, + And the yellow rows in pairs to set;— + So long shall Christians here be born, + Grow up and ripen as God's sweet corn!— + By the beak of bird, by the breath of frost + Shall never a holy ear be lost, + But husked by Death in the Planter's sight, + Be sown again m the fields of light!" + + The Island still is purple with plums, + Up the river the salmon comes, + The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl feeds + On hillside berries and marish seeds,— + All the beautiful signs remain, + From spring-time sowing to autumn rain + The good man's vision returns again! + And let us hope, as well we can, + That the Silent Angel who garners man + May find some grain as of old he found + In the human cornfield ripe and sound, + And the Lord of the Harvest deign to own + The precious seed by the fathers sown! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of all the rides since the birth of time, + Told in story or sung in rhyme,— + On Apuleius's Golden Ass, + Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, + Witch astride of a human back, + Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,— + The strangest ride that ever was sped + Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Body of turkey, head of owl, + Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, + Feathered and ruffled in every part, + Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. + Scores of women, old and young, + Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, + Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, + Shouting and singing the shrill refrain + "Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, + Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, + Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase + Bacchus round some antique vase, + Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, + Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, + + With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang. + Over and over the Maenads sang: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Small pity for him!—He sailed away + From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,— + Sailed away from a sinking wreck, + With his own town's-people on her deck! + "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. + Back he answered, "Sink or swim! + Brag of your catch of fish again!" + And off he sailed through the fog and rain! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur + That wreck shall lie forevermore. + Mother and sister, wife and maid, + Looked from the rocks of Marblehead + Over the moaning and rainy sea,— + Looked for the coming that might not be! + What did the winds and the sea-birds say + Of the cruel captain who sailed away?— + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Through the street, on either side, + Up flew windows, doors swung wide; + Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, + Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. + Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, + Hulks of old sailors run aground, + Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, + And cracked with curses the old refrain: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead! + + Sweetly along the Salem road + Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. + Little the wicked skipper knew + Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. + Riding there in his sorry trim, + Like an Indian idol glum and grim, + Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear + Of voices shouting, far and near: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,"— + What to me is this noisy ride? + What is the shame that clothes the skin + To the nameless horror that lives within? + Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, + And hear a cry from a reeling deck! + Hate me and curse me,—I only dread + The hand of God and the face of the dead!" + Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea + Said, God has touched him! why should we?" + Said an old wife mourning her only son, + "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" + So with soft relentings and rude excuse, + Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, + And gave him a cloak to hide him in, + And left him alone with his shame and sin. + Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Far away in the twilight time + Of every people, in every clime, + Dragons and griffins and monsters dire, + Born of water, and air, and fire, + Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud + And ooze of the old Deucalion flood, + Crawl and wriggle and foam with rage, + Through dusk tradition and ballad age. + So from the childhood of Newbury town + And its time of fable the tale comes down + Of a terror which haunted bush and brake, + The Amphisbaena, the Double Snake! + + Thou who makest the tale thy mirth, + Consider that strip of Christian earth + On the desolate shore of a sailless sea, + Full of terror and mystery, + Half-redeemed from the evil hold + Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old, + Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew + When Time was young, and the world was new, + And wove its shadows with sun and moon, + Ere the stones of Cheops were squared and hewn. + + Think of the sea's dread monotone, + Of the mournful wail from the pine-wood blown, + Of the strange, vast splendors that lit the North, + Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth, + And the dismal tales the Indian told, + Till the settler's heart at his hearth grew cold, + And he shrank from the tawny wizard's boasts, + And the hovering shadows seemed full of ghosts, + And above, below, and on every side, + The fear of his creed seemed verified;— + And think, if his lot were now thine own, + To grope with terrors nor named nor known, + How laxer muscle and weaker nerve + And a feebler faith thy need might serve; + And own to thyself the wonder more + That the snake had two heads, and not a score! + + Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fen + Or the gray earth-flax of the Devil's Den, + Or swam in the wooded Artichoke, + Or coiled by the Northman's Written Rock, + Nothing on record is left to show; + Only the fact that he lived, we know, + And left the cast of a double head + in the scaly mask which he yearly shed. + For he earned a head where his tail should be, + And the two, of course, could never agree, + But wriggled about with main and might, + Now to the left and now to the right; + Pulling and twisting this way and that, + Neither knew what the other was at. + + A snake with two heads, lurking so near!— + Judge of the wonder, guess at the fear! + Think what ancient gossips might say, + Shaking their heads in their dreary way, + Between the meetings on Sabbath-day! + How urchins, searching at day's decline + The Common Pasture for sheep or kine, + The terrible double-ganger heard + In the leafy rustle or whir of bird! + Think what a zest it gave to the sport, + In berry-time, of the younger sort, + As over pastures blackberry-twined, + Reuben and Dorothy lagged behind, + And closer and closer, for fear of harm, + The maiden clung to her lover's arm; + And how the spark, who was forced to stay, + By his sweetheart's fears, till the break of day, + Thanked the snake for the fond delay! + + Far and wide the tale was told, + Like a snowball growing while it rolled. + The nurse hushed with it the baby's cry; + And it served, in the worthy minister's eye, + To paint the primitive serpent by. + Cotton Mather came galloping down + All the way to Newbury town, + With his eyes agog and his ears set wide, + And his marvellous inkhorn at his side; + Stirring the while in the shallow pool + Of his brains for the lore he learned at school, + To garnish the story, with here a streak + Of Latin, and there another of Greek: + And the tales he heard and the notes he took, + Behold! are they not in his Wonder-Book? + + Stories, like dragons, are hard to kill. + If the snake does not, the tale runs still + In Byfield Meadows, on Pipestave Hill. + And still, whenever husband and wife + Publish the shame of their daily strife, + And, with mid cross-purpose, tug and strain + At either end of the marriage-chain, + The gossips say, with a knowing shake + Of their gray heads, "Look at the Double Snake! + One in body and two in will, + The Amphisbaena is living still!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAUD MULLER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, + Raked the meadow sweet with hay. + + Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth + Of simple beauty and rustic health. + + Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee + The mock-bird echoed from his tree. + + But when she glanced to the far-off town, + White from its hill-slope looking down, + + The sweet song died, and a vague unrest + And a nameless longing filled her breast, + + A wish, that she hardly dared to own, + For something better than she had known. + + The Judge rode slowly down the lane, + Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. + + He drew his bridle in the shade + Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, + + And ask a draught from the spring that flowed + Through the meadow across the road. + + She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, + And filled for him her small tin cup, + + And blushed as she gave it, looking down + On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. + + "Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught + From a fairer hand was never quaffed." + + He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, + Of the singing birds and the humming bees; + + Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether + The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. + + And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, + And her graceful ankles bare and brown; + + And listened, while a pleased surprise + Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. + + At last, like one who for delay + Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. + + Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! + That I the Judge's bride might be! + + "He would dress me up in silks so fine, + And praise and toast me at his wine. + + "My father should wear a broadcloth coat; + My brother should sail a painted boat. + + "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, + And the baby should have a new toy each day. + + "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor + And all should bless me who left our door." + + The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, + And saw Maud Muller standing still. + + "A form more fair, a face more sweet + Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. + + "And her modest answer and graceful air + Show her wise and good as she is fair. + + "Would she were mine, and I to-day, + Like her, a harvester of hay + + "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, + Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, + + "But low of cattle and song of birds, + And health and quiet and loving words." + + But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, + And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. + + So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, + And Maud was left in the field alone. + + But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, + When he hummed in court an old love-tune; + + And the young girl mused beside the well, + Till the rain on the unraked clover, + + He wedded a wife of richest dower, + Who lived for fashion, as he for power. + + Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, + He watched a picture come and go; + + And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes + Looked out in their innocent surprise. + + Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, + He longed for the wayside well instead; + + And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms + To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. + + And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, + "Ah, that I were free again! + + "Free as when I rode that day, + Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." + + She wedded a man unlearned and poor, + And many children played round her door. + + But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, + Left their traces on heart and brain. + + And oft, when the summer sun shone hot + On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, + + And she heard the little spring brook fall + Over the roadside, through the wall; + + In the shade of the apple-tree again + She saw a rider draw his rein. + + And gazing down with timid grace + She felt his pleased eyes read her face. + + Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls + Stretched away into stately halls; + + The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, + The tallow candle an astral burned, + + And for him who sat by the chimney lug, + Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, + + A manly form at her side she saw, + And joy was duty and love was law. + + Then she took up her burden of life again, + Saying only, "it might have been." + + Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, + For rich repiner and household drudge! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God pity them both! and pity us all, + Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. + + For of all sad words of tongue or pen, + The saddest are these: "It might have been!" + + Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies + Deeply buried from human eyes; + + And, in the hereafter, angels may + Roll the stone from its grave away! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BURNS + </h2> + <h3> + ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No more these simple flowers belong + To Scottish maid and lover; + Sown in the common soil of song, + They bloom the wide world over. + + In smiles and tears, in sun and showers, + The minstrel and the heather, + The deathless singer and the flowers + He sang of five together. + + Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns! + The moorland flower and peasant! + How, at their mention, memory turns + Her pages old and pleasant! + + The gray sky wears again its gold + And purple of adorning, + And manhood's noonday shadows hold + The dews of boyhood's morning. + + The dews that washed the dust and soil + From off the wings of pleasure, + The sky, that flecked the ground of toil + With golden threads of leisure. + + I call to mind the summer day, + The early harvest mowing, + The sky with sun and clouds at play, + And flowers with breezes blowing. + + I hear the blackbird in the corn, + The locust in the haying; + And, like the fabled hunter's horn, + Old tunes my heart is playing. + + How oft that day, with fond delay, + I sought the maple's shadow, + And sang with Burns the hours away, + Forgetful of the meadow! + + Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead + I heard the squirrels leaping; + The good dog listened while I read, + And wagged his tail in keeping. + + I watched him while in sportive mood + I read "The Two Dogs" story, + And half believed he understood + The poet's allegory. + + Sweet day, sweet songs!—The golden hours + Grew brighter for that singing, + From brook and bird and meadow flowers + A dearer welcome bringing. + + New light on home-seen Nature beamed, + New glory over Woman; + And daily life and duty seemed + No longer poor and common. + + I woke to find the simple truth + Of fact and feeling better + Than all the dreams that held my youth + A still repining debtor: + + That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, + The themes of sweet discoursing; + The tender idyls of the heart + In every tongue rehearsing. + + Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, + Of loving knight and lady, + When farmer boy and barefoot girl + Were wandering there already? + + I saw through all familiar things + The romance underlying; + The joys and griefs that plume the wings + Of Fancy skyward flying. + + I saw the same blithe day return, + The same sweet fall of even, + That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, + And sank on crystal Devon. + + I matched with Scotland's heathery hills + The sweet-brier and the clover; + With Ayr and Doon, my native rills, + Their wood-hymns chanting over. + + O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, + I saw the Man uprising; + No longer common or unclean + The child of God's baptizing! + + With clearer eyes I saw the worth + Of life among the lowly; + The Bible at his Cotter's hearth + Had made my own more holy. + + And if at times an evil strain, + To lawless love appealing, + Broke in upon the sweet refrain + Of pure and healthful feeling, + + It died upon the eye and ear, + No inward answer gaining; + No heart had I to see or hear + The discord and the staining. + + Let those who never erred forget + His worth, in vain bewailings; + Sweet Soul of Song!—I own my debt + Uncancelled by his failings! + + Lament who will the ribald line + Which tells his lapse from duty, + How kissed the maddening lips of wine + Or wanton ones of beauty; + + But think, while falls that shade between + The erring one and Heaven, + That he who loved like Magdalen, + Like her may be forgiven. + + Not his the song whose thunderous chime + Eternal echoes render,— + The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, + And Milton's starry splendor! + + But who his human heart has laid + To Nature's bosom nearer? + Who sweetened toil like him, or paid + To love a tribute dearer? + + Through all his tuneful art, how strong + The human feeling gushes! + The very moonlight of his song + Is warm with smiles and blushes! + + Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, + So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry; + Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, + But spare his Highland Mary +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HERO + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "O Fox a knight like Bayard, + Without reproach or fear; + My light glove on his casque of steel, + My love-knot on his spear! + + "O for the white plume floating + Sad Zutphen's field above, + The lion heart in battle, + The woman's heart in love! + + "O that man once more were manly, + Woman's pride, and not her scorn + That once more the pale young mother + Dared to boast 'a man is born'! + + "But, now life's slumberous current + No sun-bowed cascade wakes; + No tall, heroic manhood + The level dulness breaks. + + "O for a knight like Bayard, + Without reproach or fear! + My light glove on his casque of steel + My love-knot on his spear!" + + Then I said, my own heart throbbing + To the time her proud pulse beat, + "Life hath its regal natures yet,— + True, tender, brave, and sweet! + + "Smile not, fair unbeliever! + One man, at least, I know, + Who might wear the crest of Bayard + Or Sydney's plume of snow. + + "Once, when over purple mountains + Died away the Grecian sun, + And the far Cyllenian ranges + Paled and darkened, one by one,— + + "Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder, + Cleaving all the quiet sky, + And against his sharp steel lightnings + Stood the Suliote but to die. + + "Woe for the weak and halting! + The crescent blazed behind + A curving line of sabres + Like fire before the wind! + + "Last to fly, and first to rally, + Rode he of whom I speak, + When, groaning in his bridle path, + Sank down like a wounded Greek. + + "With the rich Albanian costume + Wet with many a ghastly stain, + Gazing on earth and sky as one + Who might not gaze again! + + "He looked forward to the mountains, + Back on foes that never spare, + Then flung him from his saddle, + And place the stranger there. + + "'Allah! hu!' Through flashing sabres, + Through a stormy hail of lead, + The good Thessalian charger + Up the slopes of olives sped. + + "Hot spurred the turbaned riders; + He almost felt their breath, + Where a mountain stream rolled darkly down + Between the hills and death. + + "One brave and manful struggle,— + He gained the solid land, + And the cover of the mountains, + And the carbines of his band!" + + "It was very great and noble," + Said the moist-eyed listener then, + "But one brave deed makes no hero; + Tell me what he since hath been!" + + "Still a brave and generous manhood, + Still and honor without stain, + In the prison of the Kaiser, + By the barricades of Seine. + + "But dream not helm and harness + The sign of valor true; + Peace bath higher tests of manhood + Than battle ever knew. + + "Wouldst know him now? Behold him, + The Cadmus of the blind, + Giving the dumb lip language, + The idiot clay a mind. + + "Walking his round of duty + Serenely day by day, + With the strong man's hand of labor + And childhood's heart of play. + + "True as the knights of story, + Sir Lancelot and his peers, + Brave in his calm endurance + As they in tilt of spears. + + "As waves in stillest waters, + As stars in noonday skies, + All that wakes to noble action + In his noon of calmness lies. + + "Wherever outraged Nature + Asks word or action brave, + Wherever struggles labor, + Wherever groans a slave,— + + "Wherever rise the peoples, + Wherever sinks a throne, + The throbbing heart of Freedom finds + An answer in his own. + + "Knight of a better era, + Without reproach or fear! + Said I not well that Bayards + And Sidneys still are here? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0095" id="link2H_4_0095"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ETERNAL GOODNESS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O friends! with whom my feet have trod + The quiet aisles of prayer, + Glad witness to your zeal for God + And love of man I bear. + + I trace your lines of argument; + Your logic linked and strong + I weigh as one who dreads dissent, + And fears a doubt as wrong. + + But still my human hands are weak + To hold your iron creeds; + Against the words ye bid me speak + My heart within me pleads. + + Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? + Who talks of scheme and plan? + The Lord is God! He needeth not + The poor device of man. + + I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground + Ye tread with boldness shod: + I dare not fix with mete and bound + The love and power of God. + + Ye praise His justice; even such + His pitying love I deem + Ye seek a king; I fain would touch + The robe that hath no seam. + + Ye see the curse which overbroods + A world of pain and loss; + I hear our Lord's beatitudes + And prayer upon the cross. + + The wrong that pains my soul below + I dare not throne above: + I know not of His hate,—I know + His goodness and His love. + + I dimly guess from blessings known + Of greater out of sight, + And, with the chastened Psalmist, own + His judgments too are right. + + I long for household voices gone, + For vanished smiles I long, + But God bath led my dear ones on, + And He can do no wrong. + + I know not what the future hath + Of marvel or surprise, + Assured alone that life and death + His mercy underlies. + + And if my heart and flesh are weak + To bear an untried pain, + The bruised reed He will not break, + But strengthen and sustain. + + No offering of my own I have, + Nor works my faith to prove; + I can but give the gifts He gave, + And plead His love for love. + + And so beside the Silent Sea + I wait the muffled oar; + No harm from Him can come to me + On ocean or on shore. + + I know not where His islands lift + Their fronded palms in air; + I only know I cannot drift + Beyond His love and care. + + O brothers! if my faith is vain, + If hopes like these betray, + Pray for me that my feet may gain + The sure and safer way. + + And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen + Thy creatures as they be, + Forgive me if too close I lean + My human heart on Thee! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0096" id="link2H_4_0096"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pipes of the misty moorlands + Voice of the glens and hills; + The droning of the torrents, + The treble of the rills! + Not the braes of broom and heather, + Nor the mountains dark with rain, + Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, + Have heard your sweetest strain! + + Dear to the Lowland reaper, + And plaided mountaineer,— + To the cottage and the castle + The Scottish pipes are dear;— + Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch + O'er mountain, loch, and glade; + But the sweetest of all music + The Pipes at Lucknow played. + + Day by day the Indian tiger + Louder yelled, and nearer crept; + Round and round the jungle-serpent + Near and nearer circles swept. + "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,— + Pray to-day!" the soldier said; + "To-morrow, death's between us + And the wrong and shame we dread." + + O, they listened, looked, and waited, + Till their hope became despair; + And the sobs of low bewailing + Filled the pauses of their prayer. + Then up spake a Scottish maiden, + With her ear unto the ground + "Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it? + The pipes o' Havelock sound!" + + Hushed the wounded man his groaning; + Hushed the wife her little ones; + Alone they heard the drum-roll + And the roar of Sepoy guns. + But to sounds of home and childhood + The Highland ear was true; + As her mother's cradle-crooning + The mountain pipes she knew. + + Like the march of soundless music + Through the vision of the seer, + More of feeling than of hearing, + Of the heart than of the ear, + She knew the droning pibroch, + She knew the Campbell's call + "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,— + The grandest o' them all!" + + O, they listened, dumb and breathless, + And they caught the sound at last; + Faint and far beyond the Goomtee + Rose and fell the piper's blast! + Then a burst of wild thanksgiving + Mingled woman's voice and man's + "God be praised!—the March of Havelock! + The piping of the clans!" + + Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, + Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, + Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, + Stinging all the air to life. + But when the far-off dust-cloud + To plaided legions grew, + Full tenderly and blithesomely + The pipes of rescue blew! + + Round the silver domes of Lucknow, + Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, + Breathed the air to Britons dearest, + The air of Auld Lang Syne. + O'er the cruel roll of war-drums + Rose that sweet and homelike strain; + And the tartan clove the turban, + As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. + + Dear to the corn-land reaper + And plaided mountaineer,— + To the cottage and the castle + The piper's song is dear. + Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch + O'er mountain, glen, and glade, + But the sweetest of all music + The Pipes at Lucknow played! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0097" id="link2H_4_0097"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The beaver cut his timber + With patient teeth that day, + The minks were fish-wards, and the crows + Surveyors of high way,— + + When Keezar sat on the hillside + Upon his cobbler's form, + With a pan of coals on either hand + To keep his waxed-ends warm. + + And there, in the golden weather, + He stitched and hammered and sung; + In the brook he moistened his leather, + In the pewter mug his tongue. + + Well knew the tough old Teuton + Who brewed the stoutest ale, + And he paid the good-wife's reckoning + In the coin of song and tale. + + The songs they still are singing + Who dress the hills of vine, + The tales that haunt the Brocken + And whisper down the Rhine. + + Woodsy and wild and lonesome, + The swift stream wound away, + Through birches and scarlet maples + Flashing in foam and spray,— + + Down on the sharp-horned ledges + Plunging in steep cascade, + Tossing its white-maned waters + Against the hemlock's shade. + + Woodsy and wild and lonesome, + East and west and north and south; + Only the village of fishers + Down at the river's mouth; + + Only here and there a clearing, + With its farm-house rude and new, + And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, + Where the scanty harvest grew. + + No shout of home-bound reapers, + No vintage-song he heard, + And on the green no dancing feet + The merry violin stirred. + + "Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, + "When Nature herself is glad, + And the painted woods are laughing + At the faces so sour and sad?" + + Small heed had the careless cobbler + What sorrow of heart was theirs + Who travailed in pain with the births of God + And planted a state with prayers,— + + Hunting of witches and warlocks, + Smiting the heathen horde,— + One hand on the mason's trowel + And one on the soldier's sword! + + But give him his ale and cider, + Give him his pipe and song, + Little he cared for Church or State, + Or the balance of right and wrong. + + "'Tis work, work, work," he muttered— + "And for rest a snuffle of psalms!" + He smote on his leathern apron + With his brown and waxen palms. + + "O for the purple harvests + Of the days when I was young! + For the merry grape-stained maidens, + And the pleasant songs they sung + + "O for the breath of vineyards, + Of apples and nuts and wine! + For an oar to row and a breeze to blow + Down the grand old river Rhine!" + + A tear in his blue eye glistened + And dropped on his beard so gray. + "Old, old am I," said Keezar, + "And the Rhine flows far away!" + + But a cunning man was the cobbler; + He could call the birds from the trees, + Charm the black snake out of the ledges, + And bring back the swarming bees. + + All the virtues of herbs and metals, + All the lore of the woods, he knew, + And the arts of the Old World mingled + With the marvels of the New. + + Well he knew the tricks of magic, + And the lapstone on his knee + Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles + Or the stone of Doctor Dee. + + For the mighty master Agrippa + Wrought it with spell and rhyme + From a fragment of mystic moonstone + In the tower of Nettesheim. + + To a cobbler Minnesinger + The marvellous stone gave he, + And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, + Who brought it over the sea. + + He held up that mystic lapstone, + He held it up like a lens, + And he counted the long years coming, + By twenties and by tens. + + "One hundred years," quoth Keezar. + "And fifty have I told + Now open the new before me, + And shut me out the old!" + + Like a cloud of mist, the blackness + Rolled from the magic stone, + And a marvellous picture mingled + The unknown and the known. + + Still ran the stream to the river, + And river and ocean joined; + And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line. + And cold north hills behind. + + But the mighty forest was broken + By many a steepled town, + By many a white-walled farm-house, + And many a garner brown. + + Turning a score of mill-wheels, + The stream no more ran free; + White sails on the winding river, + White sails on the far-off sea. + + Below in the noisy village + The flags were floating gay, + And shone on a thousand faces + The light of a holiday. + + Swiftly the rival ploughmen + Turned the brown earth from their shares; + Here were the farmer's treasures, + There were the craftsman's wares. + + Golden the good-wife's butter, + Ruby her currant-wine; + Grand were the strutting turkeys, + Fat were the beeves and swine. + + Yellow and red were the apples, + And the ripe pears russet-brown, + And the peaches had stolen blushes + From the girls who shook them down. + + And with blooms of hill and wildwood, + That shame the toil of art, + Mingled the gorgeous blossoms + Of the garden's tropic heart. + + "What is it I see?" said Keezar: + "Am I here or am I there? + Is it a fete at Bingen? + Do I look on Frankfort fair? + + "But where are the clowns and puppets, + And imps with horns and tail? + And where are the Rhenish flagons? + And where is the foaming ale? + + "Strange things, I know, will happen,— + Strange things the Lord permits; + But that droughty folk should be dolly + Puzzles my poor old wits. + + "Here are smiling manly faces, + And the maiden's step is gay; + Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, + Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. + + "Here's pleasure without regretting, + And good without abuse, + The holiday and the bridal + Of beauty and of use. + + "Here's a priest and there is a Quaker, + Do the cat and the dog agree? + Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood? + Have they cut down the gallows-tree? + + "Would the old folk know their children? + Would they own the graceless town, + With never a ranter to worry + And never a witch to drown?" + + Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, + Laughed like a school-boy gay; + Tossing his arms above him, + The lapstone rolled away. + + It rolled down the rugged hillside, + It spun like a wheel bewitched, + It plunged through the leaning willows, + And into the river pitched. + + There, in the deep, dark water, + The magic stone lies still, + Under the leaning willows + In the shadow of the hill. + + But oft the idle fisher + Sits on the shadowy bank, + And his dreams make marvellous pictures + Where the wizard's lapstone sank. + + And still, in the summer twilights. + When the river seems to run + Out from the inner glory, + Warm with the melted sun, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The weary mill-girl lingers + Beside the charmed stream, + And the sky and the golden water + Shape and color her dream. + + Fair wave the sunset gardens, + The rosy signals fly; + Her homestead beckons from the cloud, + And love goes sailing by! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0098" id="link2H_4_0098"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MAYFLOWERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sad Mayflower! watched by winter stars, + And nursed by winter gales, + With petals of the sleeted spars, + And leaves of frozen sails + + What had she in those dreary hours, + Within her ice-rimmed bay, + In common with the wild-wood flowers, + The first sweet smiles of May? + + Yet, "God be praised!" the Pilgrim said, + Who saw the blossoms peer + Above the brown leaves, dry anal dead + "Behold our Mayflower here!" + + "God wills it: here our rest shall be + Our years of wandering o'er; + For us the Mayflower of the sea, + Shall spread her sails no more." + + O sacred flowers of faith and hope, + As sweetly now as then + Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, + In many a pine-dark glen. + + Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, + Unchanged, your, leaves unfold + Like love behind the manly strength + Of the brave hearts of old. + + So live the fathers in their sons, + Their sturdy faith be ours, + And ours the love that overruns + Its rocky strength with flowers. + + The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day + Its shadow round us draws; + The Mayflower of his stormy bay, + Our Freedom's struggling cause. + + But warmer suns erelong shall bring + To life the frozen sod; + And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring + Afresh the flowers of Cod! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0099" id="link2H_4_0099"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RALPH WALDO EMERSON + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0100" id="link2H_4_0100"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GOOD-BYE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home + Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. + Long through thy weary crowds I roam; + A river-ark on the ocean brine, + Long I've been tossed like the driven foam; + But now, proud world! I'm going home. + + Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; + To Grandeur with his wise grimace; + To upstart Wealth's averted eye; + To supple Office, low and high; + To crowded halls, to court and street; + To frozen hearts and hasting feet; + To those who go, and those who come; + Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home. + + I am going to my own hearth-stone, + Bosomed in yon green hills alone,— + A secret nook in a pleasant land, + Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; + Where arches green, the livelong day, + Echo the blackbird's roundelay, + And vulgar feet have never trod + A spot that is sacred to thought and Cod. + + O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, + I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; + And when I am stretched beneath the pines, + Where the evening star so holy shines, + I laugh at the lore and the pride of man + At the sophist schools and the learned clan; + For what are they all, in their high conceit, + Where man in the bush with God may meet? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EACH AND ALL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown + Of thee from the hill-top looking down; + The heifer that lows in the upland faun, + Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; + The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, + Deems not that great Napoleon + Stops his horse, and lists with delight, + Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; + Nor knowest thou what argument + Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. + All are needed by each one; + Nothing is fair or good alone. + I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, + Singing at dawn on the alder bough; + I brought him home, in his nest, at even; + He sings the song, but it cheers not now, + For I did not bring home the river and sky;— + He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye. + The delicate shells lay on the shore; + The bubbles of the latest wave + Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, + And the bellowing of the savage sea + Greeted their safe escape to me. + I wiped away the weeds and foam, + I fetched my sea-born treasures home, + But the poor, unsightly, noisome things + Had left their beauty on the shore + With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. + The lover watched his graceful maid, + As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, + Nor knew her beauty's best attire + Was woven still by the snow-white choir. + At last she came to his hermitage, + Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;— + The gay enchantment was undone, + A gentle wife, but fairy none. + Then I said, "I covet truth; + Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; + I leave it behind with the games of youth:— + As I spoke, beneath my feet + The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, + Running over the club-moss burrs; + I inhaled the violet's breath; + Around me stood the oaks and firs; + Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; + Over me soared the eternal sky, + Full of light and of deity; + Again I saw, again I heard, + The rolling river, the morning bird;— + Beauty through my senses stole; + I yielded myself to the perfect whole. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0102" id="link2H_4_0102"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROBLEM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I like a church; I like a cowl; + I love a prophet of the soul; + And on my heart monastic aisles + Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; + Yet not for all his faith can see + Would I that cowled churchman be. + + Why should the vest on him allure, + Which I could not on me endure? + + Not from a vain or shallow thought + His awful Jove young Phidias brought; + Never from lips of cunning fell + The thrilling Delphic oracle; + Out from the heart of nature rolled + The burdens of the Bible old; + The litanies of nations came, + Like the volcano's tongue of flame, + Up from the burning core below,— + The canticles of love and woe + The hand that rounded Peter's dome + And groined the aisles of Christian Rome; + Wrought in a sad sincerity; + Himself from God he could not free; + He budded better than he knew;— + The conscious stone to beauty grew. + + Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest + Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? + + Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, + Painting with morn each annual cell? + Or how the sacred pine-tree adds + To her old leaves new myriads? + Such and so grew these holy piles, + Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. + Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, + As the best gem upon her zone, + And Morning opes with haste her lids + To gaze upon the Pyramids; + O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, + As on its friends, with kindred eye; + For out of Thought's interior sphere + These wonders rose to upper air; + And Nature gladly gave them place, + Adopted them into her race, + And granted them an equal date + With Andes and With Ararat. + + These temples grew as grows the grasses + Art might obey, but not surpass. + The passive Master lent his hand + To the vast soul that o'er him planned; + And the same power that reared the shrine + Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. + Ever the fiery Pentecost + Girds with one flame the countless host, + Trances the heart through chanting choirs, + And through the priest the mind inspires. + The word unto the prophet spoken + Was writ on tables yet unbroken; + + The word by seers or sibyls told, + In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, + Still floats upon the morning wind, + Still whispers to the willing mind. + One accent of the Holy Ghost + The heedless world hath never lost. + I know what say the fathers wise, + The book itself before me lies, + Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, + And he who blent both in his line, + The younger Golden Lips or mines, + Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines. + His words are music in my ear, + I see his cowled portrait dear; + And yet, for all his faith could see, + I would not the good bishop be. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0103" id="link2H_4_0103"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RHODORA + </h2> + <h3> + ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, + I found the fresh Rhodora in the Woods, + Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, + To please the desert and the sluggish brook, + The purple petals, fallen in the pool, + Made the black water with their beauty gay; + Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, + And court the flower that cheapens his array. + Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why + This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, + Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, + Then Beauty is its own excuse for being + Why thou went there, O rival of the rose! + I never thought to ask, I never knew: + But, in my simple ignorance, suppose + The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0104" id="link2H_4_0104"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HUMBLE—BEE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Burly, dozing humble-bee, + Where thou art is clime for me. + Let them sail for Porto Rique, + Far-off heats through seas to seek; + I will follow thee alone, + Thou animated torrid-zone! + Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, + Let me chase thy waving lines; + Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, + Singing over shrubs and vines. + + Insect lover of the sun, + Joy of thy dominion + Sailor of the atmosphere; + Swimmer through the waves of air; + Voyager of light and noon; + Epicurean of June; + Wait, I prithee, till I come + Within earshot of thy hum,— + All without is martyrdom. + + When the south wind, in May days, + With a net of shining haze + Silvers the horizon wall, + And with softness touching all, + Tints the human countenance + With a color of romance, + And infusing subtle heats, + Turns the sod to violets, + Thou, in sunny solitudes, + Rover of the underwoods, + The green silence dolt displace + With thy mellow, breezy bass. + + Hot midsummer's petted crone, + Sweet to me thy drowsy tone + Tells of countless sunny hours, + Long days, and solid banks of flowers; + Of gulfs of sweetness without bound + In Indian wildernesses found; + Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, + Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. + + Aught unsavory or unclean + Hath my insect never seen; + But violets and bilberry bells, + Maple-sap and daffodels, + Grass with green flag half-mast high, + Succory to match the sky, + Columbine with horn of honey, + Scented fern, and agrimony, + Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue + And brier-roses, dwelt among; + All beside was unknown waste, + All was picture as he passed. + + Wiser far than human seer, + Yellow-breeched philosopher + Seeing only what is fair, + Sipping only what is sweet, + Thou dost mock at fate and care, + Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. + When the fierce northwestern blast, + Cools sea and land so far and fast, + Thou already slumberest deep; + Woe and want thou canst outsleep; + Want and woe, which torture us, + Thy sleep makes ridiculous. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0105" id="link2H_4_0105"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SNOW-STORM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, + Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, + Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air + Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, + And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. + The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet + Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit + Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed + In a tumultuous privacy of storm. + + Come and see the north wind's masonry. + Out of an unseen quarry evermore + Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer + Curves his white bastions with projected roof + Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. + Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work + So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he + For number or proportion. Mockingly, + On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; + A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; + Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, + Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate + A tapering turret overtops the work. + And when his hours are numbered, and the world + Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, + Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art + To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, + Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, + The frolic architecture of the snow. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0106" id="link2H_4_0106"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FABLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The mountain and the squirrel + Had a quarrel, + And the former called the latter "Little Prig"; + Bun replied, + "You are doubtless very big; + But all sorts of things and weather + Must be taken in together, + To make up a year + And a sphere. + And I think it no disgrace + To occupy my place. + If I'm not so large as you, + You are not so small as I, + And not half so spry. + I'll snot deny you make + A very pretty squirrel track; + Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; + If I cannot carry forests on my back, + Neither can you crack a nut." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0107" id="link2H_4_0107"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FORBEARANCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? + Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? + At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? + Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? + And loved so well a high behavior, + In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, + Nobility more nobly to repay? + O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0108" id="link2H_4_0108"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONCORD HYMN + </h2> + <h3> + SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, + </h3> + <p> + APRIL 19, 1836 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the rude bridge that arched the flood, + Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, + Here once the embattled farmers stood + And fired the shot heard round the world. + + The foe long since in silence slept; + Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; + And Time the ruined bridge has swept + Down the dark stream which seaward creep. + + On this green bank, by this soft stream, + We set to-day a votive stone; + That memory may their deed redeem, + When, like our sires, our sons are gone. + + Spirit, that made those heroes dare + To die, and leave their children free, + Time and Nature gently spare + The shaft we raise to them and thee. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0109" id="link2H_4_0109"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOSTON HYMN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The word of the Lord by night + To the watching Pilgrims came, + As they sat beside the seaside, + And filled their hearts with flame. + + Cod said, I am tired of kings, + I suffer them no more; + Up to my ear the morning brings + The outrage of the poor. + + Think ve I made this ball + A field of havoc and war, + Where tyrants great and tyrants small + Might harry the weak and poor? + + My angel,—his name is Freedom, + Choose him to be your king; + He shall cut pathways east and west + And fend you with his wing. + + Lo! I uncover the land + Which I hid of old time in the West, + As the sculptor uncovers the statue + When he has wrought his best; + + I show Columbia, of the rocks + Which dip their foot in the seas + And soar to the air-borne flocks + Of clouds and the boreal fleece. + + I will divide my goods; + Call in the wretch and slave + None shall rule but the humble, + And none but Toil shall have. + + I will have never a noble, + No lineage counted great; + Fishers and choppers and ploughmen + Shall constitute a state. + + Go, cut down trees in the forest + And trim the straightest boughs; + Cut down trees in the forest + And build me a wooden house. + + Call the people together, + The young men and the sires, + The digger in the harvest-field, + Hireling and him that hires; + + And here in a pine state-house + They shall choose men to rule + In every needful faculty, + In church and state and school. + + Lo, now! if these poor men + Can govern the land and the sea + And make just laws below the sun, + As planets faithful be. + + And ye shall succor men; + 'Tis nobleness to serve; + Help them who cannot help again + Beware from right to swerve. + + I break your bonds and masterships, + And I unchain the slave + Free be his heart and hand henceforth + As wind and wandering wave. + + I cause from every creature + His proper good to flow + As much as he is and doeth, + So much he shall bestow. + + But, laying hands on another + To coin his labor and sweat, + He goes in pawn to his victim + For eternal years in debt. + + To-day unbind the captive, + So only are ye unbound; + Lift up a people from the dust, + Trump of their rescue, sound! + + Pay ransom to the owner + And fill the bag to the brim. + Who is the owner? The slave is owner, + And ever was. Pay him. + + O North! give him beauty for rags, + And honor, O South! for his shame; + Nevada! coin thy golden crags + With Freedom's image and name. + + Up! and the dusky race + That sat in darkness long,— + Be swift their feet as antelopes, + And as behemoth strong. + + Come, East and West and North, + By races, as snow-flakes, + And carry my purpose forth, + Which neither halts nor shakes. + + My will fulfilled shall be, + For, in daylight or in dark, + My thunderbolt has eyes to see + His way home to the mark. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0110" id="link2H_4_0110"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TITMOUSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You shall not be overbold + When you deal with arctic cold, + As late I found my lukewarm blood + Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. + + How should I fight? my foeman fine + Has million arms to one of mine + East, west, for aid I looked in vain, + East, west, north, south, are his domain, + Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home; + Must borrow his winds who there would come. + Up and away for life! be fleet!— + The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, + Sings in my ears, my hands are stones + Curdles the blood to the marble bones, + Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense, + And hems in life with narrowing fence. + Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,— + The punctual stars will vigil keep,— + Embalmed by purifying cold; + The winds shall sing their dead-march old, + The snow is no ignoble shroud, + The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. + + Softly—but this way fate was pointing, + 'Twas coming fast to such anointing, + When piped a tiny voice hard by, + Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, + Chic-chic-a-dee-dee! saucy note + Out of sound heart and merry throat, + As if it said, "Good day, good sir! + Fine afternoon, old passenger! + Happy to meet you in these places + Where January brings few faces." + + This poet, though he lived apart, + Moved by his hospitable heart, + Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, + To do the honors of his court, + As fits a feathered lord of land; + Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, + Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, + Prints his small impress on the snow, + Shows feats of his gymnastic play, + Head downward, clinging to the spray. + + Here was this atom in full breath, + Hurling defiance at vast death; + This scrap of valor just for play + Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, + As if to shame my weak behavior; + I greeted loud my little savior, + "You pet! what dost here? and what for? + In these woods, thy small Labrador, + At this pinch, wee San Salvador! + What fire burns in that little chest + So frolic, stout and self-possest? + Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine; + Ashes and jet all hues outshine. + Why are not diamonds black and gray, + To ape thy dare-devil array? + And I affirm, the spacious North + Exists to draw thy virtue forth. + I think no virtue goes with size; + The reason of all cowardice + Is, that men are overgrown, + And, to be valiant, must come down + To the titmouse dimension." + + 'Tis good will makes intelligence, + And I began to catch the sense + Of my bird's song: "Live out of doors + In the great woods, on prairie floors. + I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea, + I too have a hole in a hollow tree; + And I like less when Summer beats + With stifling beams on these retreats, + Than noontide twilights which snow makes + With tempest of the blinding flakes. + For well the soul, if stout within, + Can arm impregnably the skin; + And polar frost my frame defied, + Made of the air that blows outside." + + With glad remembrance of my debt, + I homeward turn; farewell, my pet! + When here again thy pilgrim comes, + He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs, + Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, + Thou first and foremost shah be fed; + The Providence that is most large + Takes hearts like throe in special charge, + Helps who for their own need are strong, + And the sky dotes on cheerful song. + Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant + O'er all that mass and minster vaunt; + For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, + As 'twould accost some frivolous wing, + Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be! + And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee! + I think old Caesar must have heard + In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, + And, echoed in some frosty wold, + Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. + And I will write our annals new, + And thank thee for a better clew, + I, who dreamed not when I came her + To find the antidote of fear, + Now hear thee say in Roman key. + Paean! Veni, vidi, vici. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0111" id="link2H_4_0111"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0112" id="link2H_4_0112"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HAKON'S LAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Then Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate, + Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, + And said: "O Skald, sing now an olden song, + Such as our fathers heard who led great lives; + And, as the bravest on a shield is borne + Along the waving host that shouts him king, + So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas!" + + Then the old man arose; white-haired he stood, + White-bearded with eyes that looked afar + From their still region of perpetual snow, + Over the little smokes and stirs of men: + His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years, + As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, + But something triumphed in his brow and eye, + Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch: + Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, + Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle + Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods, + So wheeled his soul into the air of song + High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang: + + "The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out + Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; + And, from a quiver full of such as these, + The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, + Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. + Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate? + What archer of his arrows is so choice, + Or hits the white so surely? They are men, + The chosen of her quiver; nor for her + Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick + At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked: + Such answer household ends; but she will have + Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound + Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips + All needless stuff, all sapwood; hardens them; + From circumstance untoward feathers plucks + Crumpled and cheap; and barbs with iron will: + The hour that passes is her quiver-boy; + When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, + Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings, + For sun and wind have plighted faith to her + Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold, + In the butt's heart her trembling messenger! + + "The song is old and simple that I sing; + Good were the days of yore, when men were tried + By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold; + But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men, + And the free ocean, still the days are good; + Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity + And knocks at every door of but or hall, + Until she finds the brave soul that she wants." + + He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide + Of interrupted wassail roared along; + But Leif, the son of Eric, sat apart + Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, + Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen; + lint then with that resolve his heart was bent, + Which, like a humming shaft, through many a stripe + Of day and night across the unventured seas, + Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands + The first rune in the Saga of the West. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0113" id="link2H_4_0113"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FLOWERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O poet! above all men blest, + Take heed that thus thou store them; + Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest, + Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!) + Watchfully brooding o'er them. + And from those flowers of Paradise + Scatter thou many a blessed seed, + Wherefrom an offspring may arise + To cheer the hearts and light the eyes + Of after-voyagers in their need. + They shall not fall on stony ground, + But, yielding all their hundred-fold, + Shall shed a peacefulness around, + Whose strengthening joy may not be told! + So shall thy name be blest of all, + And thy remembrance never die; + For of that seed shall surely fall + In the fair garden of Eternity, + Exult then m the nobleness + Of this thy work so holy, + Yet be not thou one jot the less + Humble and meek and lowly, + But let throe exultation be + The reverence of a bended knee; + And by thy life a poem write, + Built strongly day by day— + on the rock of Truth and Right + Its deep foundations lay. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IMPARTIALITY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I cannot say a scene is fair + Because it is beloved of thee + But I shall love to linger there, + For sake of thy dear memory; + I would not be so coldly just + As to love only what I must. + + I cannot say a thought is good + Because thou foundest joy in it; + Each soul must choose its proper food + Which Nature hath decreed most fit; + But I shall ever deem it so + Because it made thy heart o'erflow. + + I love thee for that thou art fair; + And that thy spirit joys in aught + Createth a new beauty there, + With throe own dearest image fraught; + And love, for others' sake that springs, + Gives half their charm to lovely things. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0115" id="link2H_4_0115"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY LOVE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I not as all other women are + Is she that to my soul is dear; + Her glorious fancies come from far, + Beneath the silver evening-star, + And yet her heart is ever near. + + Great feelings has she of her own, + Which lesser souls may never know; + God giveth them to her alone, + And sweet they are as any tone + Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. + + Yet in herself she dwelleth not, + Although no home were half so fair; + No simplest duty is forgot, + Life hath no dim and lowly spot + That doth not in her sunshine share. + + She doeth little kindnesses, + Which most leave undone, or despise; + For naught that sets one heart at ease, + And giveth happiness or peace, + Is low-esteemed m her eyes. + + She hath no scorn of common things, + And, though she seem of other birth, + Round us her heart entwines and clings, + And patiently she folds her wings + To tread the humble paths of earth. + + Blessing she is: God made her so, + And deeds of week-day holiness + Fall from her noiseless as the snow, + Nor hath she ever chanced to know + That aught were easier than to bless. + + She is most fair, and thereunto + Her life loth rightly harmonize; + Feeling or thought that was not true + Ne'er made less beautiful the blue + Unclouded heaven of her eyes. + + She is a woman: one in whom + The spring-time of her childish years + Hath never lost its fresh perfume, + Though knowing well that life bath room + For many blights and many tears. + + I love her with a love as still + As a broad river's peaceful might, + Which, by high tower and lowly mill, + Goes wandering at its own will, + And yet doth ever flow aright. + + And, on its full, deep breast serene, + Like quiet isles my duties lie; + It flows around them and between, + And makes them fresh and fair and green, + Sweet homes wherein to live and die. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0116" id="link2H_4_0116"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FOUNTAIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Into the sunshine, + Full of the light, + Leaping and flashing + From morn till night! + + Into the moonlight, + Whiter than snow, + Waving so flower-like + When the winds blow! + + Into the starlight, + Rushing in spray, + Happy at midnight, + Happy by day! + + Ever in motion, + Blithesome and cheery. + Still climbing heavenward, + Never aweary + + Glad of all weathers, + Still seeming best, + Upward or downward, + Motion thy rest;— + + Full of a nature + Nothing can tame, + Changed every moment, + Ever the same;— + + Ceaseless aspiring, + Ceaseless content, + Darkness or sunshine + Thy element;— + + Glorious fountain! + Let my heart be + Fresh, changeful, constant, + Upward, like thee! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0117" id="link2H_4_0117"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There came a youth upon the earth, + Some thousand years ago, + Whose slender hands were nothing worth, + Whether to plow, to reap, or sow. + + Upon an empty tortoise-shell + He stretched some chords, and drew + Music that made men's bosoms swell + Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. + + Then King Admetus, one who had + Pure taste by right divine, + Decreed his singing not too bad + To hear between the cups of wine + + And so, well-pleased with being soothed + Into a sweet half-sleep, + Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, + And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. + + His words were simple words enough, + And yet he used them so, + That what in other mouths was rough + In his seemed musical and low. + + Men called him but a shiftless youth, + In whom no good they saw; + And yet, unwittingly, in truth, + They made his careless words their law. + + They knew not how he learned at all, + For idly, hour by hour, + He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, + Or mused upon a common flower. + + It seemed the loveliness of things + Did teach him all their use, + For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, + He found a healing power profuse. + + Men granted that his speech was wise, + But, when a glance they caught + Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, + They laughed, and called him good-for-naught. + + Yet after he was dead and gone, + And e'en his memory dim, + Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, + More full of love, because of him. + + And day by day more holy grew + Each spot where he had trod, + Till after—poets only knew + Their first-born brother as a god. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0118" id="link2H_4_0118"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION + </h2> + <p> + July 21, 1865 + </p> + <h3> + (Selection) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Weak-Winged is Song, + Nor aims at that clear-ethered height + Whither the brave deed climbs for light + We seem to do them wrong, + Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse + Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse. + Our trivial song to honor those who come + With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum. + And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire + Live battle-odes whose lines mere steel and fire: + Yet sometimes feathered words are strong, + A gracious memory to buoy up and save + From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave + Of the unventurous throng. + + Many loved Truth, and lavished Life's best oil + Amid the dust of books to find her, + Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, + With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. + Many in sad faith sought for her, + Many with crossed hands sighed for her; + But these, our brothers, fought for her, + At life's dear peril wrought for her, + So loved her that they died for her, + Tasting the raptured fleetness + Of her divine completeness + Their higher instinct knew + Those love her best who to themselves are true, + And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; + They followed her and found her + Where all may hope to find, + Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, + But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her. + Where faith made whole with deed + Breathes its awakening breath + Into the lifeless creed, + They saw her plumed and mailed, + With sweet, stern face unveiled, + And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. + + Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides + Into the silent hollow of the past; + What is there that abides + To make the next age better for the last? + Is earth too poor to give us + Something to live for here that shall outlive us? + Some more substantial boon + Than such as flows and ebbs with + Fortune's fickle moon? + The little that we sec: + From doubt is never free; + The little that we do + Is but half-nobly true; + With our laborious hiving + What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, + Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, + Only secure in every one's conniving, + A long account of nothings paid with loss, + Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires, + After our little hour of strut and rave, + With all our pasteboard passions and desires, + Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires, + Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave. + But stay! no age was e'er degenerate, + Unless men held it at too cheap a rate, + For in our likeness still we shape our fate. + + Whither leads the path + To ampler fates that leads? + Not down through flowery meads, + To reap an aftermath + Of youth's vainglorious weeds, + But up the steep, amid the wrath + And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, + Where the world's best hope and stay + By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way, + And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds. + Peace hath her not ignoble wreath, + Ere yet the sharp, decisive word + Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword + Dreams in its easeful sheath; + But some day the live coal behind the thought, + Whether from Baal's stone obscene, + Or from the shrine serene + Of God's pure altar brought, + Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen + Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught, + And, helpless in the fiery passion caught, + Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men + Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed + Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, + And trips reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise, + And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; + I claim of thee the promise of thy youth; + Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, + The victim of thy genius, not its mate!" + Life may be given in many ways, + And loyalty to Truth be sealed + As bravely in the closet as the field, + So bountiful is Fate; + But then to stand beside her, + When craven churls deride her, + To front a lie in arms and not to yield, + This shows, methinks, God's plan + And measure of a stalwart man, + Limbed like the old heroic breeds, + Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth, + Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, + Fed from within with all the strength he needs. + + Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, + Whom late the Nation he had led, + With ashes on her head, + wept with the passion of an angry grief. + Forgive me, if from present things I turn + To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, + And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. + Nature, they say, doth dote, + And cannot make a man + Save on some worn-out plan, + Repeating us by rote + For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw, + And, choosing sweet clay from the breast + Of the unexhausted West, + With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, + Vise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. + How beautiful to see + Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, + Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; + One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, + Not lured by any cheat of birth, + But by his clear-grained human worth, + And brave old wisdom of sincerity! + They knew that outward grace is dust; + They could not choose but trust + In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, + And supple-tempered will + That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. + His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, + Thrusting to thin air o er our cloudy bars, + A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; + Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, + Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, + Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. + Nothing of Europe here, + Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, + Ere any names of Serf and Peer + Could Nature's equal scheme deface + And thwart her genial will; + Here was a type of the true elder race, + And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. + I praise him not; it were too late; + And some innative weakness there must be + In him who condescends to victory + Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, + Safe in himself as in a fate. + So always firmly he + He knew to bide his time, + And can his fame abide, + Still patient in his simple faith sublime, + Till the wise years decide. + Great captains, with their guns and drums, + Disturb our judgment for the hour, + But at last silence comes; + These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, + Our children shall behold his fame, + The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, + Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, + New birth of our new soil, the first American. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0119" id="link2H_4_0119"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL + </h2> + <h3> + PRELUDE TO PART FIRST + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Over his keys the musing organist, + Beginning doubtfully and far away, + First lets his fingers wander as they list, + And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: + Then, as the touch of his loved instrument + Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme + First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent + Along the wavering vista of his dream. + + Not only around our infancy + Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; + Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, + We Sinais climb and know it not. + + Over our manhood bend the skies; + Against our fallen and traitor lives + The great winds utter prophecies; + With our faint hearts the mountain strives; + Its arms outstretched, the druid wood + Waits with its benedicite; + And to our age's drowsy blood + Mill shouts the inspiring sea. + + Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; + The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, + The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, + We bargain for the graves we lie in; + At the devil's booth are all things sold, + Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; + For a cap and bells our lives we pay, + Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking + 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, + 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; + No price is set on the lavish summer; + June may be had by the poorest comer. + + And what is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days; + Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, + And over it softly her warm ear lays + Whether we look, or whether we listen, + We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; + Every, clod feels a stir of might, + An instinct within it that reaches and towers, + And, groping blindly above it for light, + Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; + The flush of life may well be seen + Thrilling back over hills and valleys; + The cowslip startles in meadows green, + The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, + And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean + To be some happy creature's palace; + The little bird sits at his door in the sun, + Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, + And lets his illumined being o'errun + With the deluge of summer it receives; + His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, + And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sink + He pings to the wide world, and she to her nest, + In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? + + Now is the high-tide of the year, + And whatever of life bath ebbed away + Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, + Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; + Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, + We are happy now because God wills it; + No matter how barren the past may have been, + 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; + We sit in the warm shade and feel right well + How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; + We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing + That skies are clear and grass is growing; + The breeze comes whispering in our ear, + That dandelions are blossoming near, + That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, + That the river is bluer than the sky, + That the robin is plastering his house hard by; + And if the breeze kept the good news back, + For other couriers we should not lack; + We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, + And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, + Warmed with the new wine of the year, + Tells all in his lusty crowing! + + Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; + Everything is happy now, + Everything is upward striving; + 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true + As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,— + Tis the natural way of living + Who knows whither the clouds have fled? + In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; + And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, + The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; + The soul partakes the season's youth, + And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe + Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, + Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. + What wonder if Sir Launfal now + Remembered the keeping of his vow? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0120" id="link2H_4_0120"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BIGLOW PAPERS + </h2> + <h3> + I. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Guvener B. is a sensible man; + He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; + He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, + An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;— + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. + + My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? + We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat; + Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) + An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; + Fer John P. + Robinson he + Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener + + Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: + He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; + But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,— + He's been true to one party—an' thet is himself;— + So John P. + Robinson he + Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. + + Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; + He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud; + Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, + But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? + So John P. + Robinson he + Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. + + We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, + With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint + We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, + An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint, + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. + + The side of our country must oilers be took, + An' Presidunt Polk' you know he is our country. + An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book + Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry + An' John P. + Robinson he + Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. + + Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; + Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum: + An' thet all this big talk of our destinies + Is half on it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum, + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez it aint no seek thing; an', of course, so must we. + + Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life + Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, + An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, + To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes, + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez they didn't know everthin' down in Judee. + + Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us + The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, + I vow, God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers + To start the world's team wen it gits in a Slough; + Fer John P. + Robinson he + Sez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0121" id="link2H_4_0121"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. THE COURTIN' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God makes sech nights, all white an' still + Fur 'z you can look or listen, + Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, + All silence an' all glisten. + + Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown + An' peeked in thru' the winder, + An' there sot Huldy all alone, + 'Ith no one nigh to hender. + + A fireplace filled the room's one side + With half a cord o' wood in— + There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) + To bake ye to a puddin'. + + The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out + Towards the pootiest, bless her, + An' leetle flames danced all about + The chiny on the dresser. + + Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, + An' in amongst 'em rusted + The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young + Fetched back from Concord busted. + + The very room, coz she was in, + Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', + An' she looked full ez rosy agin + Ez the apples she was peelin'. + + 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look + On seek a blessed cretur, + A dogrose blushin' to a brook + Ain't modester nor sweeter. + + He was six foot o' man, A 1, + Clean grit an' human natur'; + None couldn't quicker pitch a ton + Nor dror a furrer straighter. + + He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, + He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, + Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells— + All is, he couldn't love 'em. + + But long o' her his veins 'ould run + All crinkly like curled maple, + The side she breshed felt full o' sun + Ez a south slope in Ap'il. + + She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing + Ez hisn in the choir; + My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, + She knowed the Lord was nigher. + + An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, + When her new meetin'-bunnet + Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair + O' blue eyes sot upun it. + + Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! + She seemed to 've gut a new soul, + For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, + Down to her very shoe-sole. + + She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu; + A-raspin' on the scraper,— + All ways to once her feelin's flew + Like sparks in burnt-up paper. + + He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, + Some doubtfle o' the sekle, + His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, + But hern went pity Zekle. + + An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk + Ez though she wished him furder, + An' on her apples kep' to work, + Parin' away like murder. + + "you want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" + "Wal...no...I come dasignin'"— + "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es + Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." + + To say why gals acts so or so, + Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; + Mebby to mean yes an' say no + Comes nateral to women. + + He stood a spell on one foot fust, + Then stood a spell on t'other, + An' on which one he felt the wust + He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. + + Says he, "I'd better call agin;" + Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" + Thet last word pricked him like a pin, + An'... Wal, he up an' kist her. + + When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, + Huldy sot pale ez ashes, + All kin' o' smily roun' the lips + An' teary roun' the lashes. + + For she was jes' the quiet kind + Whose naturs never vary, + Like streams that keep a summer mind + Snowhid in Jenooary. + + The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued + Too tight for all expressin', + Tell mother see how metters stood, + And gin 'em both her blessin'. + + Then her red come back like the tide + Down to the Bay o' Fundy, + An' all I know is they was cried + In meetin' come nex' Sunday. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0122" id="link2H_4_0122"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once git a smell o' musk into a draw, + An' it clings hold like precerdents in law; + Your gra'ma'am put it there,—when, goodness knows,— + To jes this—worldify her Sunday-clo'es; + But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife, + (For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?) + An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread + O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed, + Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides + To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides; + But better days stick fast in heart an' husk, + An' all you keep in't gits a scent o' musk. + Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly read + Git,s kind o' worked into their heart-an' head, + So 's 't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers + With furrin countries or played-out ideers, + Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smack + O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back. + This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things, + Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,— + (Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink + Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,) + This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May, + Which 't ain't, for all the almanicks can say. + O little city-gals, don't never go it + Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet! + They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looks + Up in the country, ez it dons in books + They're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives, + Or printed sarmons be to holy lives. + I, with my trouses perched on cow-hide boots, + Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots, + Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse + Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's, + Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose, + An' dance your throats sore m morocker shoes + I've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would, + Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood. + Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch, + Ez though 'twuz sunthin' paid for by the inch; + But yit we du contrive to worry thru, + Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du, + An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out, + Ez stidchly ez though 'twaz a redoubt. + I, country-born an' bred, know where to find + Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind, + An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's notes,— + Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, + Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl, + Each on 'em 's cradle to a baby-pearl,— + But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin, + The rebble frosts'll try to drive 'em in; + For half our May's so awfully like Mayn't, + 'Twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint; + Though I own up I like our back'ard springs + Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, + An' when you most give up, 'ithout more words + Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds + Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt, + But when it doos git stirred, ther' 's no gin-out! + + Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, + An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,— + Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned + Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind. + 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief, + The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, + Then saffern swarms swing off from' all the willers + So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, + Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfold + Softer'n a baby's be at three days old + Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knows + Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom-snows + So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse, + He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. + Then seems to come a hitch,—things lag behind, + Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind, + An' ez, when snow-swelled avers cresh their dams + Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, + A leak comes spirtin thru some pin-hole cleft, + Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, + Then all the waters bow themselves an' come + Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, + Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune + An gives one leap from April into June + Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think, + Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink + The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud; + The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; + Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, + An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; + The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade + An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade; + In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings + An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings; + All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers + The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, + Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try + With pins—they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby! + But I don't love your cat'logue style,—do you?— + Ez ef to sell off Natur' b y vendoo; + One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two: + 'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year, + Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; + Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, + Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, + Or, givin' way to't in a mock despair, + Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. + I ollus feels the sap start in my veins + In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly pains, + Thet drive me, when I git a chance, to walk + Off by myself to hev a privit talk + With a queer critter thet can't seem to 'gree + Along o' me like most folks,—Mister Me. + Ther' 's times when I'm unsoshle ez a stone + An' sort o' suffocate to be alone,— + I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh, + An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky; + Now the wind's full ez shifty in the mind + Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind, + An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather, + My innard vane pints east for weeks together, + My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sins + Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins: + Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' sight + An' take it out in a fair stan'-up fight + With the one cuss I can't lay on the shelf, + The crook'dest stick in all the heap,—Myself. + + 'Twuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'-time: + F'indin' my feelin's wouldn't noways rhyme + With nobody's, but off the hendle flew + An' took things from an east-wind pint o' view, + I started off to lose me in the hills + Where the pines be, up back o' Siah's Mills: + Pines, ef you're blue, are the best friends I know, + They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so,— + They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I swan, + You half-forgit you've gut a body on. + "Ther' 's a small school'us' there where four road, meet, + The door-steps hollered out by little feet, + An side-posts carved with names whose owners grew + To gret men, some on 'em an' deacons, tu; + 'Tain't used no longer, coz the town hez gut + A high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut: + Three-story larnin' 's poplar now: I guess + We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories less, + For it strikes me ther' 's sech a thing ez sinnin' + By overloadin' children's underpinnin: + Wal, here it wuz I larned my A B C, + An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with me. + We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute + Thet ever fits us easy while we're in it; + Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twould be perfect bliss,— + Soon ez it's past, thet time's wuth ten o' this + An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told + Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold. + A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan + An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man; + Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I enjoy + Like dreamin' back along into a boy: + So the ole school'us' is a place I choose + Afore all others, ef I want to muse; + I set down where I used to set, an' git + Diy boyhood back, an' better things with it,— + Faith, Hope, an' sunthin' ef it isn't Cherrity, + It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret a rerrity. + Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath arternoon + Thet I sot out to tramp myself in tune, + I found me in the school'us' on my seat, + Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet. + Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say, + Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way: + It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew, + Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue. + + From this to thet I let my worryin' creep + Till finally I must ha' fell asleep. + + Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide + Twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each side, + Where both shores' shadders kind o' mix an' mingle + In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either single; + An' when you cast off moorin's from To-day, + An' down towards To-morrer drift away, + The imiges thet tengle on the stream + Make a new upside-down'ard world o' dream: + Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warnin's + O' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's, + An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite, + Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't gone right. + I'm gret on dreams: an' often, when I wake, + I've lived so much it makes my mem'ry ache, + An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer + 'Thout hevin' 'em, some good, some bad, all queer. + + Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed, + An' ain't sure yit whether I rally dreamed, + Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep', + When I hearn some un stompin' up the step, + An' lookirz' round, ef two an' two make four, + I see a Pilgrim Father in the door. + + He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' spurs + With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut-burrs, + An' his gret sword behind him sloped away + Long'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say.— + "Ef your name's Biglow, an' your given-name + Hosee," sez he, "it's arter you I came; + I'm your gret-gran they multiplied by three." + "My wut?" sez I.—your gret-gret-gret," sez he: + "You wouldn't ha' never ben here but for me. + Two hundred an' three year ago this May, + The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay; + I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,— + But wut on girth hev ,you gut up one for? + Coz we du things in England, 'tain't for you + To git a notion you can du 'em tu: + I'm told you write in public prints: ef true, + It's nateral you should know a thing or two."— + "Thet air's an argymunt I can't endorse,— + 'Twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a horse: + + But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go, + How in all Natur' did you come to know + 'Bout our affairs," sez I "in Kingdom-Come?"— + "Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some, + An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone, + In hopes o' larnin wut wuz goin' on," + Sez he, "but mejums lie so like all-split + Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit. + But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin', + You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'."— + "Gran'ther," sez I, "a vane warn't never known + Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own; + An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints, + It's safe to trust its say on certin pints + It knows the wind's opinions to a T, + An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be." + "I never thought a scion of our stock + Could grow the wood to make a weathercock; + When I wuz younger'n you, skurce more'n a shaver, + No airthly wind," sez he, "could make me waver!" + (Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead, + Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.) + "Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I, "I swow, + When I wuz younger'n wut you see me now,— + Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet, + Thet I warm't full-cocked with my jedgment on it; + But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find + It's a sight harder to make up my mind,— + Nor I don't often try tu, when events + Will du it for me free of all expense. + The moral question's ollus plain enough,— + It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough; + Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,— + The pinch comes in decidin' wut to du; + Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease, + Coz there the men ain't nothin' more'n idees,— + But come to make it, ez we must to-day, + Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way + It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,— + They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with nigers; + But come to try your the'ry on,—why, then + Your facts an' figgers change to ign'ant men + Actin' ez ugly—"—"Smite 'em hip an' thigh!" + Sez gran'ther, "and let every man-child die! + Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord! + Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword! + "Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee, + But you forgit how long it's hen A.D.; + You think thet's ellerkence—I call it shoddy, + A thing," sez I, "wun't cover soul nor body; + I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense, + Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence. + You took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned. + An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second; + Now, wut I want's to hev all we gain stick, + An' not to start Millennium too quick; + We hain't to punish only, but to keep, + An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep" + "Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue," + Sez he, "an' so you'll find before you're thru; + + "Strike soon," sez he, "or you'll be deadly ailin'— + Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; + God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe + He'll settle things they run away an' leave!" + He brought his foot down fiercely, ez he spoke, + An' give me sech a startle thet I woke. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0123" id="link2H_4_0123"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What visionary tints the year puts on, + When failing leaves falter through motionless air + Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! + How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, + As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills + The bowl between me and those distant hills, + And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair! + + No more the landscape holds its wealth apart. + Making me poorer in my poverty, + But mingles with my senses and my heart; + My own projected spirit seems to me + In her own reverie the world to steep; + 'Tis she that waves to sympathetic sleep, + Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill, and tree. + + How fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees, + Clasped by the faint horizon's languid arms, + Each into each, the hazy distances! + The softened season all the landscape charms; + Those hills, my native village that embay, + In waves of dreamier purple roll away, + And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms. + + Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee + Close at my side; far distant sound the leaves; + The fields seem fields of dream, where Memory + Wanders like gleaning Ruth; and as the sheaves + Of wheat and barley wavered in the eye + Of Boaz as the maiden's glow went by, + So tremble and seem remote all things the sense receives. + + The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn, + Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates, + Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne, + Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's Straits; + Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails; + Silently overhead the henhawk sails, + With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits. + + The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, + Leeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer; + The squirrel on the shingly shagbark's bough, + Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear, + Then drops his nut, and, with a chipping bound, + Whisks to his winding fastness underground; + The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere. + + O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows + Drowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman's call + Creeps, faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows; + The single crow a single caw lets fall + And all around me every bush and tree + Says Autumn's here, and Winter soon will + Who snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all. + + The birch, most shy and lady-like of trees, + Her poverty, as best she may, retrieves, + And hints at her foregone gentilities + With some saved relics of her wealth of leaves + The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on, + Glares red as blood across the sinking sun, + As one who proudlier to a falling fortune cleaves + + He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt, + Who, mid some council of the sad-garbed whites, + Erect and stern, in his own memories lapt, + With distant eye broods over other sights, + Sees the hushed wood the city's flare replace, + The wounded turf heal o'er the railway's trace, + And roams the savage Past of his undwindled rights. + + The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost, + And, with his crumpled foliage stiff and dry, + After the first betrayal of the frost, + Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky; + The chestnuts, lavish of their long-hid gold, + To the faint Summer, beggared now and old, + Pour back the sunshine hoarded 'neath her favoring eye. + + The ash her purple drops forgivingly + And sadly, breaking not the general hush; + The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea, + Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush; + All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze; + Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days, + Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush. + + O'er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone, + Where vines, and weeds, and scrub-oaks intertwine + Safe from the plough, whose rough, discordant stone + Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine, + The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves + A prickly network of ensanguined leaves; + Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine. + + Pillaring with flame this crumbling boundary, + Whose loose blocks topple 'neath the ploughboy's foot, + Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye, + Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot, + The woodbine up the elm's straight stem aspires. + Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal fires; + In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute. + + Below, the Charles—a stripe of nether sky, + Now hid by rounded apple-trees between, + Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by, + Now flickering golden through a woodland screen, + Then spreading out at his next turn beyond, + A silver circle like an inland pond— + Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green. + + Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sight + Who cannot in their various incomes share, + From every season drawn, of shade and light, + Who sees in them but levels brown and bare; + Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free + On them its largesse of variety, + For nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare. + + In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green, + O'er which the light winds run with glimmering feet; + Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen + here, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet; + And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, + As if the silent shadow of a cloud + Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet. + + All round, upon the river's slippery edge, + Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide, + Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling sedge; + Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide, + Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun, + And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run + Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide. + + In Summer 'tis a blithesome sight to see, + As step by step, with measured swing, they pass, + The wide-ranked mowers evading to the knee, + Their sharp scythes panting through the thick-set grass + Then, stretched beneath a rick's shade in a ring, + Their nooning take, while one begins to sing + A stave that droops and dies 'neath the close sky of brass. + + Meanwhile the devil-may-care, the bobolink, + Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops + Just ere he sweeps O'er rapture's tremulous brink, + And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops, + A decorous bird of business, who provides + For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, + And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops. + + Another change subdues them in the Fall, + But saddens not, they still show merrier tints, + Though sober russet seems to cover all; + When the first sunshine through their dew-drops glints, + Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across, + Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss, + As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints. + + Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest, + Lean o'er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill, + While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west, + Glow opposite; the marshes drink their fill + And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade + Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade, + Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond's darkening hill. + + Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts, + Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates, + And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts, + While the firmer ice the eager boy awaits, + Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire, + And until bedtime—plays with his desire, + Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates;— + + Then, every morn, the river's banks shine bright + With smooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail, + By the frost's clinking hammers forged at night, + "Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail, + Giving a pretty emblem of the day + When guitar arms in light shall melt away, + And states shall move free limbed, loosed from war's cramping + mail. + + And now those waterfalls the ebbing river + Twice everyday creates on either side + Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiver + In grass-arched channels to the sun denied; + High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow, + The silvered flats gleam frostily below, + Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide. + + But, crowned in turn by vying seasons three, + Their winter halo hath a fuller ring; + This glory seems to rest immovably,— + The others were too fleet and vanishing; + When the hid tide is at its highest flow, + O'er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snow + With brooding fulness awes and hushes everything. + + The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind, + As pale as formal candles lit by day; + Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind; + The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play, + Show pearly breakers combing o'er their lee, + White crests as of some just enchanted sea, + Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised midway. + + But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant, + From mid-sea's prairies green and rolling plains + Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt, + And the roused Charles remembers in his veins + Old Ocean's blood and snaps his gyves of frost, + That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost + In dreary wreck, and crumbling desolation reigns. + + Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like device, + With leaden pools between or gullies bare, + The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stonehenge of ice; + No life, no sound, to break the grim despair, + Save sullen plunge, as through the sedges stiff + Down crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff, + Or ashen the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there. + + But let me turn from fancy-pictured scenes + To that whose pastoral calm before me lies: + Here nothing harsh or rugged intervenes; + The early evening with her misty dyes + Smooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh, + Relieves the distant with her cooler sky, + And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes + + There gleams my native village, dear to me, + Though higher change's waves each day are seen, + Whelming fields famed in boyhood's history, + Sanding with houses the diminished green; + There, in red brick, which softening time defies, + Stand square and stiff the Muses' factories; + How with my life knit up is every well-known scene! + + Flow on, dear river! not alone you flow + To outward sight, and through your marshes wind; + Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago, + Your twin flows silent through my world of mind + Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening's gray! + Before my inner sight ye stretch away, + And will forever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0124" id="link2H_4_0124"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FABLE FOR CRITICS + </h2> + <h3> + (Selections) + </h3> + <p> + I. Emerson. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, + Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on, + Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows, + Is some of it pr—— No, 'tis not even prose; + I'm speaking of metres; some poems have welled + From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been excelled; + They're not epics, but that doesn't matter a pin, + In creating, the only hard thing's to begin; + A grass-blade's no easier to make than an oak, + If you've once found the way you've achieved the grand stroke; + In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter, + But thrown in a heap with a crash and a clatter + Now it is not one thing nor another alone + Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, + The something pervading, uniting, the whole, + The before unconceived, unconceivable soul, + So that just in removing this trifle or that, you + Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue; + Roots, wood, bark, and leaves, singly perfect may be, + But, clapt bodge-podge together, they don't make a tree. + + "But, to come back to Emerson, (whom by the way, + I believe we left waiting,)—his is, we may say, + A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range + Has Olympus for one pole, for t' other the Exchange; + Life, nature, lore, God, and affairs of that sort, + He looks at as merely ideas; in short, + As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet, + Of such vast extent that our earth's a mere dab in it; + Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, + Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure lecturer; + You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration, + Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion, + With the quiet precision of science he'll sort em, + But you can't help suspecting the whole a post mortem. +</pre> + <p> + II. Bryant. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified, + As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified, + Save when by reflection 'tis kindled o' nights, + With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Nights. + He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation, + + (There's no doubt that he stands in supreme iceolation,) + Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, + But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on— + He's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on: + Unqualified merits, I'll grant, if you choose, he has em, + But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm; + If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, + Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. + + "He is very nice reading in summer, but inter + Nos, we don't want extra freezing in winter; + Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is, + When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. + But, deduct all you can, there's enough that's right good in + him, + He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him; + And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is, + Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities, + To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet? + No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their lime stone and + granite. +</pre> + <p> + III. Whinier. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "There is Whinier, whose swelling and vehement heart + Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, + And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect, + Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect; + There was ne'er a man born who had more of the swing + Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing; + And his failures arise, (though perhaps he don't know it,) + From the very same cause that has made him a poet,— + A fervor of mind which knows no separation + 'Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration, + As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from not knowing + If 'twere I or mere wind through her tripod was blowing; + Let his mind once get head in its favorite direction + And the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflection, + While, borne with the rush of the metre along, + The poet may chance to go right or go wrong, + Content with the whirl and delirium of song; + Then his grammar's not always correct, nor his rhymes, + And he's prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes, + Not his best, though, for those are struck off at white-heats + When the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer beats + And can ne'er be repeated again any more + Than they could have been carefully plotted before + "All honor and praise to the right-hearted bard + Who was true to The Voice when such service was hard, + Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave + When to look but a protest in silence was brave; +</pre> + <p> + IV. Hawthorne. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare + That you hardly at first see the strength that is there; + A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet, + So earnest, so graceful, so solid, so fleet, + Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet; + 'Tis as if a rough oak that for ages had stood, + With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood + Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe, + With a single anemone trembly and rathe; + His strength is so tender; his wildness so meek, + That a suitable parallel sets one to seek— + He's a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puritan Tieck; + When nature was shaping him, clay was not granted + For making so full-sized a man as she wanted, + So, to fill out her model, a little she spared + From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared. + And she could not have hit a more excellent plan + For making him fully and perfectly man. + The success of her scheme gave her so much delight, + That she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight, + Only, while she was kneading and shaping the clay, + She sang to her work in her sweet childish way, + And found, when she'd put the last touch to his soul, + That the music had somehow got mixed with the whole. +</pre> + <p> + V. Cooper. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Here's Cooper, who's written six volumes to show + He's as good as a lord: well, let's grant that he's so; + If a person prefer that description of praise, + Why, a coronet's certainly cheaper than bays; + But he need take no pains to convince us he's not + (As his enemies say) the American Scott. + Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud + That one of his novels of which he's most proud, + And I'd lay any bet that, without ever quitting + Their box, they'd be all, to a man, for acquitting. + He has drawn you he's character, though, that is new, + One wildflower he's plucked that is wet with the dew + Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince, + He has done naught but copy it ill ever since; + His Indians, with proper respect be it said, + Are just Natty Bumpo daubed over with red, + And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, + Rigged up in duck pants and a sou'-wester hat, + (Though once in a Coffin, a good chance was found + To have slipt the old fellow away underground.) + All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks + The derniere chemise of a man in a fix, + (As a captain besieged, when his garrison's small, + bets up caps upon poles to be seen o'er the wall;) + And the women he draws from one model don't vary, + All sappy as maples and flat as a prairie. + When a character's wanted, he goes to the task + As a cooper would do in composing a cask; + He picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful, + Just hoops them together as tight as is needful, + And, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he + Has made at the most something wooden and empty. + + "Don't suppose I would underrate Cooper's abilities + If I thought you'd do that, I should feel very ill at ease; + The men who have given to one character life + And objective existence, are not very rife, + You may number them all, both prose-writers and singers, + Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers, + And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker + Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar. + + "There is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that is + That on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis, + Not precisely so either, because, for a rarity, + He is paid for his tickets in unpopularity. + Now he may overcharge his American pictures, + But you'll grant there's a good deal of truth in his + strictures; + And I honor the man who is willing to sink + Half his present repute for the freedom to think, + And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, + Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak, + Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store, + Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower. +</pre> + <p> + VI. Poe and Longfellow. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, + Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge, + Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, + In a way to make people of common-sense damn metres, + Who has written some things quite the best of their kind, + But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind, + Who—but hey-day! What's this? Messieurs Mathews and Poe, + You mustn't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so, + Does it make a man worse that his character's such + As to make his friends love him (as you thin) too much? + Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive + More willing than he that his fellows should thrive, + While you are abusing him thus, even now + He would help either one of you out of a dough; + You may say that he's smooth and all that till you're hoarse + But remember that elegance also is force; + After polishing granite as much as you will, + The heart keeps its tough old persistency still; + Deduct all you can that still keeps you at bay, + Why, he'll live till men weary of Collins and Gray. + + 'Tis truth that I speak + Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, + I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change a line + In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline. + That's not ancient nor modern, its place is apart + Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art, + 'Tis a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife + As quiet and chaste as the author's own life. +</pre> + <p> + VII. Irving. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "What! Irving? thrice welcome, warm heart and fine brain, + You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, + And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there + Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair; + Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching,— + I shan't run directly against my own preaching, + And, having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, + Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; + But allow me to speak what I honestly feel,— + To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, + Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, + With the whole of that partnership's stock and good will, + Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell, + The fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well, + Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain + That only the finest and clearest remain, + Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives + From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, + And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving + A name either English or Yankee,—just Irving. +</pre> + <p> + VIII. Holmes. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; + A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit + The electrical tingles of hit after hit; + In long poems 'tis painful sometimes, and invites + A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, + Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully + As if you got more than you'd title to rightfully, + And you find yourself hoping its wild father Lightning + Would flame in for a second and give you fright'ning. + He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre, + But many admire it, the English pentameter, + And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, + With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse, + Nor e'er achieved aught in 't so worthy of praise + As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise. + You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon; + Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on, + Heaping verses on verses and tames upon tomes, + He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Holmes. + His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric + Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satyric + In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes + That are trodden upon are your own or your foes'. +</pre> + <p> + IX. Lowell. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb + With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, + He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, + But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders + The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching + Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching; + His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, + But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell + And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, + At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem. +</pre> + <p> + X. Spirit of Ancient Poetry. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "My friends, in the happier days of the muse, + We were luckily free from such things as reviews, + Then naught came between with its fog to make clearer + The heart of the poet to that of his hearer; + Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they + Felt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay; + Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul + Pre-created the future, both parts of one whole; + Then for him there was nothing too great or too small. + For one natural deity sanctified all; + Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods + Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods + O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods + He asked not earth's verdict, forgetting the clods, + His soul soared and sang to an audience of gods. + 'Twas for them that he measured the thought and the line, + And shaped for their vision the perfect design, + With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true, + As swung out the worlds in the infinite blue; + Then a glory and greatness invested man's heart + The universal, which now stands estranged and apart, + In the free individual moulded, was Art; + Then the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with desire + For something as yet unattained, fuller, higher, + As once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening, + And her whole upward soul in her countenance glistening, + Eurydice stood—like a beacon unfired, + Which, once touched with flame, will leap heav'nward inspired— + And waited with answering kindle to mark + The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark. + Then painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve + the need that men feel to create and believe, + And as, in all beauty, who listens with love + Hears these words oft repeated—'beyond and above.' + So these seemed to be but the visible sign + Of the grasp of the soul after things more divine; + They were ladders the Artist erected to climb + O'er the narrow horizon of space and of time, + And we see there the footsteps by which men had gained + To the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained, + As shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod + The last spurning print of a sky-cleaving god. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0125" id="link2H_4_0125"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0126" id="link2H_4_0126"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OLD IRONSIDES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! + Long has it waved on high, + And many an eye has danced to see + That banner in the sky; + Beneath it rung the battle shout, + And burst the cannon's roar;— + The meteor of the ocean air + Shall sweep the clouds no more! + + Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, + Where knelt the vanquished foe, + When winds were hurrying o'er the floods + And waves were white below, + No more shall feel the victor's tread, + Or know the conquered knee;— + The harpies of the shore shall pluck + The eagle of the sea! + + O better that her shattered hulk + Should sink beneath the wave; + Her thunders shook the mighty deep, + And there should be her grave; + Nail to the mast her holy flag, + Set every threadbare sail, + And give her to the god of storms, + The lightning and the gale! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0127" id="link2H_4_0127"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST LEAF + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw him once before, + As he passed by the door, + And again + The pavement stones resound, + As he totters o'er the ground + With his cane. + + They say that in his prime, + Ere the pruning-knife of Time + Cut him down, + Not a better man was found, + By the Crier on his round + Through the town. + + But now he walks the streets, + And he looks at all he meets + Sad and wan, + And he shakes his feeble head, + That it seems as if he said, + "They are gone." + + The mossy marbles rest + On the lips that he has prest + In their bloom, + And the names he loved to hear + Have been carved for many a year + On the tomb. + + My grandmamma has said— + Poor old lady, she is dead + Long ago— + That he had a Roman nose, + And his cheek was like a rose + In the snow. + + But now his nose is thin, + And it rests upon his chin + Like a staff, + And a crock is in his back, + And a melancholy crack + In his laugh. + + I know it is a sin + For me to sit and grin + At him here; + But the old three-cornered hat, + And the breeches, and all that, + Are so queer! + + And if I should live to be + The last leaf upon the tree + In the spring, + Let them smile, as I do now, + At the old forsaken bough + Where I cling. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0128" id="link2H_4_0128"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY AUNT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! + Long years have o'er her flown; + Yet still she strains the aching clasp + That binds her virgin zone; + I know it hurts her,—though she looks + As cheerful as she can; + Her waist is ampler than her life, + For life is but a span. + + My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! + Her hair is almost gray; + Why will she train that winter curl + In such a spring-like way? + How can she lay her glasses down, + And say she reads as well, + When through a double convex lens, + She just makes out to spell? + + Her father—grandpapa! forgive + This erring lip its smiles— + Vowed she should make the finest girl + Within a hundred miles; + He sent her to a stylish school; + 'Twas in her thirteenth June; + And with her, as the rules required, + "Two towels and a spoon." + + They braced my aunt against a board, + To make her straight and tall; + They laced her up, they starved her down, + To make her light and small; + They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, + They screwed it up with pins;— + O never mortal suffered more + In penance for her sins. + + So, when my precious aunt was done, + My grandsire brought her back; + (By daylight, lest some rabid youth + Might follow on the track;) + "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook + Some powder in his pan, + "What could this lovely creature do + Against a desperate man!" + + Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, + Nor bandit cavalcade, + Tore from the trembling father's arms + His all-accomplished maid. + For her how happy had it been! + And Heaven had spared to me + To see one sad, ungathered rose + On my ancestral tree. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0129" id="link2H_4_0129"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, + Sails the unshadowed main,— + The venturous bark that flings + On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings + In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, + And coral reefs lie bare, + Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. + + Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; + Wrecked is the ship of pearl! + And every chambered cell, + Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, + As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, + Before thee lies revealed,— + Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! + + Year after year beheld the silent toil + That spread his lustrous coil; + Mill, as the spiral grew, + He left the past year's dwelling for the new, + Stole with soft step its shining archway through, + Built up its idle door, + Stretched m his last-found home, and knew the old no more. + + Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, + Child of the wandering sea, + Cast from her lap, forlorn! + From thy dead lips a clearer note is born + Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! + While on mine ear it rings, + Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:— + + Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll! + Leave thy low-vaulted past! + Let each new temple, nobler than the last, + Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, + Till thou at length art free, + Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0130" id="link2H_4_0130"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONTENTMENT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Man wants but little here below." + Little I ask; my wants are few; + I only wish a hut of stone, + (A very plain, brown stone' will do,) + That I may call my own; + And close at hand is such a one, + In yonder street that fronts the sun. + + Plain food is quite enough for me; + Three courses are as good as ten; + If Nature can subsist on three, + Thank Heaven for three. Amen! + I always thought cold victual nice;— + My choice would be vanilla-ice. + + I care not much for gold or land; + Give me a mortgage here and there, + Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, + Or trifling railroad share,— + I only ask that Fortune send + A little more than I shall spend. + + Honors are silly toys, I know, + And titles are but empty names; + I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,— + But only near St. James; + I'm very sure I should not care + To fill our Gubernator's chair. + + Jewels are bawbles; 'tis a sin + To care for such unfruitful things; + One good-sized diamond in a pin,— + Some, not so large, in rings,— + A ruby, and a pearl, or so, + Will do for me;—I laugh at show. + + My dame should dress in cheap attire; + (Good, heavy silks are never dear;) + I own perhaps I might desire + Some shawls of true Cashmere,— + Some marrowy crapes of China silk, + Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. + + I would not have the horse I drive + So fast that folks must stop and stare; + An easy gait—two, forty-five— + Suits me; I do not care; + Perhaps, for just a single spurt, + Some seconds less would do no hurt. + + Of pictures, I should like to own + Titians and Raphaels three or four, + I love so much their style and tone,— + One Turner, and no more, + (A landscape,—foreground golden dirt,— + The sunshine painted with a 'squirt.) + + Of books but few,—some fifty score + For daily use, and bound for wear; + The rest upon an upper floor;— + Some little luxury there + Of red morocco's gilded gleam, + And vellum rich as country cream. + + Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these, + Which others often show for pride, + I value for their power to please, + And selfish churls deride;— + One Stradivarius, I confess, + Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess. + + Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn + Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; + Shall not carved tables serve my turn, + But all must be of buhl? + Give grasping pomp its double share,— + I ask but one recumbent chair. + + Thus humble let me live and die, + Nor long for Midas' golden touch; + If Heaven more generous gifts deny, + I shall not miss them much,— + Too grateful for the blessing lent + Of simple tastes and mind content! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0131" id="link2H_4_0131"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; + </h2> + <h3> + or + </h3> + <p> + THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY" + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A LOGICAL STORY + + Have you heard of the wonderful one-horse shay, + That was built in such a logical way + It ran a hundred years to a day, + And then, of a sudden, it—ah but stay, + I'll tell you what happened without delay, + Scaring the parson into fits, + Frightening people out of their wits, + Have you ever heard of that, I say? + + Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, + Georgius Secundus was then alive, + Snuffy old drone from the German hive. + That was the year when Lisbon-town + Saw the earth open and gulp her down + And Braddock's army was done so brown, + Left without a scalp to its crown. + It was on the terrible Earthquake-day + That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. + + Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, + There is always somewhere a weakest spot,— + In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, + In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, + In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still, + Find it somewhere you must and will,— + Above or below, or within or without,— + And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, + That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. + + But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, + With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") + He would build one shay to beat the taown + 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; + It should be so built that it couldn' break daown, + "Fur," said the Deacon, "It's mighty plain + Thut the weakes' place mus' Stan' the strain; + 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, + Is only jest + T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." + + So the Deacon inquired of the village folk + Where he could find the strongest oak, + That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, + That was for spokes and floor and sills; + He sent for lancewood to make the thins; + The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees. + The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, + But lasts like iron for things like these; + The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"— + + Last of its timber,—they couldn't sell 'em, + Never an axe had seen their chips, + And the wedges flew from between their lips, + Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; + Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, + Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, + Steel of the finest, bright and blue; + Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; + Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide + Found in the pit when the tanner died. + That was the way he "put her through." + "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" + + Do! I tell you, I rather guess + She was a wonder, and nothing less! + Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, + Deacon and deaconess dropped away, + Children and grandchildren—where were they? + But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay + As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day + + EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;—it came and found + The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. + Eighteen hundred increased by ten;— + "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. + Eighteen hundred and twenty came;— + Running as usual; much the same. + Thirty and forty at last arrive, + And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. + + Little of all we value here + Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year + Without both feeling and looking queer. + In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, + So far as I know but a tree and truth. + (This is a moral that runs at large; + Take it.—You're welcome.—No extra charge.) + + FIRST of NOVEMBER,—the Earthquake-day— + There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, + A general flavor of mild decay, + But nothing local, as one may say. + There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's art + Had made it so like in every part + That there wasn't a chance for one to start. + For the wheels were just as strong as the thins, + And the floor was just as strong as the sills, + And the panels just as strong as the floors + And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, + And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, + And spring and axle and hub encore. + And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt + In another hour it will be worn out! + + First of November, 'Fifty-five! + This morning the parson takes a drive. + Now, small boys, get out of the way! + Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, + Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. + "Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they. + The parson was working his Sunday's text,— + Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed + At what the—Moses—was coming next. + + All at once the horse stood still, + Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. + First a shiver, and then a thrill, + Then something decidedly like a spill,— + And the parson was sitting upon a rock, + At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock— + Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! + + What do you think the parson found, + When he got up and stared around? + The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, + As if it had been to the mill and ground! + You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, + How it went to pieces all at once, + All at once, and nothing first, + Just as bubbles do when they burst. + + End of the wonderful one-boss shay. + Logic is logic. That's all I say. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0132" id="link2H_4_0132"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0133" id="link2H_4_0133"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STORM ON ST. BERNARD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, Heaven, it is a fearful thing + Beneath the tempest's beating wing + To struggle, like a stricken hare + When swoops the monarch bird of air; + To breast the loud winds' fitful spasms, + To brave the cloud and shun the chasms, + Tossed like a fretted shallop-sail + Between the ocean and the gale. + + Along the valley, loud and fleet, + The rising tempest leapt and roared, + And scaled the Alp, till from his seat + The throned Eternity of Snow + His frequent avalanches poured + In thunder to the storm below. + + And now, to crown their fears, a roar + Like ocean battling with the shore, + Or like that sound which night and day + Breaks through Niagara's veil of spray, + From some great height within the cloud, + + To some unmeasured valley driven, + Swept down, and with a voice so loud + It seemed as it would shatter heaven! + The bravest quailed; it swept so near, + It made the ruddiest cheek to blanch, + While look replied to look in fear, + "The avalanche! The avalanche!" + It forced the foremost to recoil, + Before its sideward billows thrown,— + Who cried, "O God! Here ends our toil! + The path is overswept and gone!" + + The night came down. The ghostly dark, + Made ghostlier by its sheet of snow, + Wailed round them its tempestuous wo, + Like Death's announcing courier! "Hark + There, heard you not the alp-hound's bark? + And there again! and there! Ah, no, + 'Tis but the blast that mocks us so!" + + Then through the thick and blackening mist + Death glared on them, and breathed so near, + Some felt his breath grow almost warm, + The while he whispered in their ear + Of sleep that should out-dream the storm. + Then lower drooped their lids,—when, "List! + Now, heard you not the storm-bell ring? + And there again, and twice and thrice! + Ah, no, 'tis but the thundering + Of tempests on a crag of ice!" + + Death smiled on them, and it seemed good + On such a mellow bed to lie + The storm was like a lullaby, + And drowsy pleasure soothed their blood. + But still the sturdy, practised guide + His unremitting labour plied; + Now this one shook until he woke, + And closer wrapt the other's cloak,— + Still shouting with his utmost breath, + To startle back the hand of Death, + Brave words of cheer! "But, hark again,— + Between the blasts the sound is plain; + The storm, inhaling, lulls,—and hark! + It is—it is! the alp-dog's bark + And on the tempest's passing swell— + The voice of cheer so long debarred— + There swings the Convent's guiding-bell, + The sacred bell of Saint Bernard!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0134" id="link2H_4_0134"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DRIFTING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My soul to-day + Is far away, + Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; + My winged boat + A bird afloat, + Swings round the purple peaks remote:— + + Round purple peaks + It sails, and seeks + Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, + Where high rocks throw, + Through deeps below, + A duplicated golden glow. + + Far, vague, and dim, + The mountains swim; + While an Vesuvius' misty brim, + With outstretched hands, + The gray smoke stands + O'erlooking the volcanic lands. + + Here Ischia smiles + O'er liquid miles; + And yonder, bluest of the isles, + Calm Capri waits, + Her sapphire gates + Beguiling to her bright estates. + + I heed not, if + My rippling skiff + Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Under the walls of Paradise. + + Under the walls + Where swells and falls + The Bay's deep breast at intervals + At peace I lie, + Blown softly by, + A cloud upon this liquid sky. + + The day, so mild, + Is Heaven's own child, + With Earth and Ocean reconciled; + The airs I feel + Around me steal + Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. + + Over the rail + My hand I trail + Within the shadow of the sail, + A joy intense, + The cooling sense + Glides down my drowsy indolence. + + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Where Summer sings and never dies, + O'erveiled with vines + She glows and shines + Among her future oil and wines. + + Her children, hid + The cliffs amid, + Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; + Or down the walls, + With tipsy calls, + Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. + + The fisher's child, + With tresses wild, + Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, + With glowing lips + Sings as she skips, + Or gazes at the far-off ships. + + Yon deep bark goes + Where traffic blows, + From lands of sun to lands of snows; + This happier one,— + Its course is run + From lands of snow to lands of sun. + + O happy ship, + To rise and dip, + With the blue crystal at your lip! + O happy crew, + My heart with you + Sails, and sails, and sings anew! + + No more, no more + The worldly shore + Upbraids me with its loud uproar + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Under the walls of Paradise! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0135" id="link2H_4_0135"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WALT WHITMAN + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0136" id="link2H_4_0136"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PIONEERS! O PIONEERS! + </h2> + <h3> + (Selection) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come, my tan-faced children, + Follow well in order, get your weapons ready; + Have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes? + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + For we cannot tarry here; + We must march, my darlings, we must bear the brunt of + danger, + We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, + Pioneers! O pioneers + + O you youths, Western youths, + So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and + friendship, + Plain I see you, Western youths, see you tramping with the + foremost, + Pioneers! O pioneers + + Have the elder races halted? + Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there + beyond the seas? + We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the + lesson, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + All the past we leave behind, + We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world; + Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and + the march, + Pioneers! O pioneers + + We detachments steady throwing, + Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains + steep, + Conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the + unknown ways, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + We primeval forests felling, + We the rivers stemming, vexing and piercing deep the mines + within, + We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil + upheaving, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Colorado men are we; + From the peaks gigantic, from the great Sierras and the + high plateaus, + From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail, + we come, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + From Nebraska, from Arkansas, + Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the + continental blood intervein'd; + All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all + the Northern, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + O resistless restless race! + O beloved race in all! O my-breast aches with tender love + for all! + O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Raise the mighty mother mistress, + Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry + mistress (bend your heads all), + Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, + weapon'd mistress, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + See, my children, resolute children, + By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or + falter, + Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us + urging, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + On and on the compact ranks, + With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead + quickly fill'd, + Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never + stopping, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Minstrels latent on the prairies + (Shrouded bards of other lands, you may rest, you have + done your work), + Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp + amid us, + Pioneers! 0 pioneers! + + Not for delectations sweet, + Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful, and the + studious, + Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame + enjoyment, + Pioneers! O Pioneers! + + Do the feasters gluttonous feast? + Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and + bolted doors? + Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the + ground, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Has the night descended? + Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged + nodding on our way? + Yet a passing hour I yield you in your tracks to pause + oblivious, + Pioneers! 0 pioneers + + Till with sound of trumpet, + Far, far off the daybreak call—hark! how loud and clear I + hear it wind! + Swift! to the head of the army!—swift! Spring to your + places, + Pioneers! O pioneers! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0137" id="link2H_4_0137"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done + The ship has weather'd every rack; the prize we sought is won; + The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, + While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring. + But O heart! heart! heart! + O the bleeding drops of red, + Where on the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; + Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills— + For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding + For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning. + Here, Captain! dear father! + This arm beneath your head! + It is some dream that on the deck + You've fallen cold and dead. + + My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; + My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. + The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; + From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won. + Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! + But I with mournful tread + Walk the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOTES + </h2> + <p> + ANNE DUDLEY BRADSTREET + </p> + <p> + "One wishes she were more winning: yet there is no gainsaying that she was + clever; wonderfully well instructed for those days; a keen and close + observer; often dexterous in her verse—catching betimes upon + epithets that are very picturesque: But—the Tenth Muse is too rash." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —DONALD G. MITCHELL. +</pre> + <p> + Born in England, she married at sixteen and came to Boston, where she + always considered herself an exile. In 1644 her husband moved deeper into + the wilderness and there "the first professional poet of New England" + wrote her poems and brought up a family of eight children. Her English + publisher called her the "Tenth Muse, lately sprung up in America." + </p> + <p> + CONTEMPLATION + </p> + <p> + 2. Phoebus: Apollo, the Greek sun god, hence in poetry the sun. 7. + delectable giving pleasure. 13. Dight: adorned. + </p> + <p> + MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH (1631-1705) + </p> + <p> + "He was, himself, in nearly all respects, the embodiment of what was great + earnest, and sad, in Colonial New England.... In spite, however, of all + offences, of all defects, there are in his poetry an irresistible + sincerity, a reality, a vividness, reminding one of similar qualities in + the prose of John Bunyan." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + M. C. TYLER. +</pre> + <p> + Born in England, he was brought to America at the age of seven. He + graduated from Harvard College and then became a preacher. He later added + the profession of medicine and practiced both professions. + </p> + <p> + THE DAY of DOOM + </p> + <p> + There seems to be no doubt that this poem was the most popular piece of + literature, aside from the Bible, in the New England Puritan colonies. + Children memorized it, and its considerable length made it sufficient for + many Sunday afternoons. Notice the double attempt at rhyme; the first, + third, fifth, and seventh lines rhyme within themselves; the second line + rhymes with the fourth, the sixth with the eighth. The pronunciation in + such lines as 35, 77, 79, 93, 99, 105, and 107 requires adaptation to + rhyme, as does the grammar in line 81, for example. + </p> + <p> + 3. carnal: belonging merely to this world as opposed to spiritual. + </p> + <p> + 11-15. See Matthew 25: 1-13. + </p> + <p> + 40. wonted steads: customary places + </p> + <p> + PHILIP FRENEAU (1752-1832) + </p> + <p> + "The greatest poet born in America before the Revolutionary War.... His + best poems are a few short lyrics, remarkable for their simplicity, + sincerity, and love of nature." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + -REUBEN P. HALLECK. +</pre> + <p> + Born in New York, he graduated from Princeton at the age of nineteen and + became school teacher, sea captain, interpreter, editor, and poet. He lost + his way in a severe storm and was found dead the next day. + </p> + <p> + TO A HONEY BEE + </p> + <p> + 29-30. Pharaoh: King of Egypt in the time of Joseph, who perished in the + Red Sea. See Exodus, Chapter xiv. + </p> + <p> + 34. epitaph: an inscription in memory of the dead. + </p> + <p> + 36. Charon: the Greek mythical boatman on the River Styx. + </p> + <p> + EUTAW SPRINGS + </p> + <p> + Eutaw Springs. Sept. 8th 1781, the Americans under General Greene fought a + battle which was successful for the Americans, since Georgia and the + Carolinas were freed from English invasion. + </p> + <p> + 21. Greene: Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island was one of the men who became + a leader early in the war and who in spite of opposition and failure stood + by the American cause through all the hard days of the war. + </p> + <p> + 25. Parthian: the soldiers of Parthia were celebrated as horse-archers. + Their mail-clad horseman spread like a cloud round the hostile army and + poured in a shower of darts. Then they evaded any closer conflict by a + rapid flight, during which they still shot their arrows backwards upon the + enemy. See Smith, Classical Dictionary. + </p> + <p> + FRANCIS HOPKINSON (1737-1791) + </p> + <p> + He was "a mathematician, a chemist, a physicist, a mechanician, an + inventor, a musician and a composer of music, a man of literary knowledge + and practice, a writer of airy and dainty songs, a clever artist with + pencil and brush, and a humorist of unmistakable power." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —MOSES COLT TYLER. +</pre> + <p> + Born in Philadelphia, he graduated from the College of Philadelphia and + began the practice of law. He signed the Declaration of Independence and + held various offices under the federal government. "The Battle of the + Kegs" is his best-known production. + </p> + <p> + THE BATTLE of THE KEGS + </p> + <p> + 59. Stomach: courage. + </p> + <p> + JOSEPH HOPKINSON (1770-1842) + </p> + <p> + "His legal essays and decisions were long accepted as authoritative; but + he will be longest remembered for his national song, 'Hail Columbia,' + written in 1798, which attained immediate popularity and did much to + fortify wavering patriotism." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —NEW INTERNATIONAL ENCYCLOPEDIA +</pre> + <p> + THE BALLAD of NATHAN HALE + </p> + <p> + For the story of Nathan Hale see any good history of the American + Revolution. He is honored by the students of Yale as one of its noblest + graduates, and the building in which he lived has been remodeled and + marked with a memorial tablet, while a bronze statue stands before it. + This is the last of Yale's old buildings and will now remain for many + years. + </p> + <p> + 31. minions: servile favorites. + </p> + <p> + 48. presage: foretell. + </p> + <p> + TIMOTHY DWIGHT (1752-1817) + </p> + <p> + "He was in many ways the first of the great modern college presidents; if + his was the day of small things, he nevertheless did so many of them and + did them so well that he deserves admiration." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —WILLIAM P. TRENT. +</pre> + <p> + Born in Northampton, Mass., he graduated from Yale and was then made a + tutor there. He became an army chaplain in 1777, but his father's death + made his return home necessary. He became a preacher later and finally + president of Yale. His hymn, "Love to the Church," is the one thing we + most want to keep of all his several volumes. + </p> + <p> + SAMUEL WOODWORTH (1785-1842) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +"Our best patriotic ballads and popular lyrics are, of course, based upon +sentiment, aptly expressed by the poet and instinctively felt by the +reader. Hence just is the fame and true is the love bestowed upon the +choicest songs of our 'single-poem poets': upon Samuel Woodworth's 'Old +Oaken Bucket,' etc." + —CHARLES F. RICHARDSON. +</pre> + <p> + Born at Scituate, Mass., he had very little education. His father + apprenticed him to a Boston printer while he was a young boy. He remained + in the newspaper business all his life, and wrote numerous poems, and + several operas which were produced. + </p> + <p> + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (1794-1878) + </p> + <p> + "A moralist, dealing chiefly with death and the more sombre phases of + life, a lover and interpreter of nature, a champion of democracy and human + freedom, in each of these capacities he was destined to do effective + service for his countrymen, and this work was, as it were, cut out for him + in his youth, when he was laboring in the fields, attending corn-huskings + and cabin-raisings, or musing beside forest streams." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —W. P. TRENT. +</pre> + <p> + Born in a mill-town village in western Massachusetts, he passed his + boyhood on the farm. Unable to complete his college course, he practiced + law until 1824, when he became editor of the New York Review. He continued + all his life to be a man of letters. + </p> + <p> + The poems by Bryant are used by permission of D. Appleton and Company, + authorized publishers of his works. + </p> + <p> + THANATOPSIS + </p> + <p> + 34. patriarchs of the infant world: the leaders of the Hebrews before the + days of history. + </p> + <p> + 61. Barcan wilderness: waste of North Africa. + </p> + <p> + 54. Why does Bryant suggest "the wings of the morning" to begin such a + survey of the world? Would he choose the Oregon now? + </p> + <p> + 28. ape: mimic. + </p> + <p> + This poem is very simple in its form and is typical of Bryant's nature + poems. First, is his observation of the waterfowl's flight and his + question about it. Secondly, the answer is given. Thirdly, the application + is made to human nature. Do you find such a comparison of nature and human + nature in any other poems by Bryant? + </p> + <p> + 9. plashy: swampy. + </p> + <p> + 15. illimitable: boundless. + </p> + <p> + GREEN RIVER + </p> + <p> + Green River, flows near Great Barrington where Bryant practised law. + </p> + <p> + 33. simpler: a collector of herbs for medicinal use. + </p> + <p> + 58. This reference to Bryant's profession is noteworthy. His ambition for + a thorough literary training was abandoned on account of poverty. He then + took up the study of law and practiced it in Great Barrington, Mass., for + nine years. His dislike of this profession is here very plainly shown. He + abandoned it entirely in 1824 and gave himself to literature. "I Broke the + Spell That Held Me Long" also throws a light on his choice of a life work. + </p> + <p> + THE WEST WIND + </p> + <p> + With this may be compared with profit Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" and + Kingsley's "Ode to the Northeast Wind." State the contrast between the + ideas of the west wind held by Shelley and by Bryant. + </p> + <p> + A FOREST HYMN + </p> + <p> + 2. architrave: the beam resting on the top of the column and supporting + the frieze. + </p> + <p> + 5. From these details can you form a picture of this temple in its + exterior and interior? Is it like a modern church? + </p> + <p> + darkling: dimly seen; a poetic word. Do you find any other adjectives in + this poem which are poetic words? + </p> + <p> + 23. Why is the poem divided here? Is the thought divided? Connected? Can + you account in the same way for the divisions at lines 68 and 89? + </p> + <p> + 34. vaults: arched ceilings. + </p> + <p> + 44. instinct: alive, animated by. + </p> + <p> + 66. emanation: that which proceeds from a source, as fragrance is an + emanation from flowers. + </p> + <p> + 89. This idea that death is the source of other life everywhere in nature + is a favorite one with Bryant. It is the fundamental thought in his first + poem, "Thanatopsis" (A View of Death), which may be read in connection + with "The Forest Hymn." + </p> + <p> + 96. Emerson discusses this question in "The Problem," See selections from + Emerson. + </p> + <p> + THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS + </p> + <p> + 26. Bryant's favorite sister, Mrs. Sarah Bryant Shaw, died shortly after + her marriage, of tuberculosis. This poem alludes to her and is in its + early lines the saddest poem Bryant ever wrote. Notice the change of tone + near the end. + </p> + <p> + 29. unmeet: unsuitable. + </p> + <p> + THE GLADNESS OF NATURE + </p> + <p> + b. hang-bird: the American oriole, which hangs its nest from a branch. + </p> + <p> + 8. wilding: the wild bee which belongs to no hive. + </p> + <p> + To THE FRINGED GENTIAN + </p> + <p> + No description of this flower can give an adequate idea of its beauty. The + following account, from Reed's "Flower Guide, East of the Rockies," + expresses the charm of the flower well: "Fringed Gentian because of its + exquisite beauty and comparative rarity is one of the most highly prized + of our wild flowers." "During September and October we may find these + blossoms fully expanded, delicate, vase-shaped creations with four + spreading deeply fringed lobes bearing no resemblance in shape or form to + any other American species. The color is a violet-blue, the color that is + most attractive to bumblebees, and it is to these insects that the flower + is indebted for the setting of its seed.... The flowers are wide open only + during sunshine, furling in their peculiar twisted manner on cloudy days + and at night. In moist woods from Maine to Minnesota and southwards." + </p> + <p> + This guide gives a good colored picture of the flower as do Matthews' + "Field Guide to American Wildflowers" and many other flower books. + </p> + <p> + 8. ground-bird: the vesper sparrow, so called because of its habit of + singing in the late evening. Its nest is made of grass and placed in a + depression on the ground. + </p> + <p> + 11. portend: indicate by a sign that some event, usually evil, is about to + happen. + </p> + <p> + 16. cerulean: deep, clear blue. + </p> + <p> + SONG of MARION'S MEN + </p> + <p> + 4. Marion, Francis (1732-1795), in 1750 took command of the militia of + South Carolina and carried on a vigorous partisan warfare against the + English. Colonel Tarleton failed o find "the old swamp fox," as he named + him, because the swamp paths of South Carolina were well known to him. See + McCrady, "South Carolina in the Revolution," for full particulars of his + life. + </p> + <p> + 21. deem: expect. + </p> + <p> + 30. up: over, as in the current expression, "the time is up." + </p> + <p> + 41. barb: a horse of the breed introduced by the Moors From Barbary into + Spain and noted for speed and endurance. + </p> + <p> + 49. Santee: a river in South Carolina. + </p> + <p> + 32. throes: agony. + </p> + <p> + 44. Compare this final thought with the solution in "To a "Waterfowl." + </p> + <p> + THE CROWDED STREET + </p> + <p> + 32. throes: agony + </p> + <p> + 44. Compare this final thought with the solution in "To a Waterfowl." + </p> + <p> + THE SNOW-SHOWER + </p> + <p> + All the New England poets felt the charm of falling snow, and several have + written on the theme. In connection with this poem read Emerson's + "Snow-Storm" and Whittier's "The Frost Spirit." The best known of all is + Whittier's "Snow-Bound "; the first hundred and fifty lines may well be + read here. + </p> + <p> + 9. living swarm: like a swarm of bees from the hidden chambers of the + hive. + </p> + <p> + 12. prone: straight down. + </p> + <p> + 17. snow-stars: what are the shapes of snowflakes + </p> + <p> + 20. Milky way: the white path which seems to lead acre. The sky at night + and which is composed of millions of stars. + </p> + <p> + 21. burlier: larger and stronger. + </p> + <p> + 35. myriads: vast, indefinite number. + </p> + <p> + 37. middle: as the cloud seems to be between us and the blue sky, so the + snowflakes before they fell occupied a middle position. + </p> + <p> + ROBERT of LINCOLN + </p> + <p> + "Robert of Lincoln" is the happiest, merriest poem written by Bryant. It + is characteristic of the man that it should deal with a nature topic. In + what ways does he secure the merriment? + </p> + <p> + Analyze each stanza as to structure. Does the punctuation help to indicate + the speaker? + </p> + <p> + Look up the Bobolink in the Bird Guide or some similar book. How much + actual information did Bryant have about the bird? Compare the amount of + bird-lore given here with that of Shelley's or Wordsworth's "To a + Skylark." Which is more poetic? Which interests you more? + </p> + <p> + THE POET + </p> + <p> + 5. deem: consider. Compare with the use in the "Song of Marion's Men," + 1.21. + </p> + <p> + 8. wreak: carry them out in your verse. The word usually has an angry idea + associated with it. The suggestion may be here of the frenzy of a poet. + </p> + <p> + 26. unaptly: not suitable to the occasion. + </p> + <p> + 30. Only in a moment of great emotion (rapture) should the poet revise a + poem which was penned when his heart was on fire with the idea of the + poem. + </p> + <p> + 38. limn: describe vividly. + </p> + <p> + 54. By this test where would you place Bryant himself? Did he do what he + here advises? In what poems do you see evidences of such a method? Compare + your idea of him with Lowell's estimate in "A Fable for Critics," ll. + 35-56. + </p> + <p> + ABRAHAM LINCOLN + </p> + <p> + In connection with this poem the following stanza from "The Battle-Field" + seems very appropriate: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Truth, crushed to Earth, shill rise again; + The eternal years of God are hers; + But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, + And dies among his worshippers." +</pre> + <p> + The American people certainly felt that Truth was Brushed to Earth with + Lincoln's death, but believed that it would triumph. + </p> + <p> + FRANCIS SCOTT KEY (1780-1843) + </p> + <p> + Born in Maryland, he graduated from St. John's College, Md., and practiced + law in Frederick City, Md. He was district attorney for the District of + Columbia during the War of 1812 and while imprisoned by the British on + board the ship Minden, Sept. 13, 1814, he witnessed the British attack on + Fort McHenry and wrote this national anthem. + </p> + <p> + THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER + </p> + <p> + 30. Why is this mentioned as our motto? + </p> + <p> + JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE (1795-1820) + </p> + <p> + The "Culprit Fay" is so much better than American poetry had previously + been that one is at first disposed to speak of it enthusiastically. An + obvious comparison puts it in true perspective. Drake's life happened + nearly to coincide with that of Keats.... Amid the full fervor of European + experience Keats produced immortal work; Drake, whose whole life was + passed amid the national inexperience of New York, produced only pretty + fancies." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —BARRETT WENDELL. +</pre> + <p> + Born in New York, he practiced medicine there. He died of tuberculosis at + the age of twenty-five, and left behind him manuscript verses which were + later published by his daughter. "The Culprit Fay," from which selections + are here given, is generally considered one of the best productions of + early American literature. + </p> + <p> + THE AMERICAN FLAG + </p> + <p> + 6. milky baldric: the white band supposed by the ancients to circle the + earth and called the zodiac. He may here mean the Milky Way as part of + this band. + </p> + <p> + 46. careering: rushing swiftly. + </p> + <p> + 47. bellied: rounded, filled out by the gale. + </p> + <p> + 56. welkin: sky. + </p> + <p> + THE CULPRIT FAY + </p> + <p> + 25. ising-stars: particles of mica. + </p> + <p> + 30. minim: smallest. What objection may be made to this word? + </p> + <p> + 37. Ouphe: elf or goblin. + </p> + <p> + 45. behest: command. + </p> + <p> + 78. shandy: resembling a shell or a scale. + </p> + <p> + 94. oozy: muddy. + </p> + <p> + 107. colen-bell: coined by Drake, probably the columbine. + </p> + <p> + 114. nightshade: a flower also called henbane or belladonna. dern: drear. + </p> + <p> + 119. thrids: threads, makes his way through. + </p> + <p> + 160. prong: probably a prawn; used in this sense only in this one passage. + </p> + <p> + 165. quarl: jelly fish. + </p> + <p> + 178. wake-line: showing by a line of foam the course over which he has + passed. + </p> + <p> + 193. amain: at full speed. + </p> + <p> + 210. banned: cursed as by a supernatural power. + </p> + <p> + 216. henbane: see note on line 114. + </p> + <p> + 223. fatal: destined to determine his fate. + </p> + <p> + 245. sculler's notch: depression in which the oar rested. + </p> + <p> + 255. wimpled: undulated. + </p> + <p> + 257. athwart: across. + </p> + <p> + 306. glossed: having gloss, or brightness. + </p> + <p> + 329. This is only the first of the exploits of the Culprit Fay. The second + quest is described by the monarch as follows + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "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-illume 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 feint spark of its burning train + Shall light the elfin lamp again." +</pre> + <p> + FITZ-GREENE HALLECK (1790-1867) + </p> + <p> + "The poems of Halleck are written with great care and finish, and manifest + the possession of a fine sense of harmony and of genial and elevated + sentiments." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA. +</pre> + <p> + Born in Guilford, Conn., he was the closest friend of Drake, at whose + death he wrote his best poem, which is given in this collection. "Marco + Bozzaris" aroused great enthusiasm, which has now waned in favor of his + simple lines, "On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake." + </p> + <p> + MARCO BOZZAARIS + </p> + <p> + Marco Bozzaris (c. 1790-1823) was a prominent leader in the struggle for + Greek liberty and won many victories from the Turks. During the night of + August 20, 1823, the Greeks won a complete victory which was saddened by + the loss of Bozzaris, who fell while leading his men to the final attack. + </p> + <p> + 13. Suliote: a tribe of Turkish subjects of mixed Greek and Albanian + blood, who steadily opposed Turkish rule and won for themselves a + reputation for bravery. They fought for Grecian independence under Marco + Bozzaris. + </p> + <p> + 16-22. These lines refer to the military history of Greece. See + Encyclopedia Britannica—article on Greece (Persian Wars subtitle) + for account of the Persian invasion and battle of Plataea. + </p> + <p> + 79. What land did Columbus see first? Where did he from? Why then is he + called a Genoese? + </p> + <p> + 107. pilgrim-circled: visited by pilgrims as are shrines. + </p> + <p> + JOHN HOWARD PAYNE (1791—1802) + </p> + <p> + Born in New York, he graduated from Union College and later went on the + stage. He was appointed U.S. Consul to Tunis, where he died. He is now + best remembered by "home Sweet Home" from one of his operas. + </p> + <p> + EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +"Small as the quantity of his true verse is, it more sustains his +peculiar genius in American eyes than does his prose; and this is because +it is so unique. He stands absolutely alone as a poet, with none like +him." + —GEORGE E. WOODBURY +</pre> + <p> + Born in Boston, he spent most of his literary years in New York. His + parents, both actors, died when he was still a little child, and he was + adopted by Mr. Allan, who educated him in Europe. He served as literary + editor and hack writer for several journals and finally died in poverty. + </p> + <p> + TO HELEN + </p> + <p> + "To Helen" is said to have been written in 1823, when Poe was only + fourteen years old. It refers to Mrs. Jane Stith Stanard, the mother of + one of his school friends, whose death was a terrible blow to the + sensitive lad. This loss was the cause of numerous poems of sorrow for + death and permanently influenced his work. + </p> + <p> + 2. Nicean: Nicaea, the modern Iznik in Turkey, was anciently a Greek + province. + </p> + <p> + 2. Nicean barks: the Greek ships that bore the wanderer, Ulysses, from + Phaeacia to his home. Read "The Wanderings of Ulysses" in Gayley's Classic + Myths, Chapter XXVII. + </p> + <p> + 7. hyacinth: like Hyacinthus, the fabled favorite of Apollo; hence lovely, + beautiful. + </p> + <p> + 8. Naiad: a nymph presiding over fountains, lakes, brooks, and wells. + </p> + <p> + 14. Psyche, a beautiful maiden beloved of Cupid, whose adventure with the + lamp is told in all classical mythologies. + </p> + <p> + ISRAFEL + </p> + <p> + Israfel, according to the Koran, is the angel with the sweetest voice + among God's creatures. He will blow the trump on the day of resurrection. + </p> + <p> + 2. The idea that Israfel's lute was more than human is taken from Moore's + "Lalla Rookh," although these very words do not occur there. The reference + will be found in the last hundred lines of the poem. + </p> + <p> + 12. levin: lightning. + </p> + <p> + 26. Houri: one of the beautiful girls who, according to the Moslem faith, + are to be companions of the faithful in paradise. + </p> + <p> + LENORE + </p> + <p> + 13. Peccavimus: we have sinned. + </p> + <p> + 20. Avaunt: Begone! Away! + </p> + <p> + 26. Paean: song of joy or triumph. + </p> + <p> + THE COLISEUM + </p> + <p> + 10. Eld: antiquity. + </p> + <p> + 14. See Matthew 26: 36-56. + </p> + <p> + 16. The Chaldxans were the world's greatest astrologers. + </p> + <p> + 26-29. Poe here uses technical architectural terms with success. + </p> + <p> + plinth: the block upon which a column or a statue rests. + </p> + <p> + shafts: the main part of a column between the base and the capital. + </p> + <p> + entablatures: the part of a building borne by the columns. + </p> + <p> + frieze: an ornamented horizontal band in the entablature. + </p> + <p> + cornices: the horizontal molded top of the entablatures. + </p> + <p> + 32. corrosive: worn away by degrees; used figuratively of time. + </p> + <p> + 36. At Thebes there is a statue which is supposed to be Memnon, the + mythical king of Ethiopia, and which at daybreak was said to emit the + music of the lyre. + </p> + <p> + EULALIE.—A SONG + </p> + <p> + 19. Astarte: the Phoenician goddess of love. + </p> + <p> + THE RAVEN + </p> + <p> + 41. Pallas: Greek goddess of wisdom. + </p> + <p> + 46-47. Night's Plutonian shore: Pluto ruled over the powers of the lower + world and over the dead. Darkness and gloom are constantly associated with + him; the cypress tree was sacred to him and black victims were sacrificed + to him. Why does the coming of the raven suggest this realm to the poet? + </p> + <p> + 50. relevancy: appropriateness. + </p> + <p> + 80. Seraphim: one of the highest orders of angels + </p> + <p> + 82. respite and nepenthe: period of peace and forgetting. + </p> + <p> + 89. balm in Gilead. See Jeremiah 8: 22; 46: 11 and Genesis 37: 25. + </p> + <p> + 93. Aideen, fanciful spelling of Eden. + </p> + <p> + 106. This line has been often criticized on the ground that a lamp could + not cause any shadow on the floor if the bird sat above the door. Poe + answered this charge by saying: "My conception was that of the bracket + candelabrum affixed against the wall, high up above the door and bust, as + is often seen in English palaces, and even in some of the better houses of + New York." + </p> + <p> + What effect does this poem have upon you? Work out the rhyme scheme in the + first and second stanzas. Are they alike? Does this rhyme scheme help to + produce the effect of the poem? Have you noticed a similar use of "more" + in any other poem? Point out striking examples of repetition, of + alliteration. Are there many figures of speech here? + </p> + <p> + TO HELEN + </p> + <p> + This Helen is Mrs. Whitman. + </p> + <p> + 15. parterre: a flower garden whose beds are arranged in a pattern and + separated by walks. + </p> + <p> + 48. Dian: Roman goddess representing the moon. + </p> + <p> + 60. elysian: supremely happy. + </p> + <p> + 65. scintillant: sending forth flashes of light. + </p> + <p> + 66. Venuses: morning stars. + </p> + <p> + THE BELLS + </p> + <p> + "The Bells" originally consisted of eighteen lines, and was gradually + enlarged to its present form. + </p> + <p> + 10. Runic: secret, mysterious. + </p> + <p> + 11. Why does Poe use this peculiar word? Compare its use with that of + "euphony," 1. 26, "jangling," 1. 62, "moLotone" 1. 8'3. + </p> + <p> + 26. euphony: the quality of having a pleasant sound. + </p> + <p> + 72. monody: a musical composition in which some one voice-part + predominates. + </p> + <p> + 88. Ghouls: imaginary evil beings of the East who rob graves. + </p> + <p> + ELDORADO + </p> + <p> + 6. Eldorado: any region where wealth may be obtained is abundance; hence, + figuratively, the source of any abundance, as here. + </p> + <p> + 21. "Valley of the Shadow" suggests death and is a fitting close to Poe's + poetic work. + </p> + <p> + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; + Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings + Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, + Are mingling with the tender songs he sings. + Nor shall he cease to sing—in every lay + Of Nature's voice he sings—and will alway." + + —JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. +</pre> + <p> + Born in Portland, Maine, he graduated from Bowdoin College in 1825 and + went abroad to prepare himself to teach the modern languages. He taught + until 1854, when he became a professional author. During the remaining + years of his fife he lived quietly at Craigie House in Cambridge and there + he died. + </p> + <p> + The poems by Longfellow are used by permission of, and by special + arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his + works. + </p> + <p> + HYMN To THE NIGHT + </p> + <p> + "Night, thrice welcome." "Night, undesired by Troy, but to the Greeks + Thrice welcome for its interposing gloom." + </p> + <p> + -COWPER, TRANS. OF ILIAD VIII, 488. + </p> + <p> + 21. Orestes-like. Orestes, the son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, avenged + the death of his father by killing his mother. The Furies chased him for + many years through the world until at last he found pardon and peace. The + story is told in several Greek plays, but perhaps best in AEschylus' + "Libation Pourers" and "Furies" + </p> + <p> + A PSALM of LIFE + </p> + <p> + "I kept it," he said, "some time in manuscript, unwilling to show it to + any one, it being a voice from my inmost heart." + </p> + <p> + 7. "Dust thou art": quoted from Genesis 3:19, "Dust thou art, and unto + dust shalt thou return." + </p> + <p> + 10. Pope in Epistle IV of his "Essay on Man" says: "0 happiness! our + being's end and aim." How does Longfellow differ with him? + </p> + <p> + THE SKELETON IN ARMOR + </p> + <p> + The Skeleton in Armor. "The following Ballad was suggested to me while + riding on the seashore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had + been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armor; and the idea + occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally + known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a + work of their early ancestors." + </p> + <p> + 19. Skald: a Scandinavian minstrel who composed and sang or recited verses + in celebration of famous deeds, heroes, and events. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "And there, in many a stormy vale, + The Scald had told his wondrous tale." + + —SCOTT, Lay of the Last Minstrel, can. 6, St. 22. +</pre> + <p> + 20. Saga: myth or heroic story. + </p> + <p> + 28. ger-falcon: large falcon, much used in northern Europe in falconry. + </p> + <p> + 38. were-wolf: a person who had taken the form of a wolf and had become a + cannibal. The superstition was that those who had voluntarily become + wolves could become men again at will. + </p> + <p> + 42. corsair: pirate. Originally "corsair" was applied to privateers off + the Barbary Coast who preyed upon Christian shipping under the authority + of their governments. + </p> + <p> + 49. "wassail-bout": festivity at which healths are drunk. + </p> + <p> + 53. Berserk. Berserker was a legendary Scandinavian hero who never wore a + shirt of mail. In general, a warrior who could assume the form and + ferocity of wild beasts, and whom fire and iron could not harm. + </p> + <p> + 94. Sea-mew: a kind of European gull. + </p> + <p> + 110. Skaw: a cape on the coast of Denmark. + </p> + <p> + 159. Skoal!: Hail! a toast or friendly greeting used by the Norse + especially in poetry. + </p> + <p> + THE WRECK of THE HESPERUS + </p> + <p> + On Dec. 17, 1839, Longfellow wrote in his journal: "News of shipwrecks + horrible, on the coast. Forty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one + lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe, where + many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus." + </p> + <p> + On Dec. 30 he added: "Sat till one o'clock by the fire, smoking, when + suddenly it came into my head to write the Ballad of the schooner + Hesperus, which I accordingly did. Then went o bed, but could not sleep. + New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them to the + ballad. It was three by the clock."... "I feel pleased with the ballad. it + hardly cost mean effort. It did not come into my mind by lines but by + stanzas." + </p> + <p> + In a letter to Mr. Charles Lanman on Nov. 24, 1871, Mr. Longfellow said: + "I had quite forgotten about its first publication; but I find a letter + from Park Benjamin, dated Jan. 7, 1840, beginning...as follows:— + </p> + <p> + "'Your ballad, The Wreck of the Hesperus, is grand. Enclosed are twenty- + five dollars (the sum you mentioned) for it, paid by the proprietors of + The New World, in which glorious paper it will resplendently coruscate on + Saturday next.'" + </p> + <p> + 11. flaw: a sudden puff of wind. + </p> + <p> + 14. Spanish Main: a term applied to that portion of the Caribbean Sea near + the northeast coast of South America, including the route followed by + Spanish merchant ships traveling between Europe and America. + </p> + <p> + 37-48. This little dialogue reminds us of the "Erlkonig," a ballad by + Goethe. + </p> + <p> + 66. See Luke 8: 22-25. + </p> + <p> + 60. Norman's Woe: a reef in", W. Glouster harbor, Mass. + </p> + <p> + 70. carded wool. The process of carding wool, cotton, flax, etc. removes + by a wire-toothed brush foreign matter and dirt, and leaves it combed out + and cleansed. + </p> + <p> + THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH + </p> + <p> + 7. Crisp, and black, and long. Mr. Longfellow says that before this poem + was published, he read it to his barber. The man objected that crisp black + hair was never long, and as a result the author delayed publication until + be was convinced in his own mind that no other adjectives would give a + truer picture of the blacksmith as he saw him. + </p> + <p> + 39-42. Mr. Longfellow's friends agree that these lines depict his own + industry and temperament better than any others can. + </p> + <p> + IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY + </p> + <p> + No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. Translated in lines 12 and 24. + </p> + <p> + 8. freighted: heavily laden. + </p> + <p> + EXCELSIOR + </p> + <p> + Mr. Longfellow explained fully the allegory of this poem in a letter to + Mr. Henry T. Tuckerman. He said: "This (his intention) was no more than to + display, in a series of pictures, the life of a man of genius, resisting + all temptations, laying aside all fears, heedless of all warnings, and + pressing right on to accomplish his purpose. His motto is Excelsior, + 'higher.' He passes through the Alpine village,—through the rough, + cold paths of the world—where the peasants cannot understand him, + and where his watchword is 'an unknown tongue.' He disregards the + happiness of domestic peace, and sees the glaciers—his fate—before + him. He disregards the warnings of the old man's wisdom.... He answers to + all, 'Higher yet'! The monks of St. Bernard are the representatives of + religious forms and ceremonies, and with their oft-repeated prayer mingles + the sound of his voice, telling them there is something higher than forms + and ceremonies. Filled with these aspirations he perishes without having + reached the perfection he longed for; and the voice heard in the air is + the promise of immortality and progress ever upward." + </p> + <p> + Compare with this Tennyson's "Merlin and The Gleam," in which he tells his + own experience. + </p> + <p> + 7. falchion: a sword with a broad and slightly curved blade, used in the + Middle Ages; hence, poetically, any type of sword. + </p> + <p> + THE DAY IS DOUR + </p> + <p> + 26. In this stanza and the two following Longfellow describes what his + poems have come to mean to us and the place they hold in American life. + Compare with Whittier's "Dedication" to "Songs of Labor," Il. 26-36. + </p> + <p> + WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE + </p> + <p> + Walter von der Vogelweide: the most celebrated of medieval German lyric + poets, who lived about the year 1200. He belonged to the lower order of + "nobility of service." He livedin Tyrol, then the home of famous + minnesingers from whom he learned his art. + </p> + <p> + 4. Walter von der Vogelweide is buried in the cloisters adjoining the + Neumunster church in Wurtzburg, which dates from the eleventh century. + </p> + <p> + 10. The debt of the poet to the birds has been dwelt upon in many poems, + the best known of which are Shelley's "Skylark" and Wordsworth's "To the + Cuckoo." + </p> + <p> + 27. War of Wartburg. In 1207 there occurred in this German castle, the + Wartburg, a contest of the minstrels of the time. Wagner has immortalized + this contest in "Tannhauser," in which he describes the victory of Walter + von der Vogelweide over all the other singers. + </p> + <p> + 42. Gothic spire. See note on "The Builders" 11. 17-19. + </p> + <p> + THE BUILDERS + </p> + <p> + 17-19. The perfection of detail in the structure and sculpture of Gothic + cathedrals may be seen in the cathedrals of Chartres and Amiens. Numerous + beautiful illustrations may be found in Marriage, "The Sculptures of + Chartres Cathedral," and in Ruskin, "The Bible of Amiens." + </p> + <p> + SANTA FILOMENA + </p> + <p> + Santa Filomena stands for Miss Florence Nightingale, who did remarkable + work among the soldiers wounded in the Crimean War (1854-56). This poem + was published in 1857 while the story of her aid was fresh in the minds of + the world. + </p> + <p> + 42. The palm, the lily, and the spear: St. Filomena is represented in many + Catholic churches and usually with these three emblems to signify her + victory, purity, and martyrdom. Sometimes an anchor replaces the palm. + </p> + <p> + THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE + </p> + <p> + King Alfred's Orosius. Orosius, a Spaniard of the fifth century A.D., + wrote at the request of the church a history of the world down to 414 A.D. + King Alfred (849-901) translated this work and added at least one + important story, that of the voyages of Ohthere and Wulfstan. The part of + the story used by Longfellow may be found in Cook and Tinkers's + Translations from Old English Prose, in Bosworth's, and in Sweet's + editions. + </p> + <p> + 2. Helgoland: an island in the North Sea, belonging to Prussia. + </p> + <p> + 42. Hebrides: islands west of Scotland. + </p> + <p> + 90. a nameless sea. They sailed along the coast of Lapland and into the + White Sea. + </p> + <p> + 96-100. Alfred reports simply, "He says he was one of a party of six who + killed sixty of these in two days." + </p> + <p> + 116. The original says: "He made this voyage, in addition to his purpose + of seeing the country, chiefly for walruses, for they have very good bone + in their teeth—they brought some of these teeth to the king—and + their hides are very good for ship-ropes." + </p> + <p> + SANDALPHON + </p> + <p> + Sandalphon: one of the oldest angel figures in the Jewish system. In the + second century a Jewish writing described him as follows: "He is an angel + who stands on the earth;.. he is taller than his fellows by the length of + a journey of 500 years; he binds crowns for his Creator." These crowns are + symbols of praise, and with them he brings before the Deity the prayers of + men. See the Jewish Encyclopaedia for further particulars. + </p> + <p> + 1. Talmud: the work which embodies the Jewish law of church and state. It + consists of texts, and many commentaries and illustrations. + </p> + <p> + 12. Refers to Genesis 28: 10-21. + </p> + <p> + 39. Rabbinical: pertaining to Jewish rabbis or teachers of law. + </p> + <p> + 44. welkin: poetical term for the sky. + </p> + <p> + 48. nebulous: indistinct. + </p> + <p> + THE LANDLORD'S TALE + </p> + <p> + The "Tales of a Wayside Inn" were series of stories told on three separate + days by the travelers at the Inn at Sudbury, Mass. It is the same device + used by writers since the days of Chaucer, but cleverly handled furnishes + an interesting setting for a variety of tales. Some of Longfellow's + best-known narratives are in these series, among them the following + selections. + </p> + <p> + The story is self-explanatory. It is probably the best example of the + simple poetic narrative of an historic event. + </p> + <p> + 107-110. The reference is to one of the seven men who were killed at + Lexington—possibly to Jonathan Harrington, Jr., who dragged himself + to his own door-step before he died. Many books tell the story, but the + following are the most interesting; Gettemy, Chas. F. True "Story of Paul + Revere:" Colburn, F., The Battle of April 19, 1775. + </p> + <p> + THE SICILIAN'S TALE + </p> + <p> + This story of King Robert of Sicily is very old, as it is found among the + short stories of the Gesta Romanorum written in the thirteenth and + fourteenth centuries. + </p> + <p> + 17. seditious: tending towards disorder and treason. + </p> + <p> + 52. besprent: poetic for besprinkled. + </p> + <p> + 66. seneschal: the official in the household of a prince of high noble who + had the supervision of feasts and ceremonies. + </p> + <p> + 106. Saturnian: the fabled reign of the god Saturn was the golden age of + the world, characterized by simplicity, virtue, and happiness. + </p> + <p> + 110. Enceladus, the giant. Longfellow's poem "Enceladus" emphasizes this + reference. For the story of the giants and the punishment of Enceladus see + any good Greek mythology. + </p> + <p> + THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE + </p> + <p> + 9. dial: the sun-dial was the clock of the time. + </p> + <p> + 41. iteration: repetition. + </p> + <p> + 49. dole: portion. + </p> + <p> + bl. almoner: official dispenser of alms. + </p> + <p> + 100. See Matthew 25: 40. + </p> + <p> + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-1892) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Best loved and saintliest of our singing train, + Earth's noblest tributes to thy name belong. + A lifelong record closed without a stain, + A blameless memory shrived in deathless song." + + —OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. +</pre> + <p> + Born at East Haverhill, Mass., in surroundings which he faithfully + describes in "Snow-Bound," he had little education. At the age of + twenty-two he secured an editorial position in Boston and continued to + write all his life. For some years he devoted all his literary ability to + the cause of abolition, and not until the success of "Snow-Bound" in 1866 + was he free from poverty. + </p> + <p> + The poems by Whittier are used by permission of, and by special + arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his + works. + </p> + <p> + PROEM + </p> + <p> + Proem: preface or introduction. + </p> + <p> + 3. Spenser, Edmund (1552-1599). His best-known work is the "Faerie Queen." + </p> + <p> + 4. Arcadian Sidney: Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586); an English courtier, + soldier, and author. He stands as a model of chivalry. He was mortally + wounded at the battle of Zutphen. "Arcadia" was his greatest work; hence + the epithet here. + </p> + <p> + 23. plummet-line: a weight suspended by a line used to test the + verticality of walls, etc. Here used as if in a sounding process. + </p> + <p> + 30. Compare this opinion of his own work with Lowell's comments in "A + Fable for Critics." How do they agree? + </p> + <p> + 32. For Whittier's opinion of Milton see also "Raphael," I. 7 0, and " + Burns," 1. 104. + </p> + <p> + 33. Marvell, Andrew (1621-1678): an English statesman, poet, and satirist, + friend of Milton. + </p> + <p> + THE FROST SPIRIT + </p> + <p> + Whittier has an intense love and appreciation of winter. With this poem + may be read "Snow Bound," the last stanzas of "Flowers in Winter," and + "Lumbermen." Many others may be added to this list. Do you find this same + idea in other poets? + </p> + <p> + 11. Hecla: a volcano in Iceland which has had 28 known eruptions—one + as late as 1878. It rises 5100 feet above the sea and has a bare + irregular-shaped cone. Its appearance is extremely wild and desolate. + </p> + <p> + SONGS OF LABOR. DEDICATION + </p> + <p> + 8. The o'er-sunned bloom.... In this collection of poems are a few written + in his youth, the more mature works of the "summer" of his life, and the + later works of his old age. The figure here is carefully carried through + and gives a clear, simplified picture of his literary life. + </p> + <p> + 22. Whittier himself noted that he was indebted for this line to Emerson's + "Rhodora" + </p> + <p> + 26-3b. Compare Longfellow's "The Day is Done" for another idea of the + influence of poetry. + </p> + <p> + 36. Compare Genesis 3: 17-19. + </p> + <p> + 43-45. Compare Luke 2: 51-52. + </p> + <p> + THE LUMBERMEN + </p> + <p> + 33. Ambijejis: lake in central Maine. + </p> + <p> + 35. Millnoket: a lake in central Maine. + </p> + <p> + 39. Penobscot: one of the most beutiful of Maine rivers. It is about 300 + miles long and flows through the central part of the state. + </p> + <p> + 42. Katahdin: Mount Katahdin is 5385 feet in height and is usually + snow-covered. + </p> + <p> + BARCLAY of URY + </p> + <p> + Barclay of Ury: David Barclay (1610-1686). Served under Gustavus Adolphus, + was an officer in the Scotch army during Civil War. He bought the estate + of Ury, near Aberdeen, in 1648. He was arrested after the Restoration and + for a short time was confined to Edinburgh Castle, where he was converted + to Quakerism by a fellow prisoner. His son, also a Quaker, heard of the + imprisonment mentioned in this poem and attempted to rescue his father. + During the years between this trouble in 1676 and his death in 1686, the + persecution seems to have been directed largely against his son. (See + Dictionary of National Biography for details.) Whinier naturally felt + keenly on this subject, as he himself was a Quaker. + </p> + <p> + 1. Aberdeen: capital of Aberdeenshire, and chief seaport in north of + Scotland; fourth Scottish town in population, industry, and wealth. The + buildings of Aberdeen College, founded in 1494, are the glory of Aberdeen. + </p> + <p> + 7. churl: a rude, low-bred fellow. + </p> + <p> + 10. carlin: a bluff, good-natured man. + </p> + <p> + 35. Lutzen: a town in Saxony where the Swedes under Gustavus Adolphus + defeated the Austrians, Nov. 16, 1632. + </p> + <p> + 36. Gustavus Adolphus, "The Great" (1594-1632). He was one of the great + Swedish kings, and was very prominent in the Thirty Years' War (1618- + 1648). + </p> + <p> + 56. Tilly: Johann Tserklaes, Count von Tilly, a German imperial commander + in the Thirty Years' War. + </p> + <p> + 57. Walloon: a people akin to the French, inhabiting Belgium and some + districts of Prussia. They have great vivacity than the Flemish, and more + endurance than the French. + </p> + <p> + 66. Jewry: Judea. + </p> + <p> + 76. reeve: a bailiff or overseer. + </p> + <p> + 31. snooded. The unmarried women of Scotland formerly wore a band around + their heads to distinguish them from married women. + </p> + <p> + 99. Tolbooth: Scotch word for prison. + </p> + <p> + 126. This idea is expanded in the poem "Seed-time and Harvest." + </p> + <p> + RAPHAEL + </p> + <p> + Raphael Sanzio (1483-1520), the great Italian painter. Trained first by + his father, later by the great Perugino. His work was done mainly in + Florence and Rome. + </p> + <p> + 6. This picture is the portrait of Raphael when scarcely more than a boy. + </p> + <p> + 17. Gothland's sage: Sweden's wise man, Emanuel Swedenborg. + </p> + <p> + 36. Raphael painted many madonnas, but the word "drooped" limits this + description. Several might be included under this: "The Small Holy + Family," "The Virgin with the Rose," or, most probable of all to me, "The + Madonna of the Chair." + </p> + <p> + 37. the Desert John: John the Baptist. + </p> + <p> + 40. "The Transfiguration" is not as well known as some of the madonnas, + but shows in wonderful manner Raphael's ability to handle a large group of + people, without detracting from the central figure. It is now in the + Vatican Gallery, at Rome. + </p> + <p> + 42. There are few great Old Testament stories which are not depicted by + Raphael. Among them are The Passage Through Jordan, The Fall of Jericho, + Joshua Staying the Sun, David and Goliath, The Judgment of Solomon, The + Building of the Temple, Moses Bringing the Tables of the Law, the Golden + Calf, and many others equally well known. + </p> + <p> + 45. Fornarina. This well-known portrait is now in the Palazzo Barberini in + Rome. + </p> + <p> + 70. holy song on Milton's tuneful ear. Poetry and painting are here spoken + of together as producing permanent effects, and from the figure he uses we + may add music to the list. Compare Longfellow's "The Arrow and the Song." + In the last stanza the field is still further broadened until his thought + is that all we do lives after us. + </p> + <p> + SEED-TIME AND HARVEST + </p> + <p> + Whittier's intense interest in Freedom is here apparent. His earlier poems + were largely on the slavery question in America. His best work was not + done until he began to devote his poetic ability to a wider range of + subjects. + </p> + <p> + 26. See Longfellow, "A Psalm of Life," 11. 9-12 and note. + </p> + <p> + THE PROPHECY of SAMUEL SEWALL + </p> + <p> + 12. Samuel Sewall is one of the most interesting characters in colonial + American history. He was born in England in 1652, but came to America + while still a child. He graduated from Harvard College in 1671 and finally + became a justice of the peace. He was instrumental in the Salem witchcraft + decision, but later bitterly repented. He made in 1697 a public confession + of his share in the matter and begged that God would "not visit the sin... + upon the Land." + </p> + <p> + 28. Hales Reports. Sir Matthew Hale (1609-1676) was one of the most + eminent judges of England. From 1671 to 1676 he occupied the position of + Chief Justice of the King's Bench, the highest judicial position in + England. Sewall was depending upon an authority of the day. + </p> + <p> + 32. warlock's: a wizard, one who deals in incantations; synonymous with + witch. + </p> + <p> + 46. Theocracy: a state governed directly by the ministers of God. + </p> + <p> + 58. hand-grenade: a hollow shell, filled with explosives, arranged to be + thrown by hand among the enemy and to explode on impact. + </p> + <p> + 73. Koordish robber. The Kurds were a nomadic people living in Kurdistan, + Persia, and Caucasia. They were very savage and vindictive, specially + towards Armenians. The Sheik was the leader of a clan or town and as such + had great power. + </p> + <p> + 81. Newbury, Mass. Judge Sewall's father was one of the founders of the + town. + </p> + <p> + 130-156. This prophecy is most effective in its use of local color for a + spiritual purpose. Beginning with local conditions which might be changed, + it broadens to include all nature which shall never grow old. + </p> + <p> + SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE + </p> + <p> + Skipper Ireson's Ride. Whittier was told after this poem was published + that it was not historically accurate, since the crew and not Skipper + Ireson was to blame for the desertion of the wreck. He stated that he had + founded his poem on a song sung to him when he was a boy. + </p> + <p> + 3. Apuleius's Golden Ass. Apuleius was a Latin satirical writer whose + greatest work was a romance or novel called "The Golden Ass." The hero is + by chance changed into an ass,, and has all sorts of adventures until he + is finally freed from the magic by eating roses in the hands of a priest + of Isis. + </p> + <p> + 3. one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass. See the Arabian Nights' + Entertainments for the story of the one-eyed beggar. + </p> + <p> + 6. Al-Borak: according to the Moslem creed the animal brought by Gabriel + to carry Mohammed to the seventh heaven. It had the face of a man, the + body of a horse, the wings of an eagle, and spoke with a human voice. + </p> + <p> + 11. Marblehead, in Massachusetts. + </p> + <p> + 30. Maenads: the nymphs who danced and sang in honor of Bacchus, the god + of vegetation and the vine. + </p> + <p> + 35. Chalettr Bay, in Newfoundland, a part of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE of NEWBURY + </p> + <p> + 6. Deucalion flood. The python was a monstrous serpent which arose from + the mud left after the flood in which Deucalion survived. The python lived + in a cave on Mount Parnassus and there Apollo slew him. Deucalion and his + wife, Pyrrha were saved from the flood because Zeus respected their piety. + They obeyed the oracle and threw stones behind them from which sprang men + and women to repopulate the earth. + </p> + <p> + 9. See "The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall" for another story of Newbury town. + </p> + <p> + 22. stones of Cheops: an Egyptian king, about 2900 b.c.; built the great + pyramid, which is called by his name. + </p> + <p> + 59. Each town in colonial days set aside certain land for free + pasture-land for the inhabitants. + </p> + <p> + 80. double-ganger: a double or apparition of a person; here, a reptile + moving in double form. + </p> + <p> + 76. Cotton Mather (1663-1728). This precocious boy entered Harvard College + at eleven and graduated at fifteen. At seventeen he preached his first + sermon and all his life was a zealous divine. He was undoubtedly sincere + in his judgments in the cases of witchcraft and was not thoughtlessly + cruel. He was a great writer and politician and a public- minded citizen. + </p> + <p> + 85. Wonder-Book of Cotton Mather is his story of early New England life + called Magnalia Christi Americana. + </p> + <p> + MAUD MULLER + </p> + <p> + 94. astral: a lamp with peculiar construction so that the shadow is not + cast directly below it. + </p> + <p> + BURNS + </p> + <p> + Burns. In connection with this poem may well be read the following poems + by Robert Burns (1759-1796): "The Twa Dogs," "A Man's a Man for A' That," + "Cotter's Saturday Night" (Selections), "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie + Doon," "Highland Mary." + </p> + <p> + 40. allegory: the expression of an idea indirectly by means of a story or + narrative. Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress is probably the best-known + allegory. What others can you name? + </p> + <p> + 67. Craigie-burn and Devon were favorite Scotch streams. + </p> + <p> + 71. Ayr: a river in Scotland. This whole region is full of associations + with Burns. Near it he was born and there is the Auld Brig of Doon of Tam + o' Shanter fame. Near the river is a Burns monument. Doon: a river of + Scotland 30 miles long and running through wild and picturesque country. + Burns has made it famous. + </p> + <p> + 91-92. The unpleasant facts of Burns's life, due to weakness of character, + should not be allowed to destroy our appreciation of what he accomplished + when he was his better self. + </p> + <p> + 99. Magdalen. See John 8:3-11 and many other instances in the Gospels. + </p> + <p> + 103. The mournful Tuscan: Dante, who wrote "The Divine Comedy." + </p> + <p> + THE HERO + </p> + <p> + 1. Bayard, Pierre Terrail (1473-1524): a French soldier who, on account of + his heroism, piety, and magnanimity was called "le chevalier sans noun et + sans reproche," the fearless and faultless knight. By his contemporaries + he was more often called "le bon chevalier," the good knight. + </p> + <p> + 6. Zutphen: an old town in Holland, which was often besieged, especially + during the wars of freedom waged by the Dutch. The most celebtated fight + under its walls was in September, 1586, when Sir Philip Sidney was + mortally wounded. + </p> + <p> + 12. See John 16: 21. + </p> + <p> + 28. Sidney. See note on line 6 and Proem, note on line 4. + </p> + <p> + 31. Cyllenian ranges: Mount Cyllene, in southern Greece, the fabled + birthplace of Hermes. + </p> + <p> + 36. Suliote. See Fitz-Greene Halleck, "Marco Bozzaris," note on line 13 + </p> + <p> + 42. The reference is to Samuel G. Howe, who fought as a young man for the + independence of Greece. + </p> + <p> + 46. Albanian: pertaining to Albania, a province of western Turkey. + </p> + <p> + 78. Cadmus: mythological king of Phoenicia; was regarded as the introducer + of the alphabet from Phoenicia into Greece. + </p> + <p> + 86. Lancelot stands for most of us as the example of a brave knight whose + life was ruined by a great weakness. Malory writes of him in "Mort + d'Arthur," and Tennyson has made him well known to us. + </p> + <p> + THE ETERNAL GOODNESS + </p> + <p> + 24. See John 19:23 and Matthew 9: 20-22. + </p> + <p> + 36. After David had suffered, he wrote the greatest of the Psalms which + are attributed to him. The idea of righteous judgement is to be found + throughout them all, but seems especially strong in 9 and 147. + </p> + <p> + 54. Compare Tennyson's Crossing the Bar. + </p> + <p> + THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW + </p> + <p> + 9. Lowland: the south and east of Scotland; distinguished from the + Highlands. + </p> + <p> + 13. pibroch: a wild, irregular martial music played on Scotch bagpipes. + </p> + <p> + 18. A small English garrison was in possession of the city of Lucknow at + the time of the great Sepoy Mutiny in India,. They were besieged, and + their rescue is described here. + </p> + <p> + 32. Sir Henry Havelock commanded the relieving army. + </p> + <p> + 36. Sepoy: a native East-Indian soldier, equipped like a European soldier. + </p> + <p> + 51. Goomtee: a river of Hindustan. + </p> + <p> + 77. Gaelic: belonging to Highland Scotch or other Celtic people. + </p> + <p> + COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION + </p> + <p> + The element of superstition which enters into many of Whittier's poems is + well illustrated here. + </p> + <p> + 19. the Brocken: in the Harz Mountains in Germany. + </p> + <p> + 35. swart: dark-colored. + </p> + <p> + 49. See "Prophecy of Samuel Sewall," note on line 32. + </p> + <p> + 52. Religion among the Pilgrim fathers was a harsh thing. What + illustrations of its character did you find in the early part of this book + </p> + <p> + 84. Doctor Dee: an English astrologer (1527-1608). + </p> + <p> + 85. Agrippa, Heinrich Cornelius: German physician, theologian, and writer + (1486-1535), who tried to turn less precious metals into gold. + </p> + <p> + 89. Minnesinger. Hares Sachs (1494-1576), the famous cobbler singer, is + probably referred to. For another famous minstrel see notes on Longfellow, + "Walter von der Vogelweide." + </p> + <p> + 139. Bingen, a city on the Rhine, has been made famous by the poem written + in 1799 by Southey, "God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop." Longfellow refers + to this legend in "The Children's Hour." + </p> + <p> + 140. Frankfort (on-the-Main), in Germany. + </p> + <p> + 147. droughty: thirsty, wanting drink. + </p> + <p> + THE MAYFLOWERS + </p> + <p> + 1. Sad Mayflower: the trailing arbutus. + </p> + <p> + 14. Our years of wandering o'er. The Pilgrim fathers sought refuge in + Holland, but found life there unsatisfactory, as they were not entirely + free. They then set out for Virginia and almost by chance settled in New + England. + </p> + <p> + RALPH WALDO EMERSON (1803-1882) + </p> + <p> + "He shaped an ideal for the commonest life, he proposed an object to the + humblest seeker after truth. Look for beauty in the world around you, he + said, and you shall see it everywhere. Look within, with pure eyes and + simple trust, and you shall find the Deity mirrored in your own soul. + Trust yourself because you trust the voice of God in your inmost + consciousness." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. +</pre> + <p> + Born in Boston, Mass., of a family with some literary attainments, he + showed little promise of unusual ability during his years at Harvard. He + became pastor of the Second Church in Boston for a time and later settled + in Concord. He lectured extensively and wrote much, living a quiet, + isolated life. + </p> + <p> + The poems by Emerson are used by permission of, and by special arrangement + with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his works. + </p> + <p> + GOOD-BYE + </p> + <p> + "Good-Bye" was written in 1823 when Emerson, a young boy, was teaching in + Boston. It does not refer to his retirement to the country twelve years + later, but seems a kind of prophecy. + </p> + <p> + 27. lore: learning. + </p> + <p> + 28. sophist: a professed teacher of wisdom. + </p> + <p> + EACH AND ALL + </p> + <p> + 26. noisome offensive. + </p> + <p> + THE PROBLEM + </p> + <p> + 18. canticles: hymns belonging to church service. + </p> + <p> + 19. The dome of St. Peter's was the largest in the world at the time of + its construction and was a great architectural achievement. Emerson feels + that it, like every other work that is worth-while, was the result of a + sincere heart. + </p> + <p> + 20. groined: made the roofs inside the churches according to a + complicated, intersecting pattern. + </p> + <p> + 28. Notice the figure of speech here. Is it effective? + </p> + <p> + 39-40. All the mighty buildings of the world were made first in the minds + of the builder or architect, and then took form. + </p> + <p> + 44. The Andes and Mt. Ararat are very ancient formations and belong to + Nature at her beginning on the earth. These great buildings are so in + keeping with Nature that she accepts them and forgets how modern they are. + </p> + <p> + 51. Pentecost: Whitsunday, when the descent of the Holy Spirit is + celebrated. Emerson says here that this spirit animates all beautiful + music and sincere preaching, as it does we do at our noblest. + </p> + <p> + 65. Chrysostom, Augustine, and the more modern Taylor are all great + religious teachers of the world, and all urged men enter the service of + the church. Augustine: Saint Augustine, the great African bishop (354- + 430). He was influential mainly through his numerous writings, which are + still read. His greatest work was his Confessions. + </p> + <p> + 68. Taylor: Dr. Jeremy Taylor, English bishop and author (1613-1667). One + writer assigns to him "the good humour of gentleman, the eloquence of an + orator, the fancy of a poet, acuteness of a schoolman, the profoundness of + a philosopher, the wisdom of a chancellor, the sagacity of a prophet, + reason of an angel, and the piety of a saint." Why should a man so endowed + be compared to Shakespeare? + </p> + <p> + THE HUMBLE-BEE + </p> + <p> + 6. What characteristics of the bumblebee make animated torrid-zone + applicable? Why doesn't he need to seek a milder climate in Porto Rico? + </p> + <p> + 16. Epicurean: one addicted to pleasure of senses, specially eating and + drinking. How does it apply to the bee? + </p> + <p> + THE SNOW-STORM + </p> + <p> + Emerson called this poem "a lecture on God's architecture, one of his + beautiful works, a Day." + </p> + <p> + 9. This picture is strikingly like Whittier's description of a similar day + in "Snow-Bound." + </p> + <p> + 13. bastions: sections of fortifications. + </p> + <p> + 18. Parian wreaths were very white because the marble of Paros was pure. + </p> + <p> + 21. Maugre: in spite of. + </p> + <p> + FABLE + </p> + <p> + This fable was written some years before its merits were recognized. Since + then it has steadily grown in popularity. + </p> + <p> + BOSTON HYMN + </p> + <p> + 16. fend: defend. + </p> + <p> + 24. boreal: northern. + </p> + <p> + 80. behemoth: very large beast. + </p> + <p> + THE TITMOUSE + </p> + <p> + 76. impregnably: so that it can resist attack. + </p> + <p> + 97. wold: Rood, forest. + </p> + <p> + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1819-1891) + </p> + <p> + "As political reformer, as editor, as teacher, above all as an example of + the type of scholarly gentleman that the new world was able to produce, he + perhaps did more than any of his contemporaries to dignify American + literature at home and to win for it respect abroad." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —W. B. CAIRNS. +</pre> + <p> + Born at Cambridge, Mass., he early showed a love of literature and says + that while he was a student at Harvard he read everything except the + prescribed textbooks. He opened a law office in Boston, but spent his time + largely in reading and writing poetry. He became professor of literature + at Harvard in 1854 and later edited the Atlantic Monthly. Later he was + minister to Spain and to England. In 1885 he returned to his work at + Harvard, where he remained until his death in the very house in which he + was born. + </p> + <p> + The poems by Lowell are used by permission of, and by special arrangement + with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his works. + </p> + <p> + HAKON's LAY + </p> + <p> + This poem is here given in its original form as published by Lowell in + Graham's Magazine in January, 1855. It was afterwards expanded into the + second canto of "The Voyage to Vinland." + </p> + <p> + With what other poems in this book may "Hakon's Lay" be compared? + </p> + <p> + 3. Skald. See Longfellow, 'The Skeleton in Armor,' note on I. 19. + </p> + <p> + 10. Hair and beard were both white, we are told. Who is suggested in this + line as white? + </p> + <p> + 17. eyried. An eagle builds its aerie or nest upon a crag or inaccessible + height above ordinary birds. The simile here begun before the eagle is + mentioned, and the minstrel's thoughts are spoken of as born in the aerie + of his brain, high above his companions. + </p> + <p> + 20. One of the finest pictures of the singing of a minstrel before his + lord is found in Scott's "Waverly." + </p> + <p> + 21. fletcher: arrow-maker. + </p> + <p> + 31. The work of Fate cannot be done by a reed which is proverbially weak + or by a stick which is cut cross-grained and hence will split easily. She + does not take her arrow at random from all the poor and weak weapons which + life offers, but she chooses carefully. + </p> + <p> + 35. sapwood: the new wood next the bark, which is not yet hardened. + </p> + <p> + 37. Much of the value of an arrow lies in its being properly feathered. So + when Fate chooses, she removes all valueless feathers which will hinder + success. + </p> + <p> + 40. In these ways her aim Would be injured. + </p> + <p> + 43. butt's: target's. + </p> + <p> + 52. frothy: trivial. + </p> + <p> + 64. Leif, the son of Eric, near the end of the tenth century went from + Greenland to Norway and was converted to Christianity. About 1000 he + sailed southward and landed at what is perhaps now Newfoundland, then went + on to some part of the New England coast and there spent the winter. + </p> + <p> + 61. The coming of Leif Ericson with his brave ship to Vinland was the + first happening in the story of America. + </p> + <p> + 61. rune: a character in the ancient alphabet. + </p> + <p> + FLOWERS + </p> + <p> + "Flowers" is another very early poem, but it was included by Lowell in his + first volume, "A Year's Life," in 1841. Compare this idea of a poet's duty + and opportunity with that of other American writers. + </p> + <p> + 12. Look up Matthew 13: 3-9. + </p> + <p> + 18. Condensed expression; for some of that seed shall surely fall in such + ground that it shall bloom forever. + </p> + <p> + THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS + </p> + <p> + 16. viceroy: ruler in place of the king. + </p> + <p> + 44. Apollo, while he was still young, killed one of the Cyclops of Zeus + and Zeus condemned him to serve a mortal Man as a shepherd. He served + Admetus, as is here described, and secured many special favors for him + from the gods. + </p> + <p> + COMMEMORATION ODE + </p> + <p> + 3. The men who fought for the cause they loved expressed their love in the + forming of a squadron instead of a poem, and wrote their praise of battle + in fighting-lines instead of tetrameters. + </p> + <p> + 17. guerdon: reward. + </p> + <p> + 36. A creed without defenders is lifeless. When to belief in a cause is + added action in its behalf, the creed lives. + </p> + <p> + 60. This is as life would be without live creeds and results that will + endure. Compare Whittier's "Raphael." + </p> + <p> + 67. aftermath: a second crop. + </p> + <p> + 79. Baal's: belonging to the local deities of the ancient Semitic race. + </p> + <p> + 105. With this stanza may well be compared "The Present Crisis." + </p> + <p> + 113. dote: have the intellect weakened by age. + </p> + <p> + 146. Plutarch's men. Plutarch wrote the lives of the greatest men of + Greece and Rome. + </p> + <p> + THE VISION of SIR LAUNFAL (PRELUDE) + </p> + <p> + 7. auroral: morning. + </p> + <p> + 12. Sinais. Read Exodus, Chapter 19. Why did Moses climb Mount Sinai? What + would be the advantage to us if we knew when we climbed a Mount Sinai? + </p> + <p> + 9-20. Wordsworth says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Heaven lies about us in our infancy! + Shades of the prison-house begin to close + Upon the growing boy," etc. +</pre> + <p> + Lowell does not agree with him, and in these lines he declares that heaven + is as near to the aged man as to the child, since the skies, the winds, + the wood, and the sea have lessons for us always. + </p> + <p> + 28. bubbles: things as useless and perishable as the child's soap-bubbles. + </p> + <p> + 20-32. The great contrast! What does Lowell mean by Earth? Does he define + it? Which does he love better? + </p> + <p> + 79. Notice how details are accumulated to prove the hightide. Are his + points definite? + </p> + <p> + 91. sulphurous: so terrible as to suggest the lower world. + </p> + <p> + BIGLOW PAPERS + </p> + <p> + Lowell attempted a large task in the "Biglow Papers," and on the whole he + succeeded well. He wished to discuss the current question in America under + the guise of humorous Yankee attack. The first series appeared in 1848 and + dealt with the problem of the Mexican War; the second series in 1866 and + refers to the Civil War. From the two series are given here only three + which are perhaps the best known. Mr. Hosea Biglow purports to be the + writer. He is an uneducated Yankee boy who "com home (from Boston) + considerabul riled." His father in No. 1, a letter, describes the process + of composition as follows: "Arter I'd gone to bed I hearn Him a thrashin + round like a shoot-tailed bull in flitime. The old woman ses she to me ses + she, Zekle, sos she, our Hosie's gut the drollery or suthin anuther, ses + she, don't you be skeered, ses I, he's oney a-makin poetery; ses I, he's + ollers on hand at that ere busyness like Da & martin, and Shure enuf, + cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote + tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur." + </p> + <p> + WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS + </p> + <p> + 1. Guvener B.: George Nixon Briggs of Massachusetts. + </p> + <p> + 6. John P. Robinson was a lawyer (1. 59) of Lowell, Mass. Mr. Lowell had + no intention of attacking the individual here; Mr. Robinson changed his + party allegiance and the letter published over his signature called + Lowell's attention to him. + </p> + <p> + lb. Gineral C.: General Caleb Gushing, who took a prominent part in the + Mexican War, and was at this time the candidate for governor opposed to + Governor Briggs. + </p> + <p> + 16. pelf: money. + </p> + <p> + 23. vally: value. + </p> + <p> + 32. eppyletts: epaulets, the mark of an officer in the army or navy. + </p> + <p> + 39. debit, per contry: makes him the debtor and on the other side credits + us. + </p> + <p> + THE COURTIN' + </p> + <p> + 17. crook-necks: gourds. + </p> + <p> + 19. queen's-arm: musket. + </p> + <p> + 33-34. He had taken at least twenty girls to the social events of the + town. + </p> + <p> + 68. sekle: sequel, result. + </p> + <p> + 94. The Bay of Fundy has an exceptionally high tide which rises with great + rapidity. + </p> + <p> + SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE + </p> + <p> + 2. precerdents: legal decisions previously made which serve as models for + later decisions. + </p> + <p> + 4. this-worldify. The women in early New England dressed very simply and + sternly, but the odor of musk would make them seem to belong to this + world, which has beauty as well as severity. + </p> + <p> + 7. clawfoot: a piece of furniture, here a chest, having clawfeet. + </p> + <p> + 38. pithed with hardihood. New England people had hardihood at the center + of their lives. + </p> + <p> + 50. The bloodroot leaf is curled round the tiny write flower bud to + protect it. + </p> + <p> + 56. haggle: move slowly and with difficulty. + </p> + <p> + 100. vendoo: vendue, public sale. + </p> + <p> + 117. What American poets express a similar need of nearness to nature? + </p> + <p> + 144. Lowell's own education was four-story: grammar school, high school, + college, law school. + </p> + <p> + 165. A good application of the old story of the man who killed the goose + that laid the golden eggs. + </p> + <p> + 157. Cap-sheaf: the top sheaf on a stack and hence the completion of any + act. + </p> + <p> + 165. Lowell, himself, seems to be talking in these last lines, and not + young Hosea Biglow. + </p> + <p> + 209. English Civil War (1642-1649), which ended in the establishment of + the Commonwealth. + </p> + <p> + 241. As Adam's fall "Brought death into the world, and all our woe," it + was considered by all Puritans as an event of highest importance; most men + agree that their wives' bonnets stand at the other end of the scale. + </p> + <p> + 2&I. Crommle: Oliver Cromwell, under whom the English fought for a + Commonwealth. See note on line 219. + </p> + <p> + 270. After the short period of the Commonwealth, Charles II became ruler + of England (1660-1685). + </p> + <p> + 272. Millennium: a period when all government will be free from + wickedness. + </p> + <p> + AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE + </p> + <p> + 5. Autumn personified as Hebe, the cupbearer of the Greek gods. + </p> + <p> + 11. projected spirit. The poet's own spirit seems to take on material form + in the landscape before him. + </p> + <p> + 28. See the book of Ruth in the Old Testament for this exquisite story. + </p> + <p> + 32. Magellan's Strait: passage discovered by Magellan when he sailed + around the southern end of South America. + </p> + <p> + 51. retrieves: remedies. + </p> + <p> + 59. lapt: wrapped. + </p> + <p> + 77. Explain this simile. Has color any part in it? + </p> + <p> + 83. ensanguined: made blood-red by frost. + </p> + <p> + 92. The Charles is so placid and blue that it resembles a line of the sky. + </p> + <p> + 99. In connection with this description of the marshes. Lanier's "The + Marshes of Glynn" may well be read, as it is the best description of + marshes in American literature. + </p> + <p> + 133. Compare Bryant's "Robert of Lincoln." + </p> + <p> + 140. Compare this figure with Bryant's in "To a Waterfowl," 1. 2. + </p> + <p> + 157. Compare with the Prelude to the Second Part of "The Vision of Sir + Launfal." + </p> + <p> + 163. The river Charles near its mouth is affected by the ocean tides. + </p> + <p> + 178. Why is the river pictured as dumb and blind? + </p> + <p> + 182. Compare Whittier's "Snow-Bound." + </p> + <p> + 187. gyves: fetters. + </p> + <p> + 190. Druid-like device. At Stonehenge (1. 192) in England is a confused + mass of stones, some of which are in their original positions and which + are supposed to have been placed by the Druids. It is possible that the + sun was worshiped here, but everything about the Druids is conjecture. + </p> + <p> + 201. A view near at hand is usually too detailed to be attractive. But in + the twilight, near-by objects become softened, the distance fades into the + horizon, and a soothing picture is formed. + </p> + <p> + 209. The schools and colleges. Probably Harvard College is here included, + as Lowell graduated there. + </p> + <p> + 217. Compare this idea with that in the following lines from Wordsworth's + "The Daffodils": + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I gazed—and gazed—but little thought + What wealth the show to me had brought; + For oft, when on my couch I lie + In vacant or in pensive mood, + They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude; + And then my heart with pleasure fills, + And dances with the daffodils." +</pre> + <p> + The justice of these opinions should be tested by each student from his + own experience. + </p> + <p> + A FABLE FOR CRITICS + </p> + <p> + 36. ignified: melted. + </p> + <p> + 40. An example of Lowell's puns, which are generally critcized as + belonging to a low order of humor. + </p> + <p> + 41. Parnassus: a mountain in Greece, sacred to Apollo and the Muses, and + hence the domain of the arts in general. + </p> + <p> + 49. inter nos: between us. + </p> + <p> + bl. ices. Isis was the Egyptian goddess of the arts and of agriculture. + </p> + <p> + 60. bemummying: a word coined by Lowell to mean causing one to dry up like + a mummy. + </p> + <p> + 68.. Pythoness: woman with power of prophecy. + </p> + <p> + 69. tripod: a bronze altar over which the Pythoness at Delphi uttered her + oracles. + </p> + <p> + "Most of his judgments are, however, those of posterity though often, as + in the case of Hawthorns, he was characterizing writers who had not done + their best work." —CAIRNS. + </p> + <p> + 92. scathe: injury. + </p> + <p> + 93. rathe: early in the season. + </p> + <p> + 96. John Bunyan Fouque is an extraordinary combination of names as of + characteristics. Bunyan is known everywhere for his devotion to truth as + he saw it; the oak in character. Friederich Heinrich Karl, Baron de + Lamotte-Fouque, was a German soldier, but is better known as a romantic + writer. His best-known work is "Undine," the anemone in daintiness of + fancy and delicacy of expression. + </p> + <p> + A Puritan Tieck is another anomaly. From the early poems in this anthology + the Puritan type is evident; Tieck was a German writer who revolted + against the sternness of life and believed in beauty and romance. + </p> + <p> + 110. In 1821 Scott published The Pilot, a novel of the sea, which was very + popular. Cooper, however, thought he could improve upon it and so in 1823 + he published "The Pilot," hoping to show his superiority. + </p> + <p> + 112. The bay was used for a garland of honor to a poet. + </p> + <p> + 124. Nathaniel Bumpo was "Leatherstocking," who gave his name to the + series of Cooper s novels. + </p> + <p> + 126. Long Tom Coffin was the hero in The Pilot. + </p> + <p> + 130. derniere chemise. A pun upon the word "shift," which here means + stratagem. + </p> + <p> + 148. Parson Adams is one of the most delightful of all notion characters. + Fielding pictures him in his novel Joseph Andrews in such a manner that + you always sympathize with him even if you must laugh at his simplicity. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Primrose in Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield is a direct literary + descendant of Parson Adams. He is one of the best-known characters in + English fiction. To be classed with these two men is high praise for Natty + Bumpo. + </p> + <p> + 161. Barnaby Rudge, the hero of Dickens's novel of that name, kept a tame + raven. + </p> + <p> + 162. fudge: nonsense, rubbish. + </p> + <p> + 180. Collins and Gray: English poets. William Collins, an English lyric + poet (1721-1759) was a friend of Dr. Johnson. Thomas Gray (1716-1771) is + best known by his "Elegy in a Country Churchyard." + </p> + <p> + 182. Theocritus, a Greek poet of the third century B.C., was the founder + of pastoral poetry. Since his idea was the original one, his judgment of + his followers would be better than that of any one else. + </p> + <p> + 190. Irving had been so long a resident in Europe that America almost + despaired of reclaiming him. He did return, however, in 1832, after making + himself an authority on Spanish affairs. + </p> + <p> + 196. Cervantes: the author of Don Quixote, and the most famous of all + Spanish authors. He died on the same day as Shakespeare, April 23, 1616. + </p> + <p> + 200. Addison and Steele together wrote the Spectator Papers (1711-1712), + which had a great influence on the English reading public. The Sir Roger + de Coverley papers are the most widely read of these essays at the present + time. + </p> + <p> + 224. New Timon, published in 1846; a satire in which Tennyson among others + was severely lampooned. + </p> + <p> + 237. The comparison suggests Bunyan's journey with his bundle of sin. + </p> + <p> + 252. no clipper and meter: no person who could cut short or measure the + moods of the poet. + </p> + <p> + 271. The story of Orpheus and Eurydice may be found in any Greek + mythology. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-1894) + </p> + <p> + [In 1830] most of our writers were sentimental; a few were profound; and + the nation at large began to be deeply agitated over social reforms and + political problems. The man who in such a period showed the possibilities + of humor, and whose humor was invariably tempered by culture and flavored + with kindness, did a service to our literature that can hardly be + overestimated." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —WILLIAM J. LONG +</pre> + <p> + Born at Cambridge, Mass., he was brought up under the sternest type of New + England theology. He graduated from Harvard College in 1829 after writing + much college verse. It was Lowell who stimulated him to his best work. He + himself says, "Remembering some crude contributions of mine to an old + magazine, it occurred to me that their title might serve for some fresh + papers, and so I sat down and wrote off what came into my head under the + title, 'The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.'" He practiced medicine in + Boston and taught Anatomy and Physiology in Harvard until 1882. The latter + years of his life were spent happily in Boston, where he died. + </p> + <p> + The poems by Holmes are used by permission of, and by special arrangement + with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his works. + </p> + <p> + OLD IRONSIDES + </p> + <p> + The frigate Constitution was popularly known as "Old Ironsides" and this + poem was written when the naval authorities proposed to break it up as + unfit for service. + </p> + <p> + THE LAST LEAF + </p> + <p> + Holmes says this poem was suggested by the appearance in Boston of an old + man said to be a Revolutionary soldier. + </p> + <p> + THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS + </p> + <p> + 14. irised: having colors like those in a rainbow. + </p> + <p> + 14. crypt: secret recess. + </p> + <p> + CONTENTMENT + </p> + <p> + 3. In 1857-1858, when this poem was written, the ideal of elegance in + eastern cities of America was a "brown stone front" house. The possession + of such a mansion indicated large wealth. In the light of this fact the + humor of the verse is evident. The same principle is used throughout. + </p> + <p> + 22. The position of Minister Plenipotentiary to the court of St. James— + England—was considered the highest diplomatic position in the + disposal of the United States. How would such a position compare with + filling the governor's chair of any state? + </p> + <p> + 35. marrowy: rich. + </p> + <p> + 48. The paintings of Raphael and Titian are beyond purchase price now. + Most of them belong to the great galleries of Europe. Turner is a modern + painter whose work is greatly admired and held almost above price. + </p> + <p> + 64. vellum: fine parchment made of the skin of calves and used for + manuscripts. It turns cream-color with age. + </p> + <p> + 59. Stradivarius: a violin made by Antonio Stradivari, who lived (1644- + 1737) in Cremona, Italy. These instruments created a standard so that they + are now the most highly prized violins in existence. + </p> + <p> + 64. buhl: brass, white metal, or tortoise shell inlaid in patterns is the + wood of furniture. So named from the French woodworker who perfected it. + </p> + <p> + THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE + </p> + <p> + 10. Georgius Secundus: King George II of England. He was the son of George + I, who was elector of Hanover, as well as king of England. + </p> + <p> + 20, felloe: a part of the rim of a wooden wheel in which the spokes are + inserted. + </p> + <p> + 92. encore: we can say the same thing about their strength. + </p> + <p> + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ (1822-1872) + </p> + <p> + Born in Pennsylvania, he was early apprenticed to a tailor. He drifted + until at last he made his way to Italy, where he studied and painted for + several years. Later he made Rome his permanent residence, and died there. + He was known as a clever artist and sculptor, but his best work is the two + poem; here quoted. + </p> + <p> + The poems by Read are used by special permission of J. B. Lippincott + Company, the authorized publishers of the poems. + </p> + <p> + STORM ON ST. BERNARD + </p> + <p> + Storm on St. Bernard may be compared with Excelsior in general subject + matter. Do they affect you in the same way? Are they alike in purpose? + Which seems most real to you? Why is "Excelsior" the more familiar? + </p> + <p> + DRIFTING + </p> + <p> + Read was essentially an artist, and in this poem he expressed his artistic + soul more truly than in anything else he ever did. + </p> + <p> + 19. Ischia: an island in the bay of Naples. + </p> + <p> + 22. Capri: an island in the Mediterranean, best known for the Blue Grotto. + </p> + <p> + WALT WHITMAN (1819-1891) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +"Walt Whitman...the chanter of adhesiveness, of the love of man for man, +may not be attractive to some of us... But Walt Whitman the tender nurse, +the cheerer of hospitals, the saver of soldier lives, is much more than +attractive he is inspiring." + —W. P. TRENT. +</pre> + <p> + Born on Long Island, he entered a printer's office when he was thirteen. + By the time he was twenty, he was editing his own paper, but he soon gave + it up for work on a New York newspaper. When he was thirty, he traveled + through the west; in "Pioneers" we have a part of the result. During + </p> + <p> + the Civil War he gave himself up to nursing as long as his strength + lasted. From 1873 to the time of his death he was a great invalid and + poor, but every trial was nobly borne. + </p> + <p> + The selections from Walt Whitman are included by special permission of + Mitchell Kennerley, the publisher of the complete authorized editions of + Walt Whitman's Works. + </p> + <p> + PIONEERS! O PIONEERS + </p> + <p> + 18. debouch: go out into. + </p> + <p> + O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! + </p> + <p> + Written to express the grief of the nation over the death of Abraham + Lincoln at the time when the joy over the saving of the union was most + intense. intense. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Selections From American Poetry, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETRY *** + +***** This file should be named 3650-h.htm or 3650-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/5/3650/ + +Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Selections From American Poetry + +Author: Various + +Editor: Margeret Sprague Carhart + +Release Date: January, 2003 [Etext #3650] +Posting Date: June 17, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETRY *** + + + + +Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger + + + + + +SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETRY + +By Various Authors + +With Special Reference to Poe, Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier + +Edited by Margaret Sprague Carhart + + + + +CONTENTS: + + Introduction + + + ANNE BRADSTREET + Contemplation + + + MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH + The Day of Doom + + + PHILLIP FRENEAU + The Wild Honeysuckle + To a Honey Bee + The Indian Burying Ground + Eutaw Springs + + + FRANCIS HOPKINSON + The Battle of the Kegs + + + JOSEPH HOPKINSON + Hail Columbia + + + ANONYMOUS + The Ballad of Nathan Hale + A Fable + + + TIMOTHY DWIGHT + Love to the Church + + + SAMUEL WOODWORTH + The Old Oaken Bucket + + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + Thanatopsis + The Yellow Violet + To a Waterfowl + Green River + The West Wind + "I Broke the Spell that Held Me Long" + A Forest Hymn + The Death of the Flowers + The Gladness of Nature + To the Fringed Gentian + Song of Marion's Men + The Crowded Street + The Snow Shower + Robert of Lincoln + The Poet + Abraham Lincoln + + + FRANCIS SCOTT KEY + The Star Spangled Banner + + + JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE + The American Flag + The Culprit Fay + + + FITZ-GREENE HALLECK + Marco Bozzaris + On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake + + + JOHN HOWARD PAYNE + Home Sweet Home + + + EDGAR ALLAN POE + To Helen + Israfel + Lenore + The Coliseum + The Haunted Palace + To One in Paradise + Eulalie A Song + The Raven + To Helen + Annabel Lee + The Bells + Eldorado + + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + Hymn to the Night + A Psalm of Life + The Skeleton in Armor + The Wreck of the Hesperus + The Village Blacksmith + It is not Always May + Excelsior + The Rainy Day + The Arrow and the Song + The Day is Done + Walter Von Vogelweide + The Builders + Santa Filomena + The Discoverer of the North Cape + Sandalphon + Tales of a Wayside Inn + The Landlord's Tale + The Sicilian's Tale + The Theologian's Tale + + + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + Proem + The Frost Spirit + Songs of Labor Dedication + Songs of Labor The Lumberman + Barclay of Ury + All's Well + Raphael + Seed-Time and Harvest + The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall + Skipper Ireson's Ride + The Double-headed Snake of Newbury + Maud Muller + Burns + The Hero + The Eternal Goodness + The Pipes at Lucknow + Cobbler Keezar's Vision + The Mayflowers + + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON + Goodbye + Each and All + The Problem + The Rhodora + The Humble-Bee + The Snow-Storm + Fable + Forbearance + Concord Hymn + Boston Hymn + The Titmouse + + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + Hakon's Lay + Flowers + Impartiality + My Love + The Fountain + The Shepherd of King Admetus + Ode recited at the Harvard Commemoration + Prelude to the Vision of Sir Launfal + Biglow Papers + What Mr Robinson Thinks + The Courtin' + Sunthin' in the Pastoral Line + An Indian Summer Reverie + A Fable for Critics (selection) + + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + Old Ironsides + The Last Leaf + My Aunt + The Chambered Nautilus + Contentment + The Deacon's Masterpiece + + + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ + Storm on the St. Bernard + Drifting + + + WALT WHITMAN + O Captain! My Captain! + Pioneers! O Pioneers! + + + NOTES + + + + + +SELECTIONS OF AMERICAN POETRY + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +If we define poetry as the heart of man expressed in beautiful language, +we shall not say that we have no national poetry. True, America has +produced no Shakespeare and no Milton, but we have an inheritance in all +English literature; and many poets in America have followed in the +footsteps of their literary British forefathers. + +Puritan life was severe. It was warfare, and manual labor of a most +exhausting type, and loneliness, and devotion to a strict sense of duty. +It was a life in which pleasure was given the least place and duty the +greatest. Our Puritan ancestors thought music and poetry dangerous, +if not actually sinful, because they made men think of this world rather +than of heaven. When Anne Bradstreet wrote our first known American +poems, she was expressing English thought; "The tenth muse" was not +animated by the life around her, but was living in a dream of the land +she had left behind; her poems are faint echoes of the poetry of England. +After time had identified her with life in the new world, she wrote +"Contemplations," in which her English nightingales are changed to +crickets and her English gilli-flowers to American blackberry vines. +The truly representative poetry of colonial times is Michael +Wigglesworth's "Day of Doom". This is the real heart of the Puritan, +his conscience, in imperfect rhyme. It fulfills the first part of our +definition, but shows by its lack of beautiful style that both elements +are necessary to produce real poetry. + +Philip Freneau was the first American who sought to express his life in +poetry. The test of beauty of language again excludes from real poetry +some of his expressions and leaves us a few beautiful lyrics, such as +"The Wild Honeysuckle," in which the poet sings his love of American +nature. With them American poetry may be said to begin. + +The fast historical event of national importance was the American +Revolution. Amid the bitter years of want, of suffering, and of war; few +men tried to write anything beautiful. Life was harsh and stirring and +this note was echoed in all the literature. As a result we have +narrative and political poetry, such as "The Battle of the Kegs" and "A +Fable," dealing almost entirely with events and aiming to arouse military +ardor. In "The Ballad of Nathan Hale," the musical expression of +bravery, pride, and sympathy raises the poem so far above the rhymes of +their period that it will long endure as the most memorable poetic +expression of the Revolutionary period. + +Poetry was still a thing of the moment, an avocation, not dignified by +receiving the best of a man. With William Cullen Bryant came a change. +He told our nation that in the new world as well as in the old some men +should live for the beautiful. Everything in nature spoke to him in +terms of human life. Other poets saw the relation between their own +lives and the life of the flowers and the birds, but Bryant constantly +expressed this relationship. The concluding stanza of "To a Waterfowl" +is the most perfect example of this characteristic, but it underlies also +the whole thought of his youthful poem "Thanatopsis" (A View of Death). +If we could all read the lives of our gentians and bobolinks as he did, +there would be more true poetry in America. Modern thinkers urge us to +step outside of ourselves into the lives of others and by our imagination +to share their emotions; this is no new ambition in America; since Bryant +in "The Crowded Street" analyzes the life in the faces he sees. + +Until the early part of the nineteenth century American poetry dealt +mainly with the facts of history and the description of nature. A new +element of fancy is prominent in Joseph Rodman Drake's "The Culprit Fay." +It dances through a long narrative with the delicacy of the fay himself. + +Edgar Allan Poe brought into our poetry somber sentiment and musical +expression. Puritan poetry was somber, but it was almost devoid of +sentiment. Poe loved sad beauty and meditated on the sad things in life. +Many of his poems lament the loss of some fair one. "To Helen," "Annabel +Lee" "Lenore," and "To One In Paradise" have the theme, while in "The +Raven" the poet is seeking solace for the loss of Lenore. "Eulalie--A +Song" rises, on the other hand to intense happiness. With Poe the sound +by which his idea was expressed was as important as the thought itself. +He knew how to make the sound suit the thought, as in "The Raven" and +"The Bells." One who understands no English can grasp the meaning of the +different sections from the mere sound, so clearly distinguishable are +the clashing of the brass and the tolling of the iron bells. If we +return to our definition of poetry as an expression of the heart of a +man, we shall find the explanation of these peculiarities: Poe was a man +of moods and possessed the ability to express these moods in appropriate +sounds. + +The contrast between the emotion of Poe and the calm spirit of the man +who followed him is very great. In Henry Wadsworth Longfellow American +poetry reached high-water mark. Lafcadio Hearn in his "Interpretations +of Literature" says: "Really I believe that it is a very good test of any +Englishman's ability to feel poetry, simply to ask him, 'Did you like +Longfellow when you were a boy?' If he eats 'No,' then it is no use to +talk to him on the subject of poetry at all, however much he might be +able to tell you about quantities and metres." No American has in equal +degree won the name of "household poet." If this term is correctly +understood, it sums up his merits more succinctly than can any other +title. + +Longfellow dealt largely with men and women and the emotions common to us +all. Hiawatha conquering the deer and bison, and hunting in despair for +food where only snow and ice abound; Evangeline faithful to her father +and her lover, and relieving suffering in the rude hospitals of a new +world; John Alden fighting the battle between love and duty; Robert of +Sicily learning the lesson of humility; Sir Federigo offering his last +possession to the woman he loved; Paul Revere serving his country in time +of need; the monk proving that only a sense of duty done can bring +happiness: all these and more express the emotions which we know are true +in our own lives. In his longer narrative poems he makes the legends of +Puritan life real to us; he takes English folk-lore and makes us see +Othere talking to Arthur, and the Viking stealing his bride. His short +poems are even better known than his longer narratives. In them he +expressed his gentle, sincere love of the young, the suffering, and the +sorrowful. In the Sonnets he showed; that deep appreciation of European +literature which made noteworthy his teaching at Harvard and his +translations. + +He believed that he was assigned a definite task in the world which he +described as follows in his last poem: + + "As comes the smile to the lips, + The foam to the surge; + + So come to the Poet his songs, + All hitherward blown + From the misty realm, that belongs + To the vast unknown. + + His, and not his, are the lays + He sings; and their fame + Is his, and not his; and the praise + And the pride of a name. + + For voices pursue him by day + And haunt him by night, + And he listens and needs must obey, + When the Angel says: 'Write!' + +John Greenleaf Whittier seems to suffer by coming in such close proximity +to Longfellow. Genuine he was, but his spirit was less buoyant than +Longfellow's and he touches our hearts less. Most of his early poems +were devoted to a current political issue. They aimed to win converts to +the cause of anti-slavery. Such poems always suffer in time in +comparison with the song of a man who sings because "the heart is so full +that a drop overfills it." Whittier's later poems belong more to this +class and some of them speak to-day to our emotions as well as to our +intellects. "The Hero" moves us with a desire to serve mankind, and the +stirring tone of "Barbara Frietchie" arouses our patriotism by its +picture of the same type of bravery. In similar vein is "Barclay of +Ury," which must have touched deeply the heart of the Quaker poet. "The +Pipes of Lucknow" is dramatic in its intense grasp of a climactic hour +and loses none of its force in the expression. We can actually hear the +skirl of the bagpipes. Whittier knew the artiste of the world and talked +to us about Raphael and Burns with clear-sighted, affectionate interest. +His poems show varied characteristics; the love of the sterner aspects of +nature, modified by the appreciation of the humble flower; the conscience +of the Puritan, tinged with sympathy for the sorrowful; the steadfastness +of the Quaker, stirred by the fire of the patriot. + +The poetry of Ralph Waldo Emerson is marked by serious contemplation +rather than by warmth of emotional expression. In Longfellow the appeal +is constantly to a heart which is not disassociated from a brain; in +Emerson the appeal is often to the intellect alone. We recognize the +force of the lesson in "The Titmouse," even if it leaves us less devoted +citizens than does "The Hero" and less capable women than does +"Evangeline." He reaches his highest excellence when he makes us feel as +well as understand a lesson, as in "The Concord Hymn" and "Forbearance." +If we could all write on the tablets of our hearts that single stanza, +forbearance would be a real factor in life. And it is to this poet whom +we call unemotional that we owe this inspiring quatrain: + + "So nigh is grandeur to our dust, + So near is God to man, + When duty whispers low, Thou must, + The youth replies, I can!" + +James Russell Lowell was animated by a well-defined purpose which he +described in the following lines: + + "It may be glorious to write + Thoughts that make glad the two or three + High souls like those far stars that come in sight + Once in a century. + + But better far it is to speak + One simple word which, now and then + Shall waken their free nature in the weak + And friendless sons of men. + + To write some earnest verse or line + Which, seeking not the praise of art, + + Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine + In the untutored heart." + +His very accomplishments made it difficult for him to reach this aim, +since his poetry does not move "the untutored heart" so readily as does +that of Longfellow or Whittier. It is, on the whole, too deeply burdened +with learning and too individual in expression to fulfil his highest +desire. Of his early poems the most generally known is probably "The +Vision of Sir Launfal," in which a strong moral purpose is combined with +lines of beautiful nature description: + + "And what is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days. + +Two works by which he will be permanently remembered show a deeper and +more effective Lowell. "The Biglow Papers" are the most successful of +all the American poems which attempt to improve conditions by means of +humor. Although they refer in the main to the situation at the time of +the Mexican War, they deal with such universal political traits that they +may be applied to almost any age. They are written in a Yankee dialect +which, it is asserted, was never spoken, but which enhances the humor, as +in "What Mr. Robinson Thinks." Lowell's tribute to Lincoln occurs in the +Ode which he wrote to commemorate the Harvard students who enlisted in +the Civil War. After dwelling on the search for truth which should be +the aim of every college student, he turns to the delineation of +Lincoln's character in a eulogy of great beauty. Clear in analysis, +far-sighted in judgment, and loving in sentiment, he expresses that +opinion of Lincoln which has become a part of the web of American +thought. His is no hurried judgment, but the calm statement of opinion +which is to-day accepted by the world: + + "They all are gone, and, standing like a tower, + Our children shall behold his fame, + The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, + Sagacious, patient, dreading, praise, not blame, + Now birth of our new soil, the first American." + +With Oliver Wendell Holmes comes the last of this brief American list of +honor. No other American has so combined delicacy with the New England +humor. We should be poorer by many a smile without "My Aunt" and "The +Deacon's Masterpiece." But this is not his entire gift. "The Chambered +Nautilus" strikes the chord of noble sentiment sounded in the last stanza +of "Thanatopsis" and it will continue to sing in our hearts "As the swift +seasons roll." There is in his poems the smile and the sigh of the +well-loved stanza, + + "And if I should live to be + The last leaf upon the tree + In the Spring. + Let them smile; as I do now; + As the old forsaken bough + Where I cling." + +And is this all? Around these few names does all the fragrance of +American poetry hover? In the hurry, prosperity, and luxury of modern +life is the care if the flower of poetry lost? Surely not. The last +half of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth have +brought many beautiful flowers of poetry and hints of more perfect +blossoms. Lanier has sung of the life of the south he loved; Whitman and +Miller have stirred us with enthusiasm for the progress of the nation; +Field and Riley have made us laugh and cry in sympathy; Aldrich, Sill, +Van Dyke, Burroughs, and Thoreau have shared with us their hoard of +beauty. Among the present generation may there appear many men and women +whose devotion to the delicate flower shall be repaid by the gratitude of +posterity! + + + + +ANNE BRADSTREET + + + + +CONTEMPLATIONS + + Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide, + When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed, + The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride + Were gilded o'er by his rich golden head. + Their leaves and fruits, seem'd painted, but was true + Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hue, + Rapt were my senses at this delectable view. + + I wist not what to wish, yet sure, thought I, + If so much excellence abide below, + How excellent is He that dwells on high! + Whose power and beauty by his works we know; + Sure he is goodness, wisdom, glory, light, + That hath this underworld so richly dight: + More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter and no night. + + Then on a stately oak I cast mine eye, + Whose ruffling top the clouds seem'd to aspire; + How long since thou wast in thine infancy? + Thy strength, and stature, more thy years admire; + Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born, + Or thousand since thou breakest thy shell of horn? + If so, all these as naught Eternity doth scorn. + + I heard the merry grasshopper then sing, + The black-clad cricket bear a second part, + They kept one tune, and played on the same string, + Seeming to glory in their little art. + Shall creatures abject thus their voices raise? + And in their kind resound their Master's praise: + Whilst I, as mute, can warble forth no higher lays. + + When I behold the heavens as in their prime, + And then the earth (though old) still clad in green, + The stones and trees, insensible of time, + Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; + If winter come, and greenness then do fade, + A spring returns, and they more youthful made; + But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's + laid. + + + +MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH + + + + +THE DAY OF DOOM + +SOUNDING OF THE LAST TRUMP + + Still was the night, Serene & Bright, + when all Men sleeping lay; + Calm was the season, & carnal reason + thought so 'twould last for ay. + Soul, take thine ease, let sorrow cease, + much good thou hast in store: + This was their Song, their Cups among, + the Evening before. + + Wallowing in all kind of sin, + vile wretches lay secure: + The best of men had scarcely then + their Lamps kept in good ure. + Virgins unwise, who through disguise + amongst the best were number'd, + Had closed their eyes; yea, and the wise + through sloth and frailty slumber'd. + + For at midnight brake forth a Light, + which turn'd the night to day, + And speedily a hideous cry + did all the world dismay. + Sinners awake, their hearts do ake, + trembling their loynes surprizeth; + Amaz'd with fear, by what they hear, + each one of them ariseth. + + They rush from Beds with giddy heads, + and to their windows run, + Viewing this light, which shines more bright + than doth the Noon-day Sun. + Straightway appears (they see 't with tears) + the Son of God most dread; + Who with his Train comes on amain + to Judge both Quick and Dead. + + Before his face the Heav'ns gave place, + and Skies are rent asunder, + With mighty voice, and hideous noise, + more terrible than Thunder. + His brightness damps heav'ns glorious lamps + and makes them hang their heads, + As if afraid and quite dismay'd, + they quit their wonted steads. + + No heart so bold, but now grows cold + and almost dead with fear: + No eye so dry, but now can cry, + and pour out many a tear. + Earth's Potentates and pow'rful States, + Captains and Men of Might + Are quite abasht, their courage dasht + at this most dreadful sight. + + Mean men lament, great men do rent + their Robes, and tear their hair: + They do not spare their flesh to tear + through horrible despair. + All Kindreds wail: all hearts do fail: + horror the world doth fill + With weeping eyes, and loud out-cries, + yet knows not how to kill. + + Some hide themselves in Caves and Delves, + in places under ground: + Some rashly leap into the Deep, + to scape by being drown'd: + Some to the Rocks (O senseless blocks!) + and woody Mountains run, + That there they might this fearful sight, + and dreaded Presence shun. + + In vain do they to Mountains say, + fall on us and us hide + From Judges ire, more hot than fire, + for who may it abide? + No hiding place can from his Face + sinners at all conceal, + Whose flaming Eye hid things doth 'spy + and darkest things reveal. + + The Judge draws nigh, exalted high, + upon a lofty Throne, + Amidst a throng of Angels strong, + lo, Israel's Holy One! + The excellence of whose presence + and awful Majesty, + Amazeth Nature, and every Creature, + doth more than terrify. + + The Mountains smoak, the Hills are shook, + the Earth is rent and torn, + As if she should be clear dissolv'd, + or from the Center born. + The Sea doth roar, forsakes the shore, + and shrinks away for fear; + The wild beasts flee into the Sea, + so soon as he draws near. + + Before his Throne a Trump is blown, + Proclaiming the day of Doom: + Forthwith he cries, Ye dead arise, + and unto Judgment come. + No sooner said, but 'tis obey'd; + Sepulchres opened are: + Dead bodies all rise at his call, + and 's mighty power declare. + + His winged Hosts flie through all Coasts, + together gathering + Both good and bad, both quick and dead, + and all to Judgment bring. + Out of their holes those creeping Moles, + that hid themselves for fear, + By force they take, and quickly make + before the Judge appear. + + Thus every one before the Throne + of Christ the Judge is brought, + Both righteous and impious + that good or ill hath wrought. + A separation, and diff'ring station + by Christ appointed is + (To sinners sad) 'twixt good and bad, + 'twixt Heirs of woe and bliss. + + + + +PHILIP FRENEAU + + + + +THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE + + Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, + Hid in this silent, dull retreat, + Untouched thy homed 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. + + + + +TO A HONEY BEE + + Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, + Or quaff the waters of the stream, + 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 perplex, + 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; + Here bigger bees than you might 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 of wine, + Your epitaph--a tear-- + Go, take your seat in Charon's boat; + We'll tell the hive, you died afloat. + + + + +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 die, 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) + 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. + + + + +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: + 'Tis 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 Parthian, 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 bright Phoebus of their own. + + + + +FRANCIS HOPKINSON + + + + +THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS + + Gallants attend and hear a friend + Trill forth harmonious ditty, + Strange things I'll tell which late befell + In Philadelphia city. + + 'Twas early day, as poets say, + Just when the sun was rising, + A soldier stood on a log of wood, + And saw a thing surprising. + + As in amaze he stood to gaze, + The truth can't be denied, sir, + He spied a score of kegs or more + Come floating down the tide, sir. + + A sailor too in jerkin blue, + This strange appearance viewing, + First damned his eyes, in great surprise, + Then said, "Some mischief's brewing. + + "These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold, + Packed up like pickled herring; + And they're come down to attack the town, + In this new way of ferrying." + + The soldier flew, the sailor too, + And scared almost to death, sir, + Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, + And ran till out of breath, sir. + + Now up and down throughout the town, + Most frantic scenes were acted; + And some ran here, and others there, + Like men almost distracted. + + Some fire cried, which some denied, + But said the earth had quaked; + And girls and boys, with hideous noise, + Ran through the streets half naked. + + Sir William he, snug as a flea, + Lay all this time a snoring, + Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm, + In bed with Mrs. Loring. + + Now in a fright, he starts upright, + Awaked by such a clatter; + He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, + "For God's sake, what's the matter?" + + At his bedside he then espied, + Sir Erskine at command, sir, + Upon one foot he had one boot, + And th' other in his hand, sir. + + "Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries, + "The rebels--more's the pity, + Without a boat are all afloat, + And ranged before the city. + + "The motley crew, in vessels new, + With Satan for their guide, sir, + Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs, + Come driving down the tide, sir. + + "Therefore prepare for bloody war; + These kegs must all be routed, + Or surely we despised shall be, + And British courage doubted." + + The royal band now ready stand + All ranged in dread array, sir, + With stomach' stout to see it out, + And make a bloody day, sir. + + The cannons roar from shore to shore. + The small arms make a rattle; + Since wars began I'm sure no man + E'er saw so strange a battle. + + The rebel dales, the rebel vales, + With rebel trees surrounded, + The distant woods, the hills and floods, + With rebel echoes sounded. + + The fish below swam to and fro, + Attacked from every quarter; + Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay, + 'Mongst folks above the water. + + The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made, + Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, + Could not oppose their powerful foes, + The conquering British troops, sir. + + From morn to night these men of might + Displayed amazing courage; + And when the sun was fairly down, + Retired to sup their porridge. + + A hundred men with each a pen, + Or more upon my word, sir, + It is most true would be too few, + Their valor to record, sir. + + Such feats did they perform that day, + Against these wicked kegs, sir, + That years to come: if they get home, + They'll make their boasts and brags, sir. + + + + +JOSEPH HOPKINSON + + + + +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, let us be, + Rallying round our Liberty; + As a band of brothers joined, + Peace and safety we shall find. + + Sound, sound, the trump of Fame! + Let WASHINGTON'S great name + Ring through the world with loud applause, + Ring through the world with loud applause; + 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, let us be, + Rallying round our Liberty; + As a band of brothers joined, + Peace and safety we shall find. + + 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. + + + + +ANONYMOUS + + + + +THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE + + The breezes went steadily through the tall pines, + A-saying "oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "oh! hu-ush!" + As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, + For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush. + + "Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young, + In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road. + "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear + What bodes us no good, what bodes us no good." + + The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home + In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook. + With mother and sister and memories dear, + He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook. + + Cooling shades of the night were coming apace, + The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat. + The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place, + To make his retreat; to make his retreat. + + He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves. + As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood; + And silently gained his rude launch on the shore, + As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood. + + The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, + Had a murderous will; had a murderous will. + They took him and bore him afar from the shore, + To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill. + + No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, + In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell. + But he trusted in love, from his Father above. + In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well. + + An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice, + Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by: + "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, + For he must soon die; for he must soon die." + + The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,-- + The cruel general! the cruel general!-- + His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, + And said that was all; and said that was all. + + They took him and bound him and bore him away, + Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side. + 'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array, + His cause did deride; his cause did deride. + + Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, + For him to repent; for him to repent. + He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, + To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went. + + The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, + As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage. + And Britons will shudder at gallant Hales blood, + As his words do presage, as his words do presage. + + "Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, + Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave; + Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. + No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave." + + + + +A FABLE + + Rejoice, Americans, rejoice! + Praise ye the Lord with heart and voice! + The treaty's signed with faithful France, + And now, like Frenchmen, sing and dance! + + But when your joy gives way to reason, + And friendly hints are not deemed treason, + Let me, as well as I am able, + Present your Congress with a fable. + + Tired out with happiness, the frogs + Sedition croaked through all their bogs; + And thus to Jove the restless race, + Made out their melancholy case. + + "Famed, as we are, for faith and prayer, + We merit sure peculiar care; + But can we think great good was meant us, + When logs for Governors were sent us? + + "Which numbers crushed they fell upon, + And caused great fear,--till one by one, + As courage came, we boldly faced 'em, + Then leaped upon 'em, and disgraced 'em! + + "Great Jove," they croaked, "no longer fool us, + None but ourselves are fit to rule us; + We are too large, too free a nation, + To be encumbered with taxation! + + "We pray for peace, but wish confusion, + Then right or wrong, a--revolution! + Our hearts can never bend to obey; + Therefore no king--and more we'll pray." + + Jove smiled, and to their fate resigned + The restless, thankless, rebel kind; + Left to themselves, they went to work, + First signed a treaty with king Stork. + + He swore that they, with his alliance, + To all the world might bid defiance; + Of lawful rule there was an end on't, + And frogs were henceforth--independent. + + At which the croakers, one and all! + Proclaimed a feast, and festival! + But joy to-day brings grief to-morrow; + Their feasting o'er, now enter sorrow! + + The Stork grew hungry, longed for fish; + The monarch could not have his wish; + In rage he to the marshes flies, + And makes a meal of his allies. + + Then grew so fond of well-fed frogs, + He made a larder of the bogs! + Say, Yankees, don't you feel compunction, + At your unnatural rash conjunction? + + Can love for you in him take root, + Who's Catholic, and absolute? + I'll tell these croakers how he'll treat 'em; + Frenchmen, like storks, love frogs--to eat 'em. + + + + +TIMOTHY DWIGHT + + + + +LOVE TO THE CHURCH + + I love thy kingdom, Lord, + The house of thine abode, + The church our blest Redeemer saved + With his own precious blood. + + I love thy church, O God! + Her walls before thee stand, + Dear as the apple of thine eye, + And graven on thy hand. + + If e'er to bless thy sons + My voice or hands deny, + These hands let useful skill forsake, + This voice in silence die. + + For her my tears shall fall, + For her my prayers ascend; + To her my cares and toils be given + Till toils and cares shall end. + + Beyond my highest joy + I prize her heavenly ways, + Her sweet communion, solemn vows, + Her hymns of love and praise. + + Jesus, thou friend divine, + Our Saviour and our King, + Thy hand from every snare and foe + Shall great deliverance bring. + + Sure as thy truth shall last, + To Zion shall be given + The brightest glories earth can yield, + And brighter bliss of heaven. + + + + +SAMUEL WOODWORTH + + + + +THE OLD OAKEN 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 cataract fell, + The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, + And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-- + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. + + That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, + For often at noon, when returned from the field, + I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, + 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 overflowing, + 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 habitation, + The tear of regret will intrusively swell, + As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, + 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! + + + + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + + + + +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 up + Thine individual being, shalt thou go + To mix forever with the elements, + To be a brother to the insensible rock + And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain + Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak + Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. + + Yet not to thine eternal resting place + Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish + Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down + With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings, + The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good, + Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, + All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills + Rock-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 dashing--yet the dead are there; + And millions in those solitudes, since first + The flight of years began, have laid them down + In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone. + So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw + In silence from the living, and no friend + Take note of thy departure? All that breathe + Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh + When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care + Plod on, and each one as before will chase + His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave + Their mirth and their employments, and shall come + And make their bed with thee. As the long train + Of ages glides away, the sons of men-- + The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes + In the full strength of years, matron and maid, + The speechless babe, and the grayheaded 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. + + + + +THE YELLOW VIOLET + + When beechen buds begin to swell, + And woods the blue-bird's warble know, + The yellow violet's modest bell + Peeps from the last year's leaves below. + + Ere russet fields their green resume, + Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, + To meet thee, when thy faint perfume + Alone is in the virgin air. + + Of all her train, the hands of Spring + First plant thee in the watery mould, + And I have seen thee blossoming + Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. + + Thy parent sun, who bade thee view + Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, + Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, + And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. + + Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, + And earthward bent thy gentle eye, + Unapt the passing view to meet, + When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. + + Oft, in the sunless April day, + Thy early smile has stayed my walk; + But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, + I passed thee on thy humble stalk. + + So they, who climb to wealth, forget + The friends in darker fortunes tried. + I copied them--but I regret + That I should ape the ways of pride. + + And when again the genial hour + Awakes the painted tribes of light, + I'll not o'erlook the modest flower + That made the woods of April bright. + + + + +TO A WATERFOWL + + 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? + + 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 atmosphere, + Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, + Though the dark night is near. + + And soon that toil shall end; + Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, + And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, + Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. + + Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven + Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, in my heart + Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, + And shall not soon depart. + + He who, from zone to zone, + Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, + In the long way that I must tread alone, + Will lead my steps aright. + + + + +GREEN RIVER + + When breezes are soft and skies are fair, + I steal an hour from study and care, + And hie me away to the woodland scene, + Where wanders the stream with waters of green, + As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink + Had given their stain to the waves they drink; + And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, + Have named the stream from its own fair hue. + + Yet pure its waters--its shallows are bright + With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, + And clear the depths where its eddies play, + And dimples deepen and whirl away, + And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot + The swifter current that mines its root, + Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, + The quivering glimmer of sun and rill + With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, + Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. + Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, + With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum; + The flowers of summer are fairest there, + And freshest the breath of the summer air; + And sweetest the golden autumn day + In silence and sunshine glides away. + + Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, + Beautiful stream! by the village side; + But windest away from haunts of men, + To quiet valley and shaded glen; + And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, + Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still, + Lonely--save when, by thy rippling tides, + From thicket to thicket the angler glides; + Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, + For herbs of power on thy banks to look; + Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, + To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. + Still--save the chirp of birds that feed + On the river cherry and seedy reed, + And thy own wild music gushing out + With mellow murmur of fairy shout, + From dawn to the blush of another day, + Like traveller singing along his way. + + That fairy music I never hear, + Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, + And mark them winding away from sight, + Darkened with shade or flashing with light, + While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, + And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, + But I wish that fate had left me free + To wander these quiet haunts with thee, + Till the eating cares of earth should depart, + And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; + And I envy thy stream, as it glides along + Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. + + Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, + And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, + And mingle among the jostling crowd, + Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud-- + I often come to this quiet place, + To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, + And gaze upon thee in silent dream, + For in thy lonely and lovely stream + An image of that calm life appears + That won my heart in my greener years. + + + + +THE WEST WIND + + Beneath the forest's skirt I rest, + Whose branching pines rise dark and high, + And hear the breezes of the West + Among the thread-like foliage sigh. + + Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of woe? + Is not thy home among the flowers? + Do not the bright June roses blow, + To meet thy kiss at morning hours? + + And lo! thy glorious realm outspread-- + Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, + And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose head + The loose white clouds are borne away. + + And there the full broad river runs, + And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, + To cool thee when the mid-day suns + Have made thee faint beneath their heat. + + Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love; + Spirit of the new-wakened year! + The sun in his blue realm above + Smooths a bright path when thou art here. + + In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, + The wooing ring-dove in the shade; + On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird + Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. + + Ah! thou art like our wayward race;-- + When not a shade of pain or ill + Dims the bright smile of Nature's face, + Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still. + + + + +"I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG" + + I broke the spell that held me long, + The dear, dear witchery of song. + I said, the poet's idle lore + Shall waste my prime of years no more, + For Poetry, though heavenly born, + Consorts with poverty and scorn. + + I broke the spell--nor deemed its power + Could fetter me another hour. + Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget + Its causes were around me yet? + For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, + Was Nature's everlasting smile. + + Still came and lingered on my sight + Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, + And glory of the stars and sun;-- + And these and poetry are one. + They, ere the world had held me long, + Recalled me to the love of song. + + + + +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 influences + 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 green 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, neglect + 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 pride + Report not. No fantastic carvings show + The boast of our vain race to change the form + Of thy fair works. But thou art here--thou fill'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 barley 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 halt 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 + Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, + With scented breath and look so like a smile, + Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, + Au 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 himself + Upon the tyrant's throne--the sepulchre, + And of the triumphs 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 themselves + 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 tempest, set on fire + The heavens with falling thunderbolts, 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. + + + + +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, but the cold November rain + Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. + + The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, + And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; + But on the hills 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 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 forests 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 GLADNESS OF NATURE + + Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, + When our mother Nature laughs around; + When even the deep blue heavens look glad, + And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? + + There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, + And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; + The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, + And the wilding bee hums merrily by. + + The clouds are at play in the azure space + And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, + And here they stretch to the frolic chase, + And there they roll on the easy gale. + + There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, + There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, + There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, + And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. + + And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles + On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, + On the leaping waters and gay young isles; + Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. + + + + +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 unseen, + 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 frosts 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. + + + + +SONG OF MARION'S MEN + + 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. + + 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 tents 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 hollow wind. + + Then sweet the hour that brings release + From danger and from toil: + 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. + + 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 moonlight plain; + 'Tis life to feel the night-wind + That lifts the tossing mane. + A moment in the British camp-- + A moment--and away + Back to the pathless forest, + Before the peep of day. + + 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, + 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 CROWDED STREET + + Let me move slowly through the street, + Filled with an ever-shifting train, + Amid the sound of steps that beat + The murmuring walks like autumn rain. + + How fast the flitting figures come! + The mild, the fierce, the stony face; + Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some + + Where secret tears have left their trace. + + They pass--to toil, to strife, to rest; + To halls in which the feast is spread; + To chambers where the funeral guest + In silence sits beside the dead. + + And some to happy homes repair, + Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, + These struggling tides of life that seem + With mute caresses shall declare + The tenderness they cannot speak. + + And some, who walk in calmness here, + Shall shudder as they reach the door + Where one who made their dwelling dear, + Its flower, its light, is seen no more. + + Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, + And dreams of greatness in thine eye! + Go'st thou to build an early name, + Or early in the task to die? + + Keen son of trade, with eager brow! + Who is now fluttering in thy snare! + Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, + Or melt the glittering spires in air? + + Who of this crowd to-night shall tread + The dance till daylight gleam again? + Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? + Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? + + Some, famine-struck, shall think how long + The cold dark hours, how slow the light; + And some, who flaunt amid the throng, + Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. + + Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, + They pass, and heed each other not. + There is who heeds, who holds them all, + In His large love and boundless thought. + + These struggling tides of life that seem + In wayward, aimless course to tend, + Are eddies of the mighty stream + That rolls to its appointed end. + + + + +THE SNOW-SHOWER + + Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, + On the lake below thy gentle eyes; + The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, + And dark and silent the water lies; + And out of that frozen mist the snow + In wavering flakes begins to flow; + Flake after flake + They sink in the dark and silent lake. + + See how in a living swarm they come + From the chambers beyond that misty veil; + Some hover awhile in air, and some + Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. + All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, + West, and are still in the depths below; + Flake after flake + Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. + + Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, + Come floating downward in airy play, + Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd + That whiten by night the milky way; + There broader and burlier masses fall; + The sullen water buries them all-- + Flake after flake-- + All drowned in the dark and silent lake. + + And some, as on tender wings they glide + From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, + Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, + Come clinging along their unsteady way; + As friend with friend, or husband with wife, + Makes hand in hand the passage of life; + Each mated flake + Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. + + Lo! While we are gazing, in swifter haste + Stream down the snows, till the air is white, + As, myriads by myriads madly chased, + They fling themselves from their shadowy height. + The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, + What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; + Flake after flake + To lie in the dark and silent lake! + + I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; + They turn to me in sorrowful thought; + Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, + Who were for a time, and now are not; + Like those fair children and cloud and frost, + That glisten for a moment and then are lost, + Flake after flake + All lost in the dark and silent lake. + + Yet look again, for the clouds divide; + A gleam of blue on the water lies; + And far away, on the mountain-side, + A sunbeam falls from the opening skies, + But the hurrying host that flew between + The cloud and the water, no more is seen; + Flake after flake, + + At rest in the dark and silent lake. + + + + +ROBERT OF LINCOLN + + Merrily swinging on brier and weed, + Near to the nest of his little dame, + Over the mountain-side or mead, + Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Snug and safe is that nest of ours, + Hidden among the summer flowers, + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, + Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; + White are his shoulders and white his crest + Hear him call in his merry note: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Look, what a nice coat is mine. + Sure there was never a bird so fine. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, + Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, + Passing at home a patient life, + Broods in the grass while her husband sings + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Brood, kind creature; you need not fear + Thieves and robbers while I am here. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Modest and shy is she; + One weak chirp is her only note. + Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, + Pouring boasts from his little throat: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Never was I afraid of man; + Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! + Chee, chee, chee. + + Six white eggs on a bed of hay, + Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! + There as the mother sits all day, + Robert is singing with all his might: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Nice good wife, that never goes out, + Keeping house while I frolic about. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Soon as the little ones chip the shell, + Six wide mouths are open for food; + Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, + Gathering 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. + + 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, + Nobody knows but my mate and I + Where our nest and out nestlings lie. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Summer wanes; the children are grown; + Fun and frolic no more he knows; + Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; + Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + When you can pipe that merry old strain, + Robert of Lincoln, come back again. + Chee, chee, chee. + + + + +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 within the general mind! + Deem not the framing of a deathless lay + The pastime of a drowsy summer day. + + But gather all thy powers, + And wreak them on the verse that thou dust 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 windless 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 rampart'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!" + + + + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + + Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, + Gentle and merciful and just! + Who, in the fear of God, didst bear + The sword of power, a nation's trust! + + In sorrow by thy bier we stand, + Amid the awe that hushes all, + And speak the anguish of a land + That shook with horror at thy fall. + + Thy task is done; the bond are free: + We bear thee to an honored grave + Whose proudest monument shall be + The broken fetters of the slave. + + Pure was thy life; its bloody close + Hath placed thee with the sons of light, + Among the noble host of those + Who perished in the cause of Right. + + + + +FRANCIS SCOTT KEY + + + + +THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER + + O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, + What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? + Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous 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 star-spangled banner yet wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? + + On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, + Where the foes 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; + 'Tis 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 and the gloom of the grave; + And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave + 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 preserved us a nation. + Then conquer we must, for 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. + + + + +JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE + + + + +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. + And 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 trumpings 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 'tis 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 of 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 + In 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? + + + + +THE CULPRIT FAY (Selection) + + 'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell: + The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; + He has counted them all with click and stroke, + Deep in the heart of the mountain oak, + And he has awakened the sentry elve + Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, + To bid him ring the hour of twelve, + And call the fays to their revelry; + Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell + ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell) + "Midnight comes, and all is well! + Hither, hither, wing your way! + 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day." + + They come from beds of lichen green, + They creep from the mullen's velvet screen; + Some on the backs of beetles fly + From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, + Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high, + And rocked about in the evening breeze; + Some from the hum-bird's downy nest-- + They had driven him out by elfin power, + And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, + Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; + Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, + With glittering ising-stars' inlaid; + And some had opened the four-o'clock, + And stole within its purple shade. + And now they throng the moonlight glade, + Above, below, on every side, + Their little minim forms arrayed + In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. + + They come not now to print the lea, + In freak and dance around the tree, + Or at the mushroom board to sup + And drink the dew from the buttercup. + A scene of sorrow waits them now, + For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow + He has loved an earthly maid, + And left for her his woodland shade; + He has lain upon her lip of dew, + And sunned him in her eye of blue, + Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, + Played in the ringlets of her hair, + And, nestling on her snowy breast, + Forgot the lily-king's behest. + For this the shadowy tribes of air + To the elfin court must haste away; + And now they stand expectant there, + To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. + + The throne was reared upon the grass, + Of spice-wood and of sassafras; + On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell + Hung the burnished canopy,-- + And over it gorgeous curtains fell + Of the tulip's crimson drapery. + 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 halt 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 bast 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 punishment + Tied to the hornet's shardy wings, + Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings, + Or seven long ages doomed to dwell + With the lazy worm in the walnut-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 murdered 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 shaft seek the beach of sand + Where the water bounds the elfin land; + Thou shaft watch the oozy brine + Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine; + 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." . . . + + The goblin marked his monarch well; + He spake not, but he bowed him low; + Then plucked a crimson colen-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 over 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 leaped 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 silkweed 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 the sea-silk beds in their coral caves; + 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 quad'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 howls 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. + + Soon he gathered the balsam dew + From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud; + Over each wound the balm he drew, + And with cobweb lint he stanched the blood. + The mild west wind was soft and low; + It cooled the heat of his burning brow, + And he felt new life in his sinews shoot + As he drank the juice of the calamus root. + And now he treads the fatal shore + As fresh and vigorous as before. + + Wrapped in musing stands the sprite + 'Tis the middle wane of night; + His task is hard, his way is far, + But he must do his errand right + Ere dawning mounts her beamy car, + And rolls her chariot wheels of light; + And vain are the spells of fairy-land, + He must work with a human hand. + + He cast a saddened look around; + But he felt new joy his bosom swell, + When glittering on the shadowed ground + He saw a purple mussel-shell; + Thither he ran, and he bent him low, + He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow, + And he pushed her over the yielding sand + Till he came; to the verge of the haunted land. + She was as lovely a pleasure-boat + As ever fairy had paddled in, + For she glowed with purple paint without, + And shone with silvery pearl within + A sculler's notch in the stern he made, + An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade; + Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap, + And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. + + The imps of the river yell and rave + They had no power above the wave, + But they heaved the billow before the prow, + And they dashed the surge against her side, + And they struck her keel with jerk and blow, + Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. + She wimpled about to the pale moonbeam, + Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed stream; + And momently athwart her track + The quad upreared his island back, + And the fluttering scallop behind would float, + And patter the water about the boat; + But he bailed her out with his colon-bell, + And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread, + While on every side like lightning fell + The heavy strokes of his Bootle-blade. + + Onward still he held his way, + Till he came where the column of moonshine lay, + And saw beneath the surface dim + The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim. + Around him were the goblin train; + But he sculled with all his might and main, + And followed wherever the sturgeon led, + Till he saw him upward point his head; + "Mien he dropped his paddle-blade, + And held his colen-goblet up + To catch the drop in its crimson cup. + + With sweeping tail and quivering fin + Through the wave the sturgeon flew, + And like the heaven-shot javelin + He sprung above the waters blue. + Instant as the star-fall light, + He plunged him in the deep again, + But left an arch of silver bright, + The rainbow of the moony main. + It was a strange and lovely sight + To see the puny goblin there: + He seemed an angel form of light, + With azure wing and sunny hair, + Throned on a cloud of purple fair, + Circled with blue and edged with white, + And sitting at the fall of even + Beneath the bow of summer heaven. + + A moment, and its lustre fell; + But ere it met the billow blue + He caught within his crimson bell + A droplet of its sparkling dew. + Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done; + Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won. + Cheerly ply thy dripping oar, + And haste away to the elfin shore! + + He turns, and to on either side + The ripples on his path divide; + And the track o'er which his boat must pass + Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass. + Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, + With snowy arms half swelling out, + While on the glossed and gleamy wave + Their sea-green ringlets loosely float: + They swim around with smile and song; + They press the bark with pearly hand, + And gently urge her course along, + Toward the beach of speckled sand; + And as he lightly leaped to land + They bade adieu with nod and bow, + Then gaily kissed each little hand, + And dropped in the crystal deep below. + + A moment stayed the fairy there: + He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer; + Then spread his wings of gilded blue, + And on to the elfin court he flew. + As ever ye saw a bubble rise, + And shine with a thousand changing dyes, + Till, lessening far, through ether driven, + It mingles with the hues of heaven; + As, at the glimpse of morning pale, + The lance-fly spreads his silken sail + And gleams with bleedings soft and bright + Till lost in the shades of fading night; + So rose from earth the lovely Fay, + So vanished far in heaven away! + + + + +FITZ-GREENE HALLECK + + + + +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 Plataea'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 mountain-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-horn'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. + + 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 oer the Haytian seas. + + Bozzaris, with the storied brave + Greece nurtured in her glory's time, + Rest thee--there is no prouder gave. + 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 babes' first lisping tells; + For throe 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 went 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 throe, 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 I 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. + + + + +JOHN HOWARD PAYNE + + + + +HOME, SWEET HOME + + Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; + A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, + Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; + O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! + The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,-- + Give me them,--and the peace of mind, dearer than all! + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, + And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile! + Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam, + But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home! + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; + The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; + No more from that, cottage again will I roam; + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + + + +EDGAR ALLAN POE + + + + +TO HELEN + + Helen, thy beauty is to me + Like those Nicean barks of yore, + That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, + The weary, way-worn wanderer bore + To his own native shore. + + On desperate seas long wont to roam, + Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, + Thy Naiad airs have brought me home + To the glory that was Greece, + And the grandeur that was Rome. + + Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche + How statue-like I see thee stand, + The agate lamp within thy hand! + Ah, Psyche, from the regions which + Are Holy-Land! + + + + +ISRAFEL + + In Heaven a spirit doth dwell + "Whose heart-strings are a lute;" + None sing so wildly well + As the angel Israel, + And the giddy stars (so legends tell) + Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell + Of his voice, all mute. + + Tottering above + In her highest noon, + The enamoured moon + Blushes with love, + While, to listen, the red levin + (With the rapid Pleiads, even, + Which were seven,) + Pauses in Heaven. + + And they say (the starry choir + And the other listening things) + That Israeli's fire + Is owing to that lyre + By which he sits and sings-- + The trembling living wire + Of those unusual strings. + + But the skies that angel trod, + Where deep thoughts are a duty-- + Where Love's a grown-up God-- + Where the Houri glances are + Imbued with all the beauty + Which we worship in a star. + + Therefore, thou art not wrong, + Israfeli, who despisest + An unimpassioned song; + To thee the laurels belong, + Best bard, because the wisest! + Merrily live, and long! + + The ecstasies above + With thy burning measures suit-- + Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, + With the fervour of thy lute-- + Well may the stars be mute! + + Yes, Heaven is thin-e; but this + Is a world of sweets and sours; + Our flowers are merely--flowers, + And the shadow of thy perfect bliss + Is the sunshine of ours. + + If I could dwell + Where Israfel + Hath dwelt, and he where I, + He might not sing so wildly well + A mortal melody, + While a bolder note than this might swell + From my lyre within the sky. + + + + +LENORE + + Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! + Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; + And, Guy De Vere, halt thou no tear?--weep now or never more! + See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! + Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!-- + An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-- + A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. + + "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, + "And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died! + "How shall the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung + "By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue + "That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" + + Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song + Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! + The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, + Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride + For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, + The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes-- + The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes. + "Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-- + "From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-- + "From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of + Heaven." + Let no bell toll then!--lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth, + Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth! + And I!--to-night my heart is light! No dirge will I upraise, + But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days! + + + + +THE COLISEUM + + Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary + Of lofty contemplation left to Time + By bunted centuries of pomp and power! + At length--at length--after so many days + Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, + (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) + I kneel, an altered and an humble man, + Amid thy shadows, and so drink within + My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! + + Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! + Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! + I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength-- + O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king + Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! + O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee + Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! + + Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! + Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, + A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! + Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair + Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! + Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, + Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, + Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, + The swift and silent lizard of the stones! + + But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades-- + These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts-- + These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze-- + These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin-- + These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all-- + All of the famed, and the colossal left + By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? + + "Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all! + "Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever + "From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, + "As melody from Memnon to the Sun. + "We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule + "With a despotic sway all giant minds. + "We are not impotent--we pallid stones. + "Not all our power is gone--not all our fame-- + "Not all the magic of our high renown-- + "Not all the wonder that encircles us-- + "Not all the mysteries that in us lie-- + "Not all the memories that hang upon + "And cling around about us as a garment, + "Clothing us in a robe of more than glory." + + + + +THE HAUNTED PALACE + + In the greenest of our valleys + By good angels tenanted, + Once a fair and stately palace-- + Radiant palace--reared its head. + In the monarch Thought's dominion-- + It stood there! + Never seraph spread a pinion + Over fabric half so fair! + + Banners yellow, glorious, golden, + On its roof did float and flow, + (This--all this--was in the olden + Time long ago,) + And every gentle air that dallied; + In that sweet day, + Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, + A winged odor went away. + + Wanderers in that happy valley, + Through two luminous windows, saw + Spirits moving musically, + To a lute's well-tuned law, + Round about a throne where, sitting, + (Porphyrogene!) + In state his glory well befitting, + The ruler of the realm was seen. + + And all with pearl and ruby glowing + Was the fair palace door, + Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing + And sparkling evermore, + A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty + Was but to sing, + In voices of surpassing beauty, + The wit and wisdom of their king. + + But evil things, in robes of sorrow, + Assailed the monarch's high estate. + (Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow + Shall dawn upon him desolate!) + And round about his home the glory + That blushed and bloomed, + Is but a dim-remembered story + Of the old time entombed. + + And travellers, now, within that valley, + Through the red-litten windows see + Vast forms, that move fantastically + To a discordant melody, + While, like a ghastly rapid river, + Through the pale door + A hideous throng rush out forever + And laugh--but smile no more. + + + + +TO ONE IN PARADISE + + Thou wast all that to me, love, + For which my soul did pine-- + A green isle in the sea, love, + A fountain and a shrine + All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, + And all the flowers were mine. + + Ah, dream too bright to last! + Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise + But to be overcast! + A voice from out the Future cries, + "On! on!"--but o'er the Past + (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies + Mute, motionless, aghast! + + For, alas! alas! with me + The light of Life is o'er! + "No more--no more--no more--" + (Such language holds the solemn sea + To the sands upon the shore) + Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, + Or the stricken eagle soar! + + And all my days are trances, + And all my nightly dreams + Are where thy grey eye glances, + And where thy footstep gleams-- + In what ethereal dances, + By what eternal streams. + + + + +EULALIE.--A SONG + + I dwelt alone + In a world of moan, + And my soul was a stagnant tide, + Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-- + Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. + + Ah, less--less bright + The stars of the night + Than the eyes of the radiant girl! + And never a flake + That the vapor can make + With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, + Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-- + Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble + and careless curl. + + Now Doubt--now Pain + Come never again, + For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, + And all day long + Shines, bright and strong, + Astarte within the sky, + While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-- + While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. + + + + +THE RAVEN + + Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore + While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, + As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door + "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- + Only this and nothing more." + + Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; + And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor-- + Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow + From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- + For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- + Nameless here for evermore. + + And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain + Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; + So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating + + "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- + Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- + This it is and nothing more." + + Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, + "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; + But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping + And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, + That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;-- + Darkness there and nothing more. + + Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, + fearing, + Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; + But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, + And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" + This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!" + Merely this and nothing more. + + Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, + Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. + "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; + Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- + Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- + 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" + + Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter + In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. + Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; + But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- + Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-- + Perched, and sat, and nothing more. + + Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, + By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, + "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art + sure no craven, + Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- + Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, + Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; + For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being + Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- + Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, + With such name as "Nevermore." + + But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only + That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. + Nothing farther then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- + Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before-- + On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." + Then the bird said "Nevermore." + + Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, + "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, + Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster + Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore + Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore-- + Of 'Never--nevermore.'" + + But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, + Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and + door; + Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking + Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- + What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore + Meant in croaking "Nevermore." + + Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing + To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; + This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining + On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, + But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, + She shall press, ah, nevermore! + + Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer + Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. + "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath + sent thee + + Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; + Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!- + Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, + Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted + On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore-- + Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! + By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- + Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, + It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore: + Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, + upstarting-- + "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! + Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! + Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door! + Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my + door!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting + On the pallid bust of Pallas dust above my chamber door; + And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, + And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor + And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor + Shall be lifted--nevermore! + + + + +TO HELEN + + I saw thee once--once only--years ago + I must not say how many--but not many. + It was a July midnight; and from out + A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, + Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, + There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, + With quietude and sultriness and slumber, + Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand + Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, + Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-- + Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses + That gave out, in return for the love-light, + Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death-- + Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses + That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted + By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. + + Clad all in white, upon a violet bank + I saw thee half reclining; while the moon + Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, + And on throe own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow! + + Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-- + Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow), + That bade me pause before that garden-gate, + To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? + No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, + Save only thee and me. (Oh, heaven!--oh, God! + How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) + Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked-- + And in an instant all things disappeared. + (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) + The pearly lustre of the moon went out: + The mossy banks and the meandering paths, + The happy flowers and the repining trees, + Were seen no more: the very roses' odors + Died in the arms of the adoring airs. + All--all expired save thee--save less than thou: + Save only the divine light in throe eyes-- + Save but the soul in throe uplifted eyes. + I saw but them--they were the world to me. + I saw but them--saw only them for hours-- + Saw only there until the moon went down. + What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten + + Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! + How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope! + How silently serene a sea of pride! + How daring an ambition! yet how deep-- + How fathomless a capacity for love! + + But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, + Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; + And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees + Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. + They would not go--they never yet have gone. + Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, + They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. + They follow me--they lead me through the years-- + They are my ministers--yet I their slave. + Their office is to illumine and enkindle-- + My duty, to be saved by their bright light, + And purified in their electric fire, + And sanctified in their elysian fire. + They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), + And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to + In the sad, silent watches of my night; + While even in the meridian glare of day + I see them still--two sweetly scintillant + Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! + + + + +ANNABEL LEE + + It was many and many a year ago, + In a kingdom by the sea + That a maiden there lived whom you may know + By the name of ANNABEL LEE; + And this maiden she lived with no other thought + Than to love and be loved by me. + + I was a child and she was a child, + In this kingdom by the sea, + But we loved with a love that was more than love-- + I and my ANNABEL LEE-- + With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven + Coveted her and me. + + And this was the reason that, long ago, + In this kingdom by the sea, + A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling + My beautiful ANNABEL LEE; + So that her highborn kinsmen came + And bore her away from me, + To shut her up in a sepulchre + In this kingdom by the sea. + + The angels, not half so happy in heaven, + Went envying her and me-- + Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know, + In this kingdom by the sea) + That the wind came out of the cloud by night, + Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE. + + But our love it was stronger by far than the love + Of those who were older than we-- + Of many far wiser than we-- + And neither the angels in heaven above, + Nor the demons down under the sea, + Can ever dissever my soul from the soul + Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE: + + For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams + Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; + And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes + Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE: + And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side + Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride + In the sepulchre there by the sea-- + In her tomb by the sounding sea. + + + + +THE BELLS + + Hear the sledges with the bells-- + Silver bells! + What a world of merriment their melody foretells! + How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, + In the icy air of night! + While the stars that oversprinkle + All the heavens, seem to twinkle + With a crystalline delight + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells + From the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells-- + From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. + + Hear the mellow wedding bells, + Golden bells! + What a world of happiness their harmony foretell: + Through the balmy air of night + How they ring out their delight! + From the molten-golden notes, + And all in tune, + What a liquid ditty floats, + To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats + On the moon! + + Oh, from out the sounding cells, + What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! + How it swells! + How it dwells + On the Future!--how it tells + Of the rapture that impels + To the swinging and the ringing + Of the bells, bells, bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells-- + To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! + + Hear the loud alarum bells-- + Brazen bells! + What a tale of terror, now their turbulency tells! + In the startled ear of night + How they scream out their affright! + Too much horrified to speak, + They can only shriek, shriek, + Out of tune, + In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, + In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, + Leaping higher, higher, higher, + With a desperate desire, + And a resolute endeavor + Now--now to sit, or never, + By the side of the pale-faced moon. + Oh, the bells, bells, bells! + What a tale their terror tells + Of Despair! + How they clang, and clash, and roar! + What a horror they outpour + On the bosom of the palpitating air! + + Yet, the ear, it fully knows, + By the twanging, + And the clanging, + How the danger ebbs and flows; + Yet the ear distinctly tells, + In the jangling, + And the wrangling, + How the danger sinks and swells, + + By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells + Of the bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, belts, bells-- + In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! + + Hear the tolling of the bells-- + Iron bells + What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! + In the silence of the night, + How we shiver with affright + At the melancholy menace of their tone: + + For every sound that floats + From the rust within their throats + Is a groan. + And the people--ah, the people-- + They that dwell up in the steeple, + All alone, + And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, + In that muffled monotone, + Feel a glory in so rolling, + + On the human heart a stone-- + They are neither man or woman-- + They are neither brute nor human-- + They are Ghouls:-- + And their king it is who tolls:-- + And he rolls, rolls, rolls, + Rolls + A paean from the bells! + And his merry bosom swells + With the paean of the bells! + And he dances, and he yells; + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the paean of the bells:-- + Of the bells + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the throbbing of the bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells-- + To the sobbing of the bells:-- + Keeping time, time, time, + As he knells, knells, knells, + In a happy Runic rhyme, + To the rolling of the bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells:-- + To the tolling of the bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells + To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. + + + + +ELDORADO + + Gaily bedight, + A gallant knight, + In sunshine and in shadow, + Had journeyed long, + Singing a song, + In search of Eldorado. + + But he grew old-- + This knight so bold-- + And o'er his heart a shadow + Fell as he found + No spot of ground + That looked like Eldorado. + + And, as his strength + Failed him at length, + He met a pilgrim shadow-- + "Shadow," said he, + "Where can it be-- + This land of Eldorado?" + + "Over the Mountains + Of the Moon, + Down the Valley of the Shadow, + Ride, boldly ride," + The shade replied, + "If you seek for Eldorado." + + + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + + + + +HYMN TO THE NIGHT + + I heard the trailing garments of the Night + Sweep through her marble halls! + I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light + From the celestial walls! + + I felt her presence, by its spell of might, + Stoop o'er me from above; + The calm, majestic presence of the Night, + As of the one I love. + + I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, + The manifold, soft chimes, + That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, + Like some old poet's rhymes. + + From the cool cisterns of the midnight air + My spirit drank repose; + The fountain of perpetual peace flows there-- + From those deep cisterns flows. + + O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear + What man has borne before! + Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, + And they complain no more. + + Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! + Descend with broad-winged flight, + The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, + The best-beloved Night! + + + + +A PSALM OF LIFE + +WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST + + Tell me not, in mournful numbers, + "Life is but an empty dream!" + For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + + Life is real! Life is earnest! + And the grave is not its goal; + "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," + Was not spoken of the soul. + + Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, + Is our destined end or way; + But to act, that each to-morrow + Find us farther than to-day. + + Art is long, and Time is fleeting, + And our hearts, though stout and brave, + Still, like muffled drums, are beating + Funeral marches to the grave. + + In the world's broad field of battle, + In the bivouac of Life, + Be not like dumb, driven cattle; + Be a hero in the strife! + + Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant + Let the dead Past bury its dead! + Act,--act in the living Present! + Heart within, and God o'erhead! + + Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime, + And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time; + + Footprints, that perhaps another, + Sailing o'er life's solemn main, + A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, + Seeing, shall take heart again. + + Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; + Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labor and to wait. + + + + +THE SKELETON IN ARMOR + + "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! + Who, with thy hollow breast + Still in rude armor drest, + Comest to daunt me! + + Wrapt not in Eastern balms, + But with thy fleshless palms + Stretched, as if asking alms, + Why dost thou haunt me?" + + Then, from those cavernous eyes + Pale flashes seemed to rise, + As when the Northern skies + Gleam in December; + And, like the water's flow + Under December's snow, + Came a dull voice of woe + From the heart's chamber. + + "I was a Viking old! + My deeds, though manifold, + No Skald in song has told, + No Saga taught thee! + Take heed, that in thy verse + Thou dost the tale rehearse, + Else dread a dead man's curse; + For this I sought thee. + + "Far in the Northern Land, + By the wild Baltic's strand, + I, with my childish hand, + Tamed the ger-falcon; + And, with my skates fast-bound, + Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, + That the poor whimpering hound + Trembled to walk on. + + "Oft to his frozen lair + Tracked I the grisly bear, + While from my path the hare + Fled like a shadow; + Oft through the forest dark + Followed the were-wolf's bark, + Until the soaring lark + Sang from the meadow. + + "But when I older grew, + Joining a corsair's crew, + O'er the dark sea I flew + With the marauders. + Wild was the life we led; + Many the souls that sped, + Many the hearts that bled, + By our stern orders. + + "Many a wassail-bout + Wore the long Winter out; + Often our midnight shout + Set the cocks crowing, + As we the Berserk's tale + Measured in cups of ale, + Draining the oaken pail, + Filled to o'erflowing. + + "Once as I told in glee + Tales of the stormy sea, + Soft eyes did gaze on me, + Burning yet tender; + And as the white stars shine + On the dark Norway pine, + On that dark heart of mine + Fell their soft splendor. + + "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, + Yielding, yet half afraid, + And in the forest's shade + Our vows were plighted. + Under its loosened vest + Fluttered her little breast, + Like birds within their nest + By the hawk frighted. + + "Bright in her father's hall + Shields gleamed upon the wall, + Loud sang the minstrels all, + Chaunting his glory; + When of old Hildebrand + I asked his daughter's hand, + Mute did the minstrels stand + To hear my story. + + "While the brown ale he quaffed, + Loud then the champion laughed, + And as the wind-gusts waft + The sea-foam brightly, + So the loud laugh of scorn, + Out of those lips unshorn, + From the deep drinking-horn + Blew the foam lightly. + + "She was a Prince's child, + I but a Viking wild, + And though she blushed and smiled, + I was discarded! + Should not the dove so white + Follow the sea-mew's flight, + Why did they leave that night + Her nest unguarded? + + "Scarce had I put to sea, + Bearing the maid with me,-- + Fairest of all was she + Among the Norsemen!-- + When on the white sea-strand, + Waving his armed hand, + Saw we old Hildebrand, + With twenty horsemen. + + "Then launched they to the blast, + Bent like a reed each mast, + Yet we were gaining fast, + When the wind failed us; + And with a sudden flaw + Come round the gusty Skaw, + So that our foe we saw + Laugh as he hailed us. + + "And as to catch the gale + Round veered the flapping sail, + Death! was the helmsman's hail + Death without quarter! + Mid-ships with iron keel + Struck we her ribs of steel; + Down her black hulk did reel + Through the black water! + + "As with his wings aslant, + Sails the fierce cormorant, + Seeking some rocky haunt, + With his prey laden, + So toward the open main, + Beating to sea again, + Through the wild hurricane, + Bore I the maiden. + + "Three weeks we westward bore, + And when the storm was o'er, + Cloud-like we saw the shore + Stretching to lee-ward; + There for my lady's bower + Built I the lofty tower, + Which to this very hour, + Stands looking sea-ward. + + "There lived we many years; + Time dried the maiden's tears; + She had forgot her fears, + She was a mother; + Death closed her mild blue eyes, + Under that tower she lies; + Ne'er shall the sun arise + On such another! + + "Still grew my bosom then, + Still as a stagnant fen! + Hateful to me were men, + The sun-light hateful. + In the vast forest here, + Clad in my warlike gear, + Fell I upon my spear, + O, death was grateful! + + "Thus, seamed with many scars + Bursting these prison bars, + Up to its native stars + My soul ascended! + There from the flowing bowl + Deep drinks the warrior's soul, + Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" + --Thus the tale ended. + + + + +THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS + + It was the schooner Hesperus, + That sailed the wintry sea: + And the skipper had taken his little daughter, + To bear him company. + + Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, + Her cheeks like the dawn of day, + And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, + That ope in the month of May. + + The skipper he stood beside the helm, + His pipe was in his mouth, + And he watched how the veering flaw did blow + The smoke now West, now South. + + Then up and spake an old Sailor, + Had sailed the Spanish Main, + "I pray thee, put into yonder port + For I fear a hurricane. + + "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, + And to-night no moon we see!" + The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, + And a scornful laugh laughed he. + + Colder and louder blew the wind, + A gale from the Northeast; + The snow fell hissing in the brine, + And the billows frothed like yeast. + + Down came the storm, and smote amain, + The vessel in its strength; + She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, + Then leaped her cable's length, + + "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, + And do not tremble so; + For I can weather the roughest gale, + That ever wind did blow." + + He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat + Against the stinging blast; + He cut a rope from a broken spar, + And bound her to the mast. + + "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, + O say, what may it be?" + "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" + And he steered for the open sea. + + "O father! I hear the sound of guns, + O say, what may it be?" + "Some ship in distress, that cannot live + In such an angry sea!" + + "O father! I see a gleaming light, + O say, what may it be?" + But the father answered never a word, + A frozen corpse was he. + + Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, + With his face turned to the skies, + The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + + Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That saved she might be; + And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, + On the Lake of Galilee. + + And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, + Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept + Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. + + And ever the fitful gusts between, + A sound came from the land; + It was the sound of the trampling surf, + On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. + + The breakers were right beneath her bows, + She drifted a dreary wreck, + And a whooping billow swept the crew + Like icicles from her deck. + + She struck where the white and fleecy waves + Looked soft as carded wool, + But the cruel rocks, they gored her side + Like the horns of an angry bull. + + Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, + With the masts went by the board; + Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, + Ho! ho! the breakers roared! + + At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, + A fisherman stood aghast, + To see the form of a maiden fair, + Lashed close to a drifting mast. + + The salt sea was frozen on her breast, + The salt tears in her eyes; + And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, + On the billows fall and rise. + + Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, + In the midnight and the snow! + Christ save us all from a death like this, + On the reef of Norman's Woe! + + + + +THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH + + Under a spreading chestnut tree + The village smithy stands; + The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands; + And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + + His hair is crisp, and black, and long, + His face is like the tan; + His brow is wet with honest sweat, + He earns whate'er he can, + And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + + Week in, week out, from morn till night, + You can hear his bellows blow; + You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, + Like a sexton ringing the village bell, + When the evening sun is low. + + And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door; + They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, + And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing-floor. + + He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys + He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter's voice, + Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + + It sounds to him like her mother's voice, + Singing in Paradise! + He needs must think of her once more, + How in the grave she lies; + And with his hard, rough hand he wipe + A tear out of his eyes. + + Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; + Each morning sees some task begin, + Each evening sees it close; + Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night's repose. + + Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, + For the lesson thou hast taught! + Thus at the flaming forge of life + Our fortunes must be wrought; + Thus on its sounding anvil shaped + Each burning deed and thought! + + + + +IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY + +NO HAY PAJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTANO + +Spanish Proverb, + + The sun is bright,--the air is clear, + The darting swallows soar and sing, + And from the stately elms I hear + The bluebird prophesying Spring. + + So blue yon winding river flows, + It seems an outlet from the sky, + Where, waiting till the west wind blows, + The freighted clouds at anchor lie. + + All things are new;--the buds, the leaves, + That gild the elm tree's nodding crest. + And even the nest beneath the eaves; + There are no birds in last year's nest! + + All things rejoice in youth and love, + The fulness of their first delight! + And learn from the soft heavens above + The melting tenderness of night. + + Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, + Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; + Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, + For O! it is not always May! + + Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, + To some good angel leave the rest; + For Time will teach thee soon the truth, + There are no birds in last year's nest! + + + +EXCELSIOR + + The shades of night were falling fast, + As through an Alpine village passed + A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, + A banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + + His brow was sad; his eye beneath, + Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, + And like a silver clarion rung + The accents of that unknown tongue, + Excelsior! + + In happy homes he saw the light + Of household fires gleam warm and bright; + Above, the spectral glaciers shone, + And from his lips escaped a groan, + Excelsior! + + "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; + "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, + The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" + And loud that clarion voice replied, + Excelsior! + + "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest + Thy weary head upon this breast!" + A tear stood in his bright blue eye, + But still he answered, with a sigh, + Excelsior! + + "Beware the pine tree's withered branch! + Beware the awful avalanche!" + This was the peasant's last Good-night, + A voice replied, far up the height, + Excelsior! + + At break of day, as heavenward + The pious monks of Saint Bernard + Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, + A voice cried through the startled air, + Excelsior! + + A traveller, by the faithful hound, + Half-buried in the snow was found, + Still grasping in his hand of ice + That banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + + There in the twilight cold and gray, + Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, + And from the sky, serene and far, + A voice fell, like a falling star, + Excelsior! + + + + +THE RAINY DAY + + The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; + It rains, and the wind is never weary; + The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, + But at every gust the dead leaves fall, + And the day is dark and dreary. + + My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; + It rains, and the wind is never weary; + My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, + But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, + And the days are dark and dreary. + + Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; + Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; + Thy fate is the common fate of all, + Into each life some rain must fall, + Some days must be dark and dreary. + + + + +THE ARROW AND THE SONG + + I shot an arrow into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For, so swiftly it flew, the sight + Could not follow it in its flight. + + I breathed a song into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For who has sight so keen and strong, + That it can follow the flight of song? + + Long, long afterward, in an oak + I found the arrow, still unbroke; + And the song, from beginning to end, + I found again in the heart of a friend. + + + + +THE DAY IS DONE + + The day is done, and the darkness + Falls from the wings of Night, + As a feather is wafted downward + From an eagle in his flight. + + I see the lights of the village + Gleam through the rain and the mist, + And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, + That my soul cannot resist: + + A feeling of sadness and longing, + That is not akin to pain, + And resembles sorrow only + As the mist resembles the rain. + + Come, read to me some poem, + Some simple and heartfelt lay, + That shall soothe this restless feeling, + And banish the thoughts of day. + + Not from the grand old masters, + Not from the bards sublime, + Whose distant footsteps echo + Through the corridors of Time. + + For, like strains of martial music, + Their mighty thoughts suggest + Life's endless toil and endeavor; + And to-night I long for rest. + + Read from some humbler poet, + Whose songs gushed from his heart, + As showers from the clouds of summer, + Or tears from the eyelids start; + + Who, through long days of labor, + And nights devoid of ease, + Still heard in his soul the music + Of wonderful melodies. + + Such songs have power to quiet + The restless pulse of care, + And come like the benediction + That follows after prayer. + + Then read from the treasured volume + The poem of thy choice, + And lend to the rhyme of the poet + The beauty of thy voice. + + And the night shall be filled with music, + And the cares, that infest the day, + Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, + And as silently steal away. + + + + +WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE + + VOGELWEID, the Minnesinger, + When he left this world of ours, + Laid his body in the cloister, + Under Wurtzburg's minster towers. + + And he gave the monks his treasures, + Gave them all with this behest + They should feed the birds at noontide + Daily on his place of rest; + + Saying, "From these wandering minstrels + I have learned the art of song; + Let me now repay the lessons + They have taught so well and long." + + Thus the bard of love departed; + And, fulfilling his desire, + On his tomb the birds were feasted + By the children of the choir. + + Day by day, o'er tower and turret, + In foul weather and in fair, + Day by day, in vaster numbers, + Flocked the poets of the air. + + On the tree whose heavy branches + Overshadowed all the place, + On the pavement, on the tombstone; + On the poet's sculptured face, + + On the cross-bars of each window, + On the lintel of each door, + They renewed the War of Wartburg, + Which the bard had fought before. + + There they sang their merry carols, + Sang their lauds on every side; + And the name their voices uttered + Was the name of Vogelweid. + + Till at length the portly abbot + Murmured, "Why this waste of food? + Be it changed to loaves henceforward + For our fasting brotherhood." + + Then in vain o'er tower and turret, + From the walls and woodland nests, + When the minster bells rang noontide, + Gathered the unwelcome guests. + + Then in vain, with cries discordant, + Clamorous round the Gothic spire, + Screamed the feathered Minnesingers + For the children of the choir. + + Time has long effaced the inscriptions + On the cloister's funeral stones, + And tradition only tells us + Where repose the poet's bones. + + But around the vast cathedral, + By sweet echoes multiplied, + Still the birds repeat the legend, + And the name of Vogelweid. + + + + +THE BUILDERS + + All are architects of Fate, + Working in these walls of Time; + Some with massive deeds and great, + Some with ornaments of rhyme. + + Nothing useless is, or low: + Each thing in its place is best; + And what seems but idle show + Strengthens and supports the rest. + + For the structure that we raise, + Time is with materials filled; + Our to-days and yesterdays + Are the blocks with which we build. + + Truly shape and fashion these; + Leave no yawning gaps between + Think not, because no man sees, + Such things will remain unseen. + + In the elder days of Art, + Builders wrought with greatest care + Each minute and unseen part! + For the Gods see everywhere. + + Let us do our work as well, + Both the unseen and the seen; + Make the house, where Gods may dwell, + Beautiful, entire, and clean. + + Else our lives are incomplete, + Standing in these walls of Time, + Broken stairways, where the feet + Stumble as they seek to climb. + + Build to-day, then, strong and sure, + With a firm and ample base + And ascending and secure + Shall to-morrow find its place. + + Thus alone can we attain + To those turrets, where the eye + Sees the world as one vast plain, + And one boundless reach of sky. + + + + +SANTA FILOMENA + + Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, + Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, + Our hearts, in glad surprise, + To higher levels rise. + + The tidal wave of deeper souls + Into our inmost being rolls, + And lifts us unawares + Out of all meaner cares. + + Honor to those whose words or deeds + Thus help us in our daily needs, + And by their overflow + Raise us from what is low! + + Thus thought I, as by night I read + Of the great army of the dead, + The trenches cold and damp, + The starved and frozen camp, + + The wounded from the battle-plain, + In dreary hospitals of pain, + The cheerless corridors, + The cold and stony floors. + + Lo! in that house of misery + A lady with a lamp I see + Pass through the glimmering gloom, + And flit from room to room. + + And slow, as in a dream of bliss, + The speechless sufferer turns to kiss + Her shadow, as it falls + Upon the darkening walls. + + As if a door in heaven should be + Opened and then closed suddenly, + The vision came and went, + The light shone and was spent. + + On England's annals, through the long + Hereafter of her speech and song, + That light its rays shall cast + From portals of the past. + + A Lady with a Lamp shall stand + In the great history of the land, + A noble type of good, + Heroic womanhood. + + Nor even shall be wanting here + The palm, the lily, and the spear, + The symbols that of yore + Saint Filomena bore. + + + + +THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE + +A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS + + Othere, the old sea-captain, + Who dwelt in Helgoland, + To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, + Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, + Which he held in his brown right hand. + + His figure was tall and stately, + Like a boy's his eye appeared; + His hair was yellow as hay, + But threads of a silvery gray + Gleamed in his tawny beard. + + Hearty and hale was Othere, + His cheek had the color of oak; + With a kind of laugh in his speech, + Like the sea-tide on a beach, + As unto the King he spoke. + + And Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Had a book upon his knees, + And wrote down the wondrous tale + Of him who was first to sail + Into the Arctic seas. + + "So far I live to the northward, + No man lives north of me; + To the east are wild mountain-chains, + And beyond them meres and plains; + To the westward all is sea. + + "So far I live to the northward, + From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, + If you only sailed by day, + With a fair wind all the way, + More than a month would you sail. + + "I own six hundred reindeer, + With sheep and swine beside; + I have tribute from the Finns, + Whalebone and reindeer-skins, + And ropes of walrus-hide. + + "I ploughed the land with horses, + But my heart was ill at ease, + For the old seafaring men + Came to me now and then, + With their sagas of the seas; + + "Of Iceland and of Greenland + And the stormy Hebrides, + And the undiscovered deep;-- + I could not eat nor sleep + For thinking of those seas. + + "To the northward stretched the desert, + How far I fain would know; + So at last I sallied forth, + And three days sailed due north, + As far as the whale-ships go. + + "To the west of me was the ocean, + To the right the desolate shore, + But I did not slacken sail + For the walrus or the whale, + Till after three days more, + + "The days grew longer and longer, + Till they became as one, + And southward through the haze + I saw the sullen blaze + Of the red midnight sun. + + "And then uprose before me, + Upon the water's edge, + The huge and haggard shape + Of that unknown North Cape, + Whose form is like a wedge. + + "The sea was rough and stormy, + The tempest howled and wailed, + And the sea-fog, like a ghost, + Haunted that dreary coast, + But onward still I sailed. + + "Four days I steered to eastward, + Four days without a night + Round in a fiery ring + Went the great sun, O King, + With red and lurid light." + + Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Ceased writing for a while; + And raised his eyes from his book, + With a strange and puzzled look, + And an incredulous smile. + + But Othere, the old sea-captain, + He neither paused nor stirred, + Till the King listened, and then + Once more took up his pen, + And wrote down every word. + + "And now the land," said Othere, + "Bent southward suddenly, + And I followed the curving shore + And ever southward bore + Into a nameless sea. + + "And there we hunted the walrus, + The narwhale, and the seal; + Ha! 't was a noble game! + And like the lightning's flame + Flew our harpoons of steel. + + "There were six of us all together, + Norsemen of Helgoland; + In two days and no more + We killed of them threescore, + And dragged them to the strand! + + Here Alfred the Truth-Teller + Suddenly closed his book, + And lifted his blue eyes, + with doubt and strange surmise + Depicted in their look. + + And Othere the old sea-captain + Stared at him wild and weird, + Then smiled, till his shining teeth + Gleamed white from underneath + His tawny, quivering beard. + + And to the King of the Saxons, + In witness of the truth, + Raising his noble head, + He stretched his brown hand, and said, + "Behold this walrus-tooth!" + + + + +SANDALPHON + + Have you read in the Talmud of old, + In the Legends the Rabbins have told + Of the limitless realms of the air,-- + Have you read it.--the marvellous story + Of Sandalphon, te Angel of Glory, + Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? + + How, erect, at the outermost gates + Of the City Celestial he waits, + With his feet on the ladder of light, + That, crowded with angels unnumbered, + By Jacob was seen as he slumbered + Alone in the desert at night? + + The Angels of Wind and of Fire, + Chant only one hymn, and expire + With the song's irresistible stress; + Expire in their rapture and wonder, + As harp-strings are broken asunder + By music they throb to express. + + But serene in the rapturous throng, + Unmoved by the rush of the song, + With eyes unimpassioned and slow, + Among the dead angels, the deathless + Sandalphon stands listening breathless + To sounds that ascend from below;-- + + From the spirits on earth that adore, + From the souls that entreat and implore + In the fervor and passion of prayer; + From the hearts that are broken with losses, + And weary with dragging the crosses + Too heavy for mortals to bear. + + And he gathers the prayers as he stands, + And they change into flowers in his hands, + Into garlands of purple and red; + And beneath the great arch of the portal, + Through the streets of the City Immortal + Is wafted the fragrance they shed. + + It is but a legend, I know,-- + A fable, a phantom, a show, + Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; + Yet the old mediaeval tradition, + The beautiful, strange superstition + But haunts me and holds me the more. + + When I look from my window at night, + And the welkin above is all white, + All throbbing and panting with stars, + Among them majestic is standing + Sandalphon the angel, expanding + His pinions in nebulous bars. + + And the legend, I feel, is a part + Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, + The frenzy and fire of the brain, + That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, + The golden pomegranates of Eden, + To quiet its fever and pain. + + + + +THE LANDLORD'S TALE + +PAUL REVERES RIDE + + Listen, my children, and you shall hear + Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, + On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; + Hardly a man is now alive + Who remembers that famous day and year. + + He said to his friend, "If the British march + By land or sea from the town to-night, + Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch + Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-- + One, if by land, and two, if by sea; + And I on the opposite shore will be, + Ready to ride and spread the alarm + Through every Middlesex village and farm, + For the country-folk to be up and to arm." + + Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar + Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, + Just as the moon rose over the bay, + Where swinging wide at her moorings lay + The Somerset, British man-of-war; + A phantom ship, with each mast and spar + Across the moon like a prison bar, + And a huge black hulk that was magnified + By its own reflection in the tide. + + Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, + Wanders and watches with eager ears, + Till in the silence around him he hears + The muster of men at the barrack door, + The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, + And the measured tread of the grenadiers, + Marching down to their boats on the shore. + + Then he climbed to the tower of the church, + Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, + To the belfry-chamber overhead, + And startled the pigeons from their perch + On the sombre rafters, that round him made + Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- + Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, + To the highest window in the wall, + Where he paused to listen and look down + A moment on the roofs of the town, + And the moonlight flowing over all. + Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, + In their night-encampment on the hill, + Wrapped in silence so deep and still + That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, + The watchful night-wind, as it went + Creeping along from tent to tent, + And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" + A moment only he feels the spell + Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread + Of the lonely belfry and the dead; + For suddenly all his thoughts are bent + On a shadowy something far away, + Where the river widens to meet the bay, + A line of black that bends and floats + On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. + + Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, + Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride + On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. + Now he patted his horse's side, + Now gazed at the landscape far and near, + Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, + And turned and tightened his saddlegirth; + But mostly he watched with eager search + The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, + As it rose above the graves on the hill, + Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. + And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height + A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! + He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, + But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight + A second lamp in the belfry burns! + + A hurry of hoofs in a village street, + A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, + And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark + Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; + That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, + The fate of a nation was riding that night; + And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, + Kindled the land into flame with its heat. + + He has left the village and mounted the steep, + And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, + Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; + And under the alders, that skirt its edge, + Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, + Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. + It was twelve by the village clock + When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. + He heard the crowing of the cock, + And the barking of the farmer's dog, + And felt the damp of the river fog, + That rises after the sun goes down. + + It was one by the village clock, + When he galloped into Lexington. + He saw the gilded weathercock + Swim in the moonlight as he passed, + And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, + Gaze at him with a spectral glare, + As if they already stood aghast + At the bloody work they would look upon. + + It was two by the village clock, + When he came to the bridge in Concord town. + He heard the bleating of the flock, + And the twitter of birds among the trees, + And felt the breath of the morning breeze + Blowing over the meadows brown. + And one was safe and asleep in his bed + Who at the bridge would be first to fall, + Who that day would be lying dead, + Pierced by a British musket-ball. + + You know the rest. + In the books you have read, + How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- + How the farmers gave them ball for ball, + From behind each fence and farmyard wall, + Chasing the red-coats down the lane, + Then crossing the fields to emerge again + Under the trees at the turn of the road, + And only pausing to fire and load. + + So through the night rode Paul Revere; + And so through the night went his cry of alarm + To every Middlesex village and farm, + A cry of defiance and not of fear, + A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, + And a word that shall echo forevermore! + For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, + Through all our history, to the last, + In the hour of darkness and peril and need, + The people will waken and listen to hear + The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, + And the midnight message of Paul Revere. + + + + +THE SICILIAN'S TALE + +KING ROBERT OF SICILY + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Apparelled in magnificent attire, + With retinue of many a knight and squire, + On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat + And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. + And as he listened, o'er and o'er again + Repeated, like a burden or refrain, + He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes + De sede, et exaltavit humiles;" + And slowly lifting up his kingly head + He to a learned clerk beside him said, + "What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet, + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree." + Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, + "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung + Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; + For unto priests and people be it known, + There is no power can push me from my throne!" + And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, + Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. + + When he awoke, it was already night; + The church was empty, and there was no light, + Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, + Lighted a little space before some saint. + He started from his seat and gazed around, + But saw no living thing and heard no sound. + He groped towards the door, but it was locked; + He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, + And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, + And imprecations upon men and saints. + The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls + As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls! + + At length the sexton, hearing from without + The tumult of the knocking and the shout, + And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, + Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?" + Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, + "Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?" + The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, + "This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!" + Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; + A man rushed by him at a single stride, + Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, + Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, + But leaped into the blackness of the night, + And vanished like a spectre from his sight. + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Despoiled of his magnificent attire, + Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, + With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, + Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; + Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage + To right and left each seneschal and page, + And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, + His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. + From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; + Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, + Until at last he reached the banquet--room, + Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. + + There on the dais sat another king, + Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, + King Robert's self in features, form, and height, + But all transfigured with angelic light! + It was an Angel; and his presence there + With a divine effulgence filled the air, + An exaltation, piercing the disguise, + Though none the hidden Angel recognize. + + A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, + The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, + Who met his looks of anger and surprise + With the divine compassion of his eves; + Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?" + To which King Robert answered with a sneer, + "I am the King, and come to claim my own + From an impostor, who usurps my throne!" + And suddenly, at these audacious words, + Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; + The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, + "Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou + Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, + And for thy counsellor shaft lead an ape; + Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, + And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!" + + Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, + They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; + A group of tittering pages ran before, + And as they opened wide the folding-door, + His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, + The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, + And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring + With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King! + + Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, + He said within himself, "It was a dream!" + But the straw rustled as he turned his head, + There were the cap and bells beside his bed, + Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, + Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, + And in the corner, a revolting shape, + Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. + It was no dream; the world he loved so much + Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! + + Days came and went; and now returned again + To Sicily the old Saturnian reign + Under the Angel's governance benign + The happy island danced with corn and wine, + And deep within the mountain's burning breast + Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. + + Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, + Sullen and silent and disconsolate. + Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, + With looks bewildered and a vacant stare, + Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, + By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, + His only friend the ape, his only food + What others left,--he still was unsubdued. + And when the Angel met him on his way, + And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, + Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel + The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, + "Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe + Burst from him in resistless overflow, + And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling + The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the King!" + + Almost three years were ended; when there came + Ambassadors of great repute and name + From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine. + Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane + By letter summoned them forthwith to come + On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. + The Angel with great joy received his guests, + And gave them presents of embroidered vests, + And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, + And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. + Then he departed with them o'er the sea + Into the lovely land of Italy, + Whose loveliness was more resplendent made + By the mere passing of that cavalcade, + With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir + Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. + And lo! among the menials, in mock state, + Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, + His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, + The solemn ape demurely perched behind, + King Robert rode, making huge merriment + In all the country towns through which they went. + + The Pope received them with great pomp and blare + Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, + Giving his benediction and embrace, + Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. + While with congratulations and with prayers + He entertained the Angel unawares, + Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, + Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, + "I am the King! Look, and behold in me + Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! + This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, + Is an impostor in a king's disguise. + + Do you not know me? does no voice within + Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" + The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, + Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene; + The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport + To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!" + And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace + Was hustled back among the populace. + + In solemn state the Holy Week went by, + And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; + The presence of the Angel, with its light, + Before the sun rose, made the city bright, + And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, + Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. + Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, + With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, + He felt within a power unfelt before, + And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, + He heard the rushing garments of the Lord + Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. + + And now the visit ending, and once more + Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, + Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again + The land was made resplendent with his train, + Flashing along the towns of Italy + Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. + And when once more within Palermo's wall, + And, seated on the throne in his great hall, + He heard the Angelus from convent towers, + As if the better world conversed with ours, + He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, + And with a gesture bade the rest retire; + And when they were alone, the Angel said, + "Art thou the King?" Then bowing down his head, + King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, + And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best! + My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, + And in some cloister's school of penitence, + Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, + Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!" + + The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face + A holy light illumined all the place, + And through the open window, loud and clear, + They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, + Above the stir and tumult of the street + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree!" + And through the chant a second melody + Rose like the throbbing of a single string + "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!" + + King Robert, who was standing near the throne, + Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! + But all apparelled as in days of old, + With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; + And when his courtiers came, they found him there + Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. + + + + +THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE + +THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL + + "HADST thou stayed, I must have fled!" + That is what the Vision said. + + In his chamber all alone, + Kneeling on the floor of stone, + Prayed the Monk in deep contrition + For his sins of indecision, + Prayed for greater self-denial + In temptation and in trial; + It was noonday by the dial, + And the Monk was all alone. + + Suddenly, as if it lightened, + An unwonted splendor brightened + All within him and without him + In that narrow cell of stone; + And he saw the Blessed Vision + Of our Lord, with light Elysian + Like a vesture wrapped about Him, + Like a garment round Him thrown. + + Not as crucified and slain, + Not in agonies of pain, + Not with bleeding hands and feet, + Did the Monk his Master see; + But as in the village street, + In the house or harvest-field, + Halt and lame and blind He healed, + When He walked in Galilee. + + In an attitude imploring, + Hands upon his bosom crossed, + Wondering, worshipping, adoring, + Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. + Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, + Who am I, that thus thou deignest + To reveal thyself to me? + Who am I, that from the centre + Of thy glory thou shouldst enter + This poor cell, my guest to be? + + Then amid his exaltation, + Loud the convent bell appalling, + From its belfry calling, calling, + Rang through court and corridor + With persistent iteration + He had never heard before. + It was now the appointed hour + When alike in shine or shower, + Winter's cold or summer's heat, + To the convent portals came + All the blind and halt and lame, + All the beggars of the street, + For their daily dole of food + Dealt them by the brotherhood; + And their almoner was he + Who upon his bended knee, + Rapt in silent ecstasy + Of divinest self-surrender, + Saw the Vision and the Splendor. + Deep distress and hesitation + Mingled with his adoration; + Should he go or should he stay? + Should he leave the poor to wait + Hungry at the convent gate, + Till the Vision passed away? + Should he slight his radiant guest, + Slight this visitant celestial, + For a crowd of ragged, bestial + Beggars at the convent gate? + Would the Vision there remain? + Would the Vision come again? + Then a voice within his breast + Whispered, audible and clear + As if to the outward ear + "Do thy duty; that is best; + Leave unto thy Lord the rest!" + + Straightway to his feet he started, + And with longing look intent + On the Blessed Vision bent, + Slowly from his cell departed, + Slowly on his errand went. + + At the gate the poor were waiting, + Looking through the iron grating, + With that terror in the eye + That is only seen in those + Who amid their wants and woes + Hear the sound of doors that close, + And of feet that pass them by; + Grown familiar with disfavor, + Grown familiar with the savor + Of the bread by which men die! + + But to-day, they know not why, + Like the gate of Paradise + Seemed the convent gate to rise, + Like a sacrament divine + Seemed to them the bread and wine. + In his heart the Monk was praying, + Thinking of the homeless poor, + What they suffer and endure; + What we see not, what we see; + And the inward voice was saying + "Whatsoever thing thou doest + To the least of mine and lowest, + That thou doest unto me!" + + Unto me! but had the Vision + Come to him in beggar's clothing, + Come a mendicant imploring. + Would he then have knelt adoring, + Or have listened with derision, + And have turned away with loathing? + + Thus his conscience put the question, + Full of troublesome suggestion, + As at length, with hurried pace, + Towards his cell he turned his face, + And beheld the convent bright + With a supernatural light, + Like a luminous cloud expanding + Over floor and wall and ceiling. + + But he paused with awe-struck feeling + At the threshold of his door, + For the Vision still was standing + As he left it there before, + When the convent bell appalling, + From its belfry calling, calling, + Summoned him to feed the poor. + Through the long hour intervening + It had waited his return, + And he felt his bosom burn, + Comprehending all the meaning, + When the Blessed Vision said, + "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" + + + + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + + + + +PROEM +To EDITION of 1847 + + I love the old melodious lays + Which softly melt the ages through, + The songs of Spenser's golden days, + Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, + Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. + + Yet, vainly in my quiet hours + To breathe their marvellous notes I try; + I feel them, as the leaves and flowers + In silence feel the dewy showers, + And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky. + + The rigor of a frozen clime, + The harshness of an untaught ear, + The jarring words of one whose rhyme + Beat often Labor's hurried time, + Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. + + Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, + No rounded art the lack supplies; + Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, + Or softer shades of Nature's face, + I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. + + Nor mine the seer-like power to show + The secrets of the hear and mind; + To drop the plummet-line below + Our common world of joy and woe, + A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. + + Yet here at least an earnest sense + Of human right and weal is shown; + A hate of tyranny intense, + And hearty in its vehemence, + As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. + + O Freedom! if to me belong + Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, + Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, + Still with a love as deep and strong + As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine! + + + + +THE FROST SPIRIT + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! You + may trace his footsteps now + On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown + hill's withered brow. + He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their + pleasant green came forth, + And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken + them down to earth. + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--from + the frozen Labrador,-- + From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white + bear wanders o'er,-- + Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless + forms below + In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues + grow! + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--on the + rushing Northern blast, + And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful + breath went past. + With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires + of Hecla glow + On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below. + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--and + the quiet lake shall feel + The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the + skater's heel; + And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang + to the leaning grass, + Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful + silence pass. + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--let us + meet him as we may, + And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil + power away; + And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light + dances high, + And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding + wing goes by! + + + + +SONGS OF LABOR + +DEDICATION + + I would the gift I offer here + Might graces from thy favor take, + And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere, + On softened lines and coloring, wear + The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake. + + Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain + But what I have I give to thee,-- + The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain, + And paler flowers, the latter rain + Calls from the weltering slope of life's autumnal + + Above the fallen groves of green, + Where youth's enchanted forest stood, + Dry root and mossed trunk between, + A sober after-growth is seen, + As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple wood! + + Yet birds will sing, and breezes play + Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree, + And through the bleak and wintry day + It keeps its steady green alway,-- + So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee. + + Art's perfect forms no moral need, + And beauty is its own excuse; + But for the dull and flowerless weed + Some healing virtue still must plead, + And the rough ore must find its honors in its use. + + So haply these, my simple lays + Of homely toil, may serve to show + The orchard bloom and tasseled maize + That skirt and gladden duty's ways, + The unsung beauty hid life's common things below. + + Haply from them the toiler, bent + Above his forge or plough, may gain + A manlier spirit of content, + And feel that life is wisest spent + Where the strong working hand makes strong the working brain. + + The doom which to the guilty pair + Without the walls of Eden came, + Transforming sinless ease to care + And rugged toil, no more shall bear + The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. + + A blessing now,--a curse no more; + Since He whose name we breathe with awe. + The coarse mechanic vesture wore, + A poor man toiling with the poor, + In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law. + + + + +THE LUMBERMEN + + Wildly round our woodland quarters, + Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; + Thickly down these swelling waters + Float his fallen leaves. + Through the tall and naked timber, + Column-like and old, + Gleam the sunsets of November, + From their skies of gold. + + O'er us, to the southland heading, + Screams the gray wild-goose; + On the night-frost sounds the treading + Of the brindled moose. + Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, + Frost his task-work plies; + Soon, his icy bridges heaping, + Shall our log-piles rise. + + When, with sounds of smothered thunder, + On some night of rain, + Lake and river break asunder + Winter's weakened chain, + Down the wild March flood shall bear them + To the saw-mill's wheel, + Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them + With his teeth of steel. + + Be it starlight, be it moonlight, + In these vales below, + When the earliest beams of sunlight + Streak the mountain's snow, + Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early, + To our hurrying feet, + And the forest echoes clearly + All our blows repeat. + + Where the crystal Ambijejis + Stretches broad and clear, + And Millnoket's pine-black ridges + Hide the browsing deer: + Where, through lakes and wide morasses, + Or through rocky walls, + Swift and strong, Penobscot passes + White with foamy falls; + + Where, through clouds, are glimpses given + Of Katahdin's sides,-- + Rock and forest piled to heaven, + Torn and ploughed by slides! + Far below, the Indian trapping, + In the sunshine warm; + Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping + Half the peak in storm! + + Where are mossy carpets better + Than the Persian weaves, + And than Eastern perfumes sweeter + Seem the fading leaves; + And a music wild and solemn + From the pine-tree's height, + Rolls its vast and sea-like volumes + On the wind of night; + + Not for us the measured ringing + From the village spire, + Not for us the Sabbath singing + Of the sweet-voiced choir + Ours the old, majestic temple, + Where God's brightness shines + Down the dome so grand and ample, + Propped by lofty pines! + + Keep who will the city's alleys, + Take the smooth-shorn plain,-- + Give to us the cedar valleys, + Rocks and hills of Maine! + In our North-land, wild and woody, + Let us still have part: + Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, + Hold us to thy heart! + + O, our free hearts beat the warmer + For thy breath of snow; + And our tread is all the firmer + For thy rocks below. + Freedom, hand in hand with labor, + Walketh strong and brave; + On the forehead of his neighbor + No man writeth Slave! + + Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's + Pine-trees show its fires, + While from these dim forest gardens + Rise their blackened spires. + Up, my comrades! up and doing! + Manhood's rugged play + Still renewing, bravely hewing + Through the world our way! + + + + +BARCLAY OF URY + + Up the streets of Aberdeen, + By the kick and college green, + Rode the Laird of Ury; + Close behind him, close beside, + Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, + Pressed the mob in fury. + + Flouted him the drunken churl, + Jeered at him the serving-girl, + Prompt to please her master; + And the begging carlin, late + Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, + Cursed him as he passed her. + + Yet, with calm and stately mien, + Up the streets of Aberdeen + Came he slowly riding; + And, to all he saw and heard, + Answering not with bitter word, + Turning not for chiding. + + Came a troop with broadswords swinging, + Bits and bridles sharply ringing, + Loose and free and froward; + Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! + Push him! prick him! through the town + Drive the Quaker coward!" + + But from out the thickening crowd + Cried a sudden voice and loud + "Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!" + And the old man at his side + Saw a comrade, battle tried, + Scarred and sunburned darkly; + + Who with ready weapon bare, + Fronting to the troopers there, + Cried aloud: "God save us, + Call ye coward him who stood + Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood, + With the brave Gustavus?" + + "Nay, I do not need thy sword, + Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; + "Put it up, I pray thee: + Passive to His holy will, + Trust I in my Master still, + Even though He slay me. + + "Pledges of thy love and faith, + Proved on many a field of death, + Not, by me are needed." + Marvelled much that henchman bold, + That his laud, so stout of old, + Now so meekly pleaded. + + "Woe's the day!" he sadly said, + With a slowly shaking head, + And a look of pity; + "Ury's honest lord reviled, + Mock of knave and sport of child, + In his own good city! + + "Speak the word, and, master mine, + As we charged on Tilly's line, + And his Walloon lancers, + Smiting through their midst we'll teach + Civil look and decent speech + To these boyish prancers!" + + "Marvel not, mine ancient friend, + Like beginning, like the end:" + Quoth the Laird of Ury, + "Is the sinful servant more + Than his gracious Lord who bore + Bonds and stripes in Jewry? + + "Give me joy that in His name + I can bear, with patient frame, + All these vain ones offer; + While for them He suffereth long, + Shall I answer wrong with wrong, + Scoffing with the scoffer? + + "Happier I, with loss of all, + Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, + With few friends to greet me, + Than when reeve and squire were seen, + Riding out from Aberdeen, + With bared heads to meet me. + + "When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, + Blessed me as I passed her door; + And the snooded daughter, + Through her casement glancing down, + Smiled on him who bore renown + From red fields of slaughter. + + "Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, + Hard the old friend's falling off, + Hard to learn forgiving; + But the Lord His own rewards, + And His love with theirs accords, + Warm and fresh and living. + + "Through this dark and stormy night + Faith beholds a feeble light + Up the blackness streaking; + Knowing God's own time is best, + In a patient hope I rest + For the full day-breaking!" + + So the Laird of Ury said, + Turning slow his horse's head + Toward the Tolbooth prison, + Where, through iron grates, he heard + Poor disciples of the Word + Preach of Christ arisen! + + Plot in vain, Confessor old, + Unto us the tale is told + Of thy day of trial; + Every age on him who strays + From its broad and beaten ways + Pours its sevenfold vial. + + Happy he whose inward ear + Angel comfortings can hear, + O'er the rabble's laughter; + And, while Hatred's fagots burn, + Glimpses through the smoke discern + Of the good hereafter. + + Knowing this, that never yet + Share of Truth was vainly set + In the world's wide fallow; + After hands shall sow the seed, + After hands from hill and mead + Reap the harvest yellow. + + Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, + Must the moral pioneer + From the Future borrow; + Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, + And, on midnight's sky of rain, + Paint the golden morrow! + + + + +ALL'S WELL + + The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake + Our thirsty souls with rain; + The blow most dreaded falls to break + From off our limbs a chain; + And wrongs of man to man but make + The love of God more plain. + As through the shadowy lens of even + The eye looks farthest into heaven + On gleams of star and depths of blue + The glaring sunshine never knew! + + + + +RAPHAEL + + I shall not soon forget that sight: + The glow of autumn's westering day, + A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, + On Raphael's picture lay. + + It was a simple print I saw, + The fair face of a musing boy; + Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe + Seemed blending with my joy. + + A simple print:--the graceful flow + Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, + And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow + Unmarked and clear, were there. + + Yet through its sweet and calm repose + I saw the inward spirit shine; + It was as if before me rose + The white veil of a shrine. + + As if, as Gothland's sage has told, + The hidden life, the man within, + Dissevered from its frame and mould, + By mortal eye were seen. + + Was it the lifting of that eye, + The waving of that pictured hand? + Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, + I saw the walls expand. + + The narrow room had vanished,--space, + Broad, luminous, remained alone, + Through which all hues and shapes of grace + And beauty looked or shone. + + Around the mighty master came + The marvels which his pencil wrought, + Those miracles of power whose fame + Is wide as human thought. + + There drooped thy more than mortal face, + O Mother, beautiful and mild! + Enfolding in one dear embrace + Thy Saviour and thy Child! + + The rapt brow of the Desert John; + The awful glory of that day + When all the Father's brightness shone + Through manhood's veil of clay. + + And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild + Dark visions of the days of old, + How sweetly woman's beauty smiled + Through locks of brown and gold! + + There Fornarina's fair young face + Once more upon her lover shone, + Whose model of an angel's grace + He borrowed from her own. + + Slow passed that vision from my view, + But not the lesson which it taught; + The soft, calm shadows which it threw + Still rested on my thought + + The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, + Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, + Plant for their deathless heritage + The fruits and flowers of time. + + We shape ourselves the joy or fear + Of which the coming life is made, + And fill our Future's atmosphere + With sunshine or with shade. + + The tissue of the Life to be + We weave with colors all our own, + And in the field of Destiny + We reap as we have sown. + + Still shall the soul around it call + The shadows which it gathered here, + And, painted on the eternal wall, + The Past shall reappear. + + Think ye the notes of holy song + On Milton's tuneful ear have died? + Think ye that Raphael's angel throng + Has vanished from his side? + + O no!--We live our life again + Or warmly touched, or coldly dim, + The pictures of the Past remain,-- + Man's works shall follow him! + + + + +SEED-TIME AND HARVEST + + As o'er his furrowed fields which lie + Beneath a coldly-dropping sky, + Yet chill with winter's melted snow, + The husbandman goes forth to sow, + + Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast + The ventures of thy seed we cast, + And trust to warmer sun and rain + To swell the germ, and fill the grain. + + Who calls thy glorious service hard? + Who deems it not its own reward? + Who, for its trials, counts it less + A cause of praise and thankfulness? + + It may not be our lot to wield + The sickle in the ripened field; + Nor ours to hear, on summer eves, + The reaper's song among the sheaves. + + Yet where our duty's task is wrought + In unison with God's great thought, + The near and future blend in one, + And whatsoe'er is willed, is done! + + And ours the grateful service whence + Comes, day by day, the recompense; + The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed, + The fountain and the noonday shade. + + And were this life the utmost span, + The only end and aim of man, + Better the toil of fields like these + Than waking dream and slothful ease. + + But life, though falling like our grain, + Like that revives and springs again; + And, early called, how blest are they + Who wait in heaven their harvest-day! + + + + +THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL + +1697 + + Up and gown the village streets + Strange are the forms my fancy meets, + For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid, + And through the veil of a closed lid + The ancient worthies I see again: + I hear the tap of the elder's cane, + And his awful periwig I see, + And the silver buckles of shoe and knee. + Stately and slow, with thoughtful air, + His black cap hiding his whitened hair, + Walks the Judge of the great Assize, + Samuel Sewall the good and wise. + His face with lines of firmness wrought, + He wears the look of a man unbought, + Who swears to his hurt and changes not; + Yet, touched and softened nevertheless + With the grace of Christian gentleness, + The face that a child would climb to kiss! + True and tender and brave and just, + That man might honor and woman trust. + + Touching and sad, a tale is told, + Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist old, + Of the fast which the good man lifelong kept + With a haunting sorrow that never slept, + As the circling year brought round the time + Of an error that left the sting of crime, + When he sat on the bunch of the witchcraft courts, + With the laws of Moses and Hales Reports, + And spake, in the name of both, the word + That gave the witch's neck to the cord, + And piled the oaken planks that pressed + The feeble life from the warlock's breast! + All the day long, from dawn to dawn, + His door was bolted, his curtain drawn; + No foot on his silent threshold trod, + No eye looked on him save that of God, + As he baffled the ghosts of the dead with charms + Of penitent tears, and prayers, and psalms, + And, with precious proofs from the sacred word + Of the boundless pity and love of the Lord, + His faith confirmed and his trust renewed + That the sin of his ignorance, sorely rued, + Might be washed away in the mingled flood + Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear blood! + + Green forever the memory be + Of the Judge of the old Theocracy, + Whom even his errors glorified, + Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain-side + By the cloudy shadows which o'er it glide! + Honor and praise to the Puritan + Who the halting step of his age outran, + And, seeing the infinite worth of man + In the priceless gift the Father gave, + In the infinite love that stooped to save, + Dared not brand his brother a slave! + "Who doth such wrong," he was wont to say, + In his own quaint, picture-loving way, + "Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade + Which God shall cast down upon his head!" + + Widely as heaven and hell, contrast + That brave old jurist of the past + And the cunning trickster and knave of courts + Who the holy features of Truth distorts,-- + Ruling as right the will of the strong, + Poverty, crime, and weakness wrong; + Wide-eared to power, to the wronged and weak + Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek; + Scoffing aside at party's nod, + Order of nature and law of God; + For whose dabbled ermine respect were waste, + Reverence folly, and awe misplaced; + Justice of whom 't were vain to seek + As from Koordish robber or Syrian Sheik! + O, leave the wretch to his bribes and sins; + Let him rot in the web of lies he spins! + To the saintly soul of the early day, + To the Christian judge, let us turn and say + "Praise and thanks for an honest man!-- + Glory to God for the Puritan!" + + I see, far southward, this quiet day, + The hills of Newbury rolling away, + With the many tints of the season gay, + Dreamily blending in autumn mist + Crimson, and gold, and amethyst. + Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned, + Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, + A stone's toss over the narrow sound. + Inland, as far as the eye can go, + The hills curve round like a bonded bow; + A silver arrow from out them sprung, + I see the shine of the Quasycung; + And, round and round, over valley and hill, + Old roads winding, as old roads will, + Here to a ferry, and there to a mill; + And glimpses of chimneys and gabled eaves, + Through green elm arches and maple leaves,-- + Old homesteads sacred to all that can + Gladden or sadden the heart of man,-- + Over whose thresholds of oak and stone + Life and Death have come and gone! + There pictured tiles in the fireplace show, + Great beams sag from the ceiling low, + The dresser glitters with polished wares, + The long clock ticks on the foot-worn stairs, + And the low, broad chimney shows the crack + By the earthquake made a century back. + Lip from their midst springs the collage spire + With the crest of its cock in the sun afire; + Beyond are orchards and planting lands, + And great salt marshes and glimmering sands, + And, where north and south the coast-lines run, + The blink of the sea in breeze and sun! + + I see it all like a chart unrolled, + But my thoughts are full of the past and old, + I hear the tales of my boyhood told; + And the shadows and shapes of early days + Flit dimly by in the veiling haze, + With measured movement and rhythmic chime + Weaving like shuttles my web of rhyme. + I think of the old man wise and good + Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, + (A poet who never measured rhyme, + A seer unknown to his dull-eared time,) + And, propped on his staff of age, looked down, + With his boyhood's love, on his native town, + Where, written, as if on its hills and plains, + His burden of prophecy yet remains, + For the voices of wood, and wave, and wind + To read in the ear of the musing mind:-- + + "As long as Plum Island, to guard the coast + As God appointed, shall keep its post; + As long as a salmon shall haunt the deep + Of Merrimack River, or sturgeon leap; + As long as pickerel swift and slim, + Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim; + As long as the annual sea-fowl know + Their time to come and their time to go; + As long as cattle shall roam at will + The green, grass meadows by Turkey Hill; + As long as sheep shall look from the side + Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide, + And Parker River, and salt-sea tide; + As long as a wandering pigeon shall search + The fields below from his white-oak perch, + When the barley-harvest is ripe and shorn, + And the dry husks fall from the standing corn; + As long as Nature shall not grow old, + Nor drop her work from her doting hold, + And her care for the Indian corn forget, + And the yellow rows in pairs to set;-- + So long shall Christians here be born, + Grow up and ripen as God's sweet corn!-- + By the beak of bird, by the breath of frost + Shall never a holy ear be lost, + But husked by Death in the Planter's sight, + Be sown again m the fields of light!" + + The Island still is purple with plums, + Up the river the salmon comes, + The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl feeds + On hillside berries and marish seeds,-- + All the beautiful signs remain, + From spring-time sowing to autumn rain + The good man's vision returns again! + And let us hope, as well we can, + That the Silent Angel who garners man + May find some grain as of old he found + In the human cornfield ripe and sound, + And the Lord of the Harvest deign to own + The precious seed by the fathers sown! + + + + +SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE + + Of all the rides since the birth of time, + Told in story or sung in rhyme,-- + On Apuleius's Golden Ass, + Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, + Witch astride of a human back, + Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,-- + The strangest ride that ever was sped + Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Body of turkey, head of owl, + Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, + Feathered and ruffled in every part, + Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. + Scores of women, old and young, + Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, + Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, + Shouting and singing the shrill refrain + "Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, + Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, + Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase + Bacchus round some antique vase, + Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, + Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, + + With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang. + Over and over the Maenads sang: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Small pity for him!--He sailed away + From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,-- + Sailed away from a sinking wreck, + With his own town's-people on her deck! + "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. + Back he answered, "Sink or swim! + Brag of your catch of fish again!" + And off he sailed through the fog and rain! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur + That wreck shall lie forevermore. + Mother and sister, wife and maid, + Looked from the rocks of Marblehead + Over the moaning and rainy sea,-- + Looked for the coming that might not be! + What did the winds and the sea-birds say + Of the cruel captain who sailed away?-- + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Through the street, on either side, + Up flew windows, doors swung wide; + Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, + Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. + Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, + Hulks of old sailors run aground, + Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, + And cracked with curses the old refrain: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead! + + Sweetly along the Salem road + Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. + Little the wicked skipper knew + Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. + Riding there in his sorry trim, + Like an Indian idol glum and grim, + Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear + Of voices shouting, far and near: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,"-- + What to me is this noisy ride? + What is the shame that clothes the skin + To the nameless horror that lives within? + Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, + And hear a cry from a reeling deck! + Hate me and curse me,--I only dread + The hand of God and the face of the dead!" + Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea + Said, God has touched him! why should we?" + Said an old wife mourning her only son, + "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" + So with soft relentings and rude excuse, + Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, + And gave him a cloak to hide him in, + And left him alone with his shame and sin. + Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + + + +THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY + + Far away in the twilight time + Of every people, in every clime, + Dragons and griffins and monsters dire, + Born of water, and air, and fire, + Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud + And ooze of the old Deucalion flood, + Crawl and wriggle and foam with rage, + Through dusk tradition and ballad age. + So from the childhood of Newbury town + And its time of fable the tale comes down + Of a terror which haunted bush and brake, + The Amphisbaena, the Double Snake! + + Thou who makest the tale thy mirth, + Consider that strip of Christian earth + On the desolate shore of a sailless sea, + Full of terror and mystery, + Half-redeemed from the evil hold + Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old, + Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew + When Time was young, and the world was new, + And wove its shadows with sun and moon, + Ere the stones of Cheops were squared and hewn. + + Think of the sea's dread monotone, + Of the mournful wail from the pine-wood blown, + Of the strange, vast splendors that lit the North, + Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth, + And the dismal tales the Indian told, + Till the settler's heart at his hearth grew cold, + And he shrank from the tawny wizard's boasts, + And the hovering shadows seemed full of ghosts, + And above, below, and on every side, + The fear of his creed seemed verified;-- + And think, if his lot were now thine own, + To grope with terrors nor named nor known, + How laxer muscle and weaker nerve + And a feebler faith thy need might serve; + And own to thyself the wonder more + That the snake had two heads, and not a score! + + Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fen + Or the gray earth-flax of the Devil's Den, + Or swam in the wooded Artichoke, + Or coiled by the Northman's Written Rock, + Nothing on record is left to show; + Only the fact that he lived, we know, + And left the cast of a double head + in the scaly mask which he yearly shed. + For he earned a head where his tail should be, + And the two, of course, could never agree, + But wriggled about with main and might, + Now to the left and now to the right; + Pulling and twisting this way and that, + Neither knew what the other was at. + + A snake with two heads, lurking so near!-- + Judge of the wonder, guess at the fear! + Think what ancient gossips might say, + Shaking their heads in their dreary way, + Between the meetings on Sabbath-day! + How urchins, searching at day's decline + The Common Pasture for sheep or kine, + The terrible double-ganger heard + In the leafy rustle or whir of bird! + Think what a zest it gave to the sport, + In berry-time, of the younger sort, + As over pastures blackberry-twined, + Reuben and Dorothy lagged behind, + And closer and closer, for fear of harm, + The maiden clung to her lover's arm; + And how the spark, who was forced to stay, + By his sweetheart's fears, till the break of day, + Thanked the snake for the fond delay! + + Far and wide the tale was told, + Like a snowball growing while it rolled. + The nurse hushed with it the baby's cry; + And it served, in the worthy minister's eye, + To paint the primitive serpent by. + Cotton Mather came galloping down + All the way to Newbury town, + With his eyes agog and his ears set wide, + And his marvellous inkhorn at his side; + Stirring the while in the shallow pool + Of his brains for the lore he learned at school, + To garnish the story, with here a streak + Of Latin, and there another of Greek: + And the tales he heard and the notes he took, + Behold! are they not in his Wonder-Book? + + Stories, like dragons, are hard to kill. + If the snake does not, the tale runs still + In Byfield Meadows, on Pipestave Hill. + And still, whenever husband and wife + Publish the shame of their daily strife, + And, with mid cross-purpose, tug and strain + At either end of the marriage-chain, + The gossips say, with a knowing shake + Of their gray heads, "Look at the Double Snake! + One in body and two in will, + The Amphisbaena is living still!" + + + + +MAUD MULLER + + MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, + Raked the meadow sweet with hay. + + Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth + Of simple beauty and rustic health. + + Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee + The mock-bird echoed from his tree. + + But when she glanced to the far-off town, + White from its hill-slope looking down, + + The sweet song died, and a vague unrest + And a nameless longing filled her breast, + + A wish, that she hardly dared to own, + For something better than she had known. + + The Judge rode slowly down the lane, + Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. + + He drew his bridle in the shade + Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, + + And ask a draught from the spring that flowed + Through the meadow across the road. + + She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, + And filled for him her small tin cup, + + And blushed as she gave it, looking down + On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. + + "Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught + From a fairer hand was never quaffed." + + He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, + Of the singing birds and the humming bees; + + Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether + The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. + + And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, + And her graceful ankles bare and brown; + + And listened, while a pleased surprise + Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. + + At last, like one who for delay + Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. + + Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! + That I the Judge's bride might be! + + "He would dress me up in silks so fine, + And praise and toast me at his wine. + + "My father should wear a broadcloth coat; + My brother should sail a painted boat. + + "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, + And the baby should have a new toy each day. + + "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor + And all should bless me who left our door." + + The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, + And saw Maud Muller standing still. + + "A form more fair, a face more sweet + Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. + + "And her modest answer and graceful air + Show her wise and good as she is fair. + + "Would she were mine, and I to-day, + Like her, a harvester of hay + + "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, + Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, + + "But low of cattle and song of birds, + And health and quiet and loving words." + + But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, + And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. + + So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, + And Maud was left in the field alone. + + But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, + When he hummed in court an old love-tune; + + And the young girl mused beside the well, + Till the rain on the unraked clover, + + He wedded a wife of richest dower, + Who lived for fashion, as he for power. + + Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, + He watched a picture come and go; + + And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes + Looked out in their innocent surprise. + + Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, + He longed for the wayside well instead; + + And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms + To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. + + And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, + "Ah, that I were free again! + + "Free as when I rode that day, + Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." + + She wedded a man unlearned and poor, + And many children played round her door. + + But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, + Left their traces on heart and brain. + + And oft, when the summer sun shone hot + On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, + + And she heard the little spring brook fall + Over the roadside, through the wall; + + In the shade of the apple-tree again + She saw a rider draw his rein. + + And gazing down with timid grace + She felt his pleased eyes read her face. + + Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls + Stretched away into stately halls; + + The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, + The tallow candle an astral burned, + + And for him who sat by the chimney lug, + Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, + + A manly form at her side she saw, + And joy was duty and love was law. + + Then she took up her burden of life again, + Saying only, "it might have been." + + Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, + For rich repiner and household drudge! + + + God pity them both! and pity us all, + Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. + + For of all sad words of tongue or pen, + The saddest are these: "It might have been!" + + Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies + Deeply buried from human eyes; + + And, in the hereafter, angels may + Roll the stone from its grave away! + + + + +BURNS + +ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM + + No more these simple flowers belong + To Scottish maid and lover; + Sown in the common soil of song, + They bloom the wide world over. + + In smiles and tears, in sun and showers, + The minstrel and the heather, + The deathless singer and the flowers + He sang of five together. + + Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns! + The moorland flower and peasant! + How, at their mention, memory turns + Her pages old and pleasant! + + The gray sky wears again its gold + And purple of adorning, + And manhood's noonday shadows hold + The dews of boyhood's morning. + + The dews that washed the dust and soil + From off the wings of pleasure, + The sky, that flecked the ground of toil + With golden threads of leisure. + + I call to mind the summer day, + The early harvest mowing, + The sky with sun and clouds at play, + And flowers with breezes blowing. + + I hear the blackbird in the corn, + The locust in the haying; + And, like the fabled hunter's horn, + Old tunes my heart is playing. + + How oft that day, with fond delay, + I sought the maple's shadow, + And sang with Burns the hours away, + Forgetful of the meadow! + + Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead + I heard the squirrels leaping; + The good dog listened while I read, + And wagged his tail in keeping. + + I watched him while in sportive mood + I read "The Two Dogs" story, + And half believed he understood + The poet's allegory. + + Sweet day, sweet songs!--The golden hours + Grew brighter for that singing, + From brook and bird and meadow flowers + A dearer welcome bringing. + + New light on home-seen Nature beamed, + New glory over Woman; + And daily life and duty seemed + No longer poor and common. + + I woke to find the simple truth + Of fact and feeling better + Than all the dreams that held my youth + A still repining debtor: + + That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, + The themes of sweet discoursing; + The tender idyls of the heart + In every tongue rehearsing. + + Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, + Of loving knight and lady, + When farmer boy and barefoot girl + Were wandering there already? + + I saw through all familiar things + The romance underlying; + The joys and griefs that plume the wings + Of Fancy skyward flying. + + I saw the same blithe day return, + The same sweet fall of even, + That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, + And sank on crystal Devon. + + I matched with Scotland's heathery hills + The sweet-brier and the clover; + With Ayr and Doon, my native rills, + Their wood-hymns chanting over. + + O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, + I saw the Man uprising; + No longer common or unclean + The child of God's baptizing! + + With clearer eyes I saw the worth + Of life among the lowly; + The Bible at his Cotter's hearth + Had made my own more holy. + + And if at times an evil strain, + To lawless love appealing, + Broke in upon the sweet refrain + Of pure and healthful feeling, + + It died upon the eye and ear, + No inward answer gaining; + No heart had I to see or hear + The discord and the staining. + + Let those who never erred forget + His worth, in vain bewailings; + Sweet Soul of Song!--I own my debt + Uncancelled by his failings! + + Lament who will the ribald line + Which tells his lapse from duty, + How kissed the maddening lips of wine + Or wanton ones of beauty; + + But think, while falls that shade between + The erring one and Heaven, + That he who loved like Magdalen, + Like her may be forgiven. + + Not his the song whose thunderous chime + Eternal echoes render,-- + The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, + And Milton's starry splendor! + + But who his human heart has laid + To Nature's bosom nearer? + Who sweetened toil like him, or paid + To love a tribute dearer? + + Through all his tuneful art, how strong + The human feeling gushes! + The very moonlight of his song + Is warm with smiles and blushes! + + Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, + So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry; + Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, + But spare his Highland Mary + + + + +THE HERO + + "O Fox a knight like Bayard, + Without reproach or fear; + My light glove on his casque of steel, + My love-knot on his spear! + + "O for the white plume floating + Sad Zutphen's field above, + The lion heart in battle, + The woman's heart in love! + + "O that man once more were manly, + Woman's pride, and not her scorn + That once more the pale young mother + Dared to boast 'a man is born'! + + "But, now life's slumberous current + No sun-bowed cascade wakes; + No tall, heroic manhood + The level dulness breaks. + + "O for a knight like Bayard, + Without reproach or fear! + My light glove on his casque of steel + My love-knot on his spear!" + + Then I said, my own heart throbbing + To the time her proud pulse beat, + "Life hath its regal natures yet,-- + True, tender, brave, and sweet! + + "Smile not, fair unbeliever! + One man, at least, I know, + Who might wear the crest of Bayard + Or Sydney's plume of snow. + + "Once, when over purple mountains + Died away the Grecian sun, + And the far Cyllenian ranges + Paled and darkened, one by one,-- + + "Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder, + Cleaving all the quiet sky, + And against his sharp steel lightnings + Stood the Suliote but to die. + + "Woe for the weak and halting! + The crescent blazed behind + A curving line of sabres + Like fire before the wind! + + "Last to fly, and first to rally, + Rode he of whom I speak, + When, groaning in his bridle path, + Sank down like a wounded Greek. + + "With the rich Albanian costume + Wet with many a ghastly stain, + Gazing on earth and sky as one + Who might not gaze again! + + "He looked forward to the mountains, + Back on foes that never spare, + Then flung him from his saddle, + And place the stranger there. + + "'Allah! hu!' Through flashing sabres, + Through a stormy hail of lead, + The good Thessalian charger + Up the slopes of olives sped. + + "Hot spurred the turbaned riders; + He almost felt their breath, + Where a mountain stream rolled darkly down + Between the hills and death. + + "One brave and manful struggle,-- + He gained the solid land, + And the cover of the mountains, + And the carbines of his band!" + + "It was very great and noble," + Said the moist-eyed listener then, + "But one brave deed makes no hero; + Tell me what he since hath been!" + + "Still a brave and generous manhood, + Still and honor without stain, + In the prison of the Kaiser, + By the barricades of Seine. + + "But dream not helm and harness + The sign of valor true; + Peace bath higher tests of manhood + Than battle ever knew. + + "Wouldst know him now? Behold him, + The Cadmus of the blind, + Giving the dumb lip language, + The idiot clay a mind. + + "Walking his round of duty + Serenely day by day, + With the strong man's hand of labor + And childhood's heart of play. + + "True as the knights of story, + Sir Lancelot and his peers, + Brave in his calm endurance + As they in tilt of spears. + + "As waves in stillest waters, + As stars in noonday skies, + All that wakes to noble action + In his noon of calmness lies. + + "Wherever outraged Nature + Asks word or action brave, + Wherever struggles labor, + Wherever groans a slave,-- + + "Wherever rise the peoples, + Wherever sinks a throne, + The throbbing heart of Freedom finds + An answer in his own. + + "Knight of a better era, + Without reproach or fear! + Said I not well that Bayards + And Sidneys still are here? + + + + +THE ETERNAL GOODNESS + + + + O friends! with whom my feet have trod + The quiet aisles of prayer, + Glad witness to your zeal for God + And love of man I bear. + + I trace your lines of argument; + Your logic linked and strong + I weigh as one who dreads dissent, + And fears a doubt as wrong. + + But still my human hands are weak + To hold your iron creeds; + Against the words ye bid me speak + My heart within me pleads. + + Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? + Who talks of scheme and plan? + The Lord is God! He needeth not + The poor device of man. + + I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground + Ye tread with boldness shod: + I dare not fix with mete and bound + The love and power of God. + + Ye praise His justice; even such + His pitying love I deem + Ye seek a king; I fain would touch + The robe that hath no seam. + + Ye see the curse which overbroods + A world of pain and loss; + I hear our Lord's beatitudes + And prayer upon the cross. + + The wrong that pains my soul below + I dare not throne above: + I know not of His hate,--I know + His goodness and His love. + + I dimly guess from blessings known + Of greater out of sight, + And, with the chastened Psalmist, own + His judgments too are right. + + I long for household voices gone, + For vanished smiles I long, + But God bath led my dear ones on, + And He can do no wrong. + + I know not what the future hath + Of marvel or surprise, + Assured alone that life and death + His mercy underlies. + + And if my heart and flesh are weak + To bear an untried pain, + The bruised reed He will not break, + But strengthen and sustain. + + No offering of my own I have, + Nor works my faith to prove; + I can but give the gifts He gave, + And plead His love for love. + + And so beside the Silent Sea + I wait the muffled oar; + No harm from Him can come to me + On ocean or on shore. + + I know not where His islands lift + Their fronded palms in air; + I only know I cannot drift + Beyond His love and care. + + O brothers! if my faith is vain, + If hopes like these betray, + Pray for me that my feet may gain + The sure and safer way. + + And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen + Thy creatures as they be, + Forgive me if too close I lean + My human heart on Thee! + + + + +THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW + + + Pipes of the misty moorlands + Voice of the glens and hills; + The droning of the torrents, + The treble of the rills! + Not the braes of broom and heather, + Nor the mountains dark with rain, + Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, + Have heard your sweetest strain! + + Dear to the Lowland reaper, + And plaided mountaineer,-- + To the cottage and the castle + The Scottish pipes are dear;-- + Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch + O'er mountain, loch, and glade; + But the sweetest of all music + The Pipes at Lucknow played. + + Day by day the Indian tiger + Louder yelled, and nearer crept; + Round and round the jungle-serpent + Near and nearer circles swept. + "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- + Pray to-day!" the soldier said; + "To-morrow, death's between us + And the wrong and shame we dread." + + O, they listened, looked, and waited, + Till their hope became despair; + And the sobs of low bewailing + Filled the pauses of their prayer. + Then up spake a Scottish maiden, + With her ear unto the ground + "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it? + The pipes o' Havelock sound!" + + Hushed the wounded man his groaning; + Hushed the wife her little ones; + Alone they heard the drum-roll + And the roar of Sepoy guns. + But to sounds of home and childhood + The Highland ear was true; + As her mother's cradle-crooning + The mountain pipes she knew. + + Like the march of soundless music + Through the vision of the seer, + More of feeling than of hearing, + Of the heart than of the ear, + She knew the droning pibroch, + She knew the Campbell's call + "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,-- + The grandest o' them all!" + + O, they listened, dumb and breathless, + And they caught the sound at last; + Faint and far beyond the Goomtee + Rose and fell the piper's blast! + Then a burst of wild thanksgiving + Mingled woman's voice and man's + "God be praised!--the March of Havelock! + The piping of the clans!" + + Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, + Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, + Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, + Stinging all the air to life. + But when the far-off dust-cloud + To plaided legions grew, + Full tenderly and blithesomely + The pipes of rescue blew! + + Round the silver domes of Lucknow, + Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, + Breathed the air to Britons dearest, + The air of Auld Lang Syne. + O'er the cruel roll of war-drums + Rose that sweet and homelike strain; + And the tartan clove the turban, + As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. + + Dear to the corn-land reaper + And plaided mountaineer,-- + To the cottage and the castle + The piper's song is dear. + Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch + O'er mountain, glen, and glade, + But the sweetest of all music + The Pipes at Lucknow played! + + + + +COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION + + The beaver cut his timber + With patient teeth that day, + The minks were fish-wards, and the crows + Surveyors of high way,-- + + When Keezar sat on the hillside + Upon his cobbler's form, + With a pan of coals on either hand + To keep his waxed-ends warm. + + And there, in the golden weather, + He stitched and hammered and sung; + In the brook he moistened his leather, + In the pewter mug his tongue. + + Well knew the tough old Teuton + Who brewed the stoutest ale, + And he paid the good-wife's reckoning + In the coin of song and tale. + + The songs they still are singing + Who dress the hills of vine, + The tales that haunt the Brocken + And whisper down the Rhine. + + Woodsy and wild and lonesome, + The swift stream wound away, + Through birches and scarlet maples + Flashing in foam and spray,-- + + Down on the sharp-horned ledges + Plunging in steep cascade, + Tossing its white-maned waters + Against the hemlock's shade. + + Woodsy and wild and lonesome, + East and west and north and south; + Only the village of fishers + Down at the river's mouth; + + Only here and there a clearing, + With its farm-house rude and new, + And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, + Where the scanty harvest grew. + + No shout of home-bound reapers, + No vintage-song he heard, + And on the green no dancing feet + The merry violin stirred. + + "Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, + "When Nature herself is glad, + And the painted woods are laughing + At the faces so sour and sad?" + + Small heed had the careless cobbler + What sorrow of heart was theirs + Who travailed in pain with the births of God + And planted a state with prayers,-- + + Hunting of witches and warlocks, + Smiting the heathen horde,-- + One hand on the mason's trowel + And one on the soldier's sword! + + But give him his ale and cider, + Give him his pipe and song, + Little he cared for Church or State, + Or the balance of right and wrong. + + "'Tis work, work, work," he muttered-- + "And for rest a snuffle of psalms!" + He smote on his leathern apron + With his brown and waxen palms. + + "O for the purple harvests + Of the days when I was young! + For the merry grape-stained maidens, + And the pleasant songs they sung + + "O for the breath of vineyards, + Of apples and nuts and wine! + For an oar to row and a breeze to blow + Down the grand old river Rhine!" + + A tear in his blue eye glistened + And dropped on his beard so gray. + "Old, old am I," said Keezar, + "And the Rhine flows far away!" + + But a cunning man was the cobbler; + He could call the birds from the trees, + Charm the black snake out of the ledges, + And bring back the swarming bees. + + All the virtues of herbs and metals, + All the lore of the woods, he knew, + And the arts of the Old World mingled + With the marvels of the New. + + Well he knew the tricks of magic, + And the lapstone on his knee + Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles + Or the stone of Doctor Dee. + + For the mighty master Agrippa + Wrought it with spell and rhyme + From a fragment of mystic moonstone + In the tower of Nettesheim. + + To a cobbler Minnesinger + The marvellous stone gave he, + And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, + Who brought it over the sea. + + He held up that mystic lapstone, + He held it up like a lens, + And he counted the long years coming, + By twenties and by tens. + + "One hundred years," quoth Keezar. + "And fifty have I told + Now open the new before me, + And shut me out the old!" + + Like a cloud of mist, the blackness + Rolled from the magic stone, + And a marvellous picture mingled + The unknown and the known. + + Still ran the stream to the river, + And river and ocean joined; + And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line. + And cold north hills behind. + + But the mighty forest was broken + By many a steepled town, + By many a white-walled farm-house, + And many a garner brown. + + Turning a score of mill-wheels, + The stream no more ran free; + White sails on the winding river, + White sails on the far-off sea. + + Below in the noisy village + The flags were floating gay, + And shone on a thousand faces + The light of a holiday. + + Swiftly the rival ploughmen + Turned the brown earth from their shares; + Here were the farmer's treasures, + There were the craftsman's wares. + + Golden the good-wife's butter, + Ruby her currant-wine; + Grand were the strutting turkeys, + Fat were the beeves and swine. + + Yellow and red were the apples, + And the ripe pears russet-brown, + And the peaches had stolen blushes + From the girls who shook them down. + + And with blooms of hill and wildwood, + That shame the toil of art, + Mingled the gorgeous blossoms + Of the garden's tropic heart. + + "What is it I see?" said Keezar: + "Am I here or am I there? + Is it a fete at Bingen? + Do I look on Frankfort fair? + + "But where are the clowns and puppets, + And imps with horns and tail? + And where are the Rhenish flagons? + And where is the foaming ale? + + "Strange things, I know, will happen,-- + Strange things the Lord permits; + But that droughty folk should be dolly + Puzzles my poor old wits. + + "Here are smiling manly faces, + And the maiden's step is gay; + Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, + Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. + + "Here's pleasure without regretting, + And good without abuse, + The holiday and the bridal + Of beauty and of use. + + "Here's a priest and there is a Quaker, + Do the cat and the dog agree? + Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood? + Have they cut down the gallows-tree? + + "Would the old folk know their children? + Would they own the graceless town, + With never a ranter to worry + And never a witch to drown?" + + Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, + Laughed like a school-boy gay; + Tossing his arms above him, + The lapstone rolled away. + + It rolled down the rugged hillside, + It spun like a wheel bewitched, + It plunged through the leaning willows, + And into the river pitched. + + There, in the deep, dark water, + The magic stone lies still, + Under the leaning willows + In the shadow of the hill. + + But oft the idle fisher + Sits on the shadowy bank, + And his dreams make marvellous pictures + Where the wizard's lapstone sank. + + And still, in the summer twilights. + When the river seems to run + Out from the inner glory, + Warm with the melted sun, + + + The weary mill-girl lingers + Beside the charmed stream, + And the sky and the golden water + Shape and color her dream. + + Fair wave the sunset gardens, + The rosy signals fly; + Her homestead beckons from the cloud, + And love goes sailing by! + + + + +THE MAYFLOWERS + + Sad Mayflower! watched by winter stars, + And nursed by winter gales, + With petals of the sleeted spars, + And leaves of frozen sails + + What had she in those dreary hours, + Within her ice-rimmed bay, + In common with the wild-wood flowers, + The first sweet smiles of May? + + Yet, "God be praised!" the Pilgrim said, + Who saw the blossoms peer + Above the brown leaves, dry anal dead + "Behold our Mayflower here!" + + "God wills it: here our rest shall be + Our years of wandering o'er; + For us the Mayflower of the sea, + Shall spread her sails no more." + + O sacred flowers of faith and hope, + As sweetly now as then + Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, + In many a pine-dark glen. + + Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, + Unchanged, your, leaves unfold + Like love behind the manly strength + Of the brave hearts of old. + + So live the fathers in their sons, + Their sturdy faith be ours, + And ours the love that overruns + Its rocky strength with flowers. + + The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day + Its shadow round us draws; + The Mayflower of his stormy bay, + Our Freedom's struggling cause. + + But warmer suns erelong shall bring + To life the frozen sod; + And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring + Afresh the flowers of Cod! + + + + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + + + +GOOD-BYE + + Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home + Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. + Long through thy weary crowds I roam; + A river-ark on the ocean brine, + Long I've been tossed like the driven foam; + But now, proud world! I'm going home. + + Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; + To Grandeur with his wise grimace; + To upstart Wealth's averted eye; + To supple Office, low and high; + To crowded halls, to court and street; + To frozen hearts and hasting feet; + To those who go, and those who come; + Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home. + + I am going to my own hearth-stone, + Bosomed in yon green hills alone,-- + A secret nook in a pleasant land, + Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; + Where arches green, the livelong day, + Echo the blackbird's roundelay, + And vulgar feet have never trod + A spot that is sacred to thought and Cod. + + O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, + I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; + And when I am stretched beneath the pines, + Where the evening star so holy shines, + I laugh at the lore and the pride of man + At the sophist schools and the learned clan; + For what are they all, in their high conceit, + Where man in the bush with God may meet? + + + + +EACH AND ALL + + Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown + Of thee from the hill-top looking down; + The heifer that lows in the upland faun, + Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; + The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, + Deems not that great Napoleon + Stops his horse, and lists with delight, + Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; + Nor knowest thou what argument + Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. + All are needed by each one; + Nothing is fair or good alone. + I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, + Singing at dawn on the alder bough; + I brought him home, in his nest, at even; + He sings the song, but it cheers not now, + For I did not bring home the river and sky;-- + He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye. + The delicate shells lay on the shore; + The bubbles of the latest wave + Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, + And the bellowing of the savage sea + Greeted their safe escape to me. + I wiped away the weeds and foam, + I fetched my sea-born treasures home, + But the poor, unsightly, noisome things + Had left their beauty on the shore + With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. + The lover watched his graceful maid, + As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, + Nor knew her beauty's best attire + Was woven still by the snow-white choir. + At last she came to his hermitage, + Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;-- + The gay enchantment was undone, + A gentle wife, but fairy none. + Then I said, "I covet truth; + Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; + I leave it behind with the games of youth:-- + As I spoke, beneath my feet + The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, + Running over the club-moss burrs; + I inhaled the violet's breath; + Around me stood the oaks and firs; + Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; + Over me soared the eternal sky, + Full of light and of deity; + Again I saw, again I heard, + The rolling river, the morning bird;-- + Beauty through my senses stole; + I yielded myself to the perfect whole. + + + + +THE PROBLEM + + I like a church; I like a cowl; + I love a prophet of the soul; + And on my heart monastic aisles + Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; + Yet not for all his faith can see + Would I that cowled churchman be. + + Why should the vest on him allure, + Which I could not on me endure? + + Not from a vain or shallow thought + His awful Jove young Phidias brought; + Never from lips of cunning fell + The thrilling Delphic oracle; + Out from the heart of nature rolled + The burdens of the Bible old; + The litanies of nations came, + Like the volcano's tongue of flame, + Up from the burning core below,-- + The canticles of love and woe + The hand that rounded Peter's dome + And groined the aisles of Christian Rome; + Wrought in a sad sincerity; + Himself from God he could not free; + He budded better than he knew;-- + The conscious stone to beauty grew. + + Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest + Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? + + Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, + Painting with morn each annual cell? + Or how the sacred pine-tree adds + To her old leaves new myriads? + Such and so grew these holy piles, + Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. + Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, + As the best gem upon her zone, + And Morning opes with haste her lids + To gaze upon the Pyramids; + O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, + As on its friends, with kindred eye; + For out of Thought's interior sphere + These wonders rose to upper air; + And Nature gladly gave them place, + Adopted them into her race, + And granted them an equal date + With Andes and With Ararat. + + These temples grew as grows the grasses + Art might obey, but not surpass. + The passive Master lent his hand + To the vast soul that o'er him planned; + And the same power that reared the shrine + Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. + Ever the fiery Pentecost + Girds with one flame the countless host, + Trances the heart through chanting choirs, + And through the priest the mind inspires. + The word unto the prophet spoken + Was writ on tables yet unbroken; + + The word by seers or sibyls told, + In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, + Still floats upon the morning wind, + Still whispers to the willing mind. + One accent of the Holy Ghost + The heedless world hath never lost. + I know what say the fathers wise, + The book itself before me lies, + Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, + And he who blent both in his line, + The younger Golden Lips or mines, + Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines. + His words are music in my ear, + I see his cowled portrait dear; + And yet, for all his faith could see, + I would not the good bishop be. + + + + +THE RHODORA + +ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? + + In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, + I found the fresh Rhodora in the Woods, + Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, + To please the desert and the sluggish brook, + The purple petals, fallen in the pool, + Made the black water with their beauty gay; + Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, + And court the flower that cheapens his array. + Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why + This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, + Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, + Then Beauty is its own excuse for being + Why thou went there, O rival of the rose! + I never thought to ask, I never knew: + But, in my simple ignorance, suppose + The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. + + + + +THE HUMBLE--BEE + + Burly, dozing humble-bee, + Where thou art is clime for me. + Let them sail for Porto Rique, + Far-off heats through seas to seek; + I will follow thee alone, + Thou animated torrid-zone! + Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, + Let me chase thy waving lines; + Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, + Singing over shrubs and vines. + + Insect lover of the sun, + Joy of thy dominion + Sailor of the atmosphere; + Swimmer through the waves of air; + Voyager of light and noon; + Epicurean of June; + Wait, I prithee, till I come + Within earshot of thy hum,-- + All without is martyrdom. + + When the south wind, in May days, + With a net of shining haze + Silvers the horizon wall, + And with softness touching all, + Tints the human countenance + With a color of romance, + And infusing subtle heats, + Turns the sod to violets, + Thou, in sunny solitudes, + Rover of the underwoods, + The green silence dolt displace + With thy mellow, breezy bass. + + Hot midsummer's petted crone, + Sweet to me thy drowsy tone + Tells of countless sunny hours, + Long days, and solid banks of flowers; + Of gulfs of sweetness without bound + In Indian wildernesses found; + Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, + Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. + + Aught unsavory or unclean + Hath my insect never seen; + But violets and bilberry bells, + Maple-sap and daffodels, + Grass with green flag half-mast high, + Succory to match the sky, + Columbine with horn of honey, + Scented fern, and agrimony, + Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue + And brier-roses, dwelt among; + All beside was unknown waste, + All was picture as he passed. + + Wiser far than human seer, + Yellow-breeched philosopher + Seeing only what is fair, + Sipping only what is sweet, + Thou dost mock at fate and care, + Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. + When the fierce northwestern blast, + Cools sea and land so far and fast, + Thou already slumberest deep; + Woe and want thou canst outsleep; + Want and woe, which torture us, + Thy sleep makes ridiculous. + + + + +THE SNOW-STORM + + Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, + Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, + Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air + Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, + And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. + The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet + Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit + Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed + In a tumultuous privacy of storm. + + Come and see the north wind's masonry. + Out of an unseen quarry evermore + Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer + Curves his white bastions with projected roof + Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. + Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work + So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he + For number or proportion. Mockingly, + On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; + A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; + Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, + Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate + A tapering turret overtops the work. + And when his hours are numbered, and the world + Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, + Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art + To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, + Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, + The frolic architecture of the snow. + + + + +FABLE + + The mountain and the squirrel + Had a quarrel, + And the former called the latter "Little Prig"; + Bun replied, + "You are doubtless very big; + But all sorts of things and weather + Must be taken in together, + To make up a year + And a sphere. + And I think it no disgrace + To occupy my place. + If I'm not so large as you, + You are not so small as I, + And not half so spry. + I'll snot deny you make + A very pretty squirrel track; + Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; + If I cannot carry forests on my back, + Neither can you crack a nut." + + + + +FORBEARANCE + + Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? + Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? + At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? + Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? + And loved so well a high behavior, + In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, + Nobility more nobly to repay? + O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! + + + + +CONCORD HYMN + +SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, + +APRIL 19, 1836 + + By the rude bridge that arched the flood, + Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, + Here once the embattled farmers stood + And fired the shot heard round the world. + + The foe long since in silence slept; + Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; + And Time the ruined bridge has swept + Down the dark stream which seaward creep. + + On this green bank, by this soft stream, + We set to-day a votive stone; + That memory may their deed redeem, + When, like our sires, our sons are gone. + + Spirit, that made those heroes dare + To die, and leave their children free, + Time and Nature gently spare + The shaft we raise to them and thee. + + + + +BOSTON HYMN + + The word of the Lord by night + To the watching Pilgrims came, + As they sat beside the seaside, + And filled their hearts with flame. + + Cod said, I am tired of kings, + I suffer them no more; + Up to my ear the morning brings + The outrage of the poor. + + Think ve I made this ball + A field of havoc and war, + Where tyrants great and tyrants small + Might harry the weak and poor? + + My angel,--his name is Freedom, + Choose him to be your king; + He shall cut pathways east and west + And fend you with his wing. + + Lo! I uncover the land + Which I hid of old time in the West, + As the sculptor uncovers the statue + When he has wrought his best; + + I show Columbia, of the rocks + Which dip their foot in the seas + And soar to the air-borne flocks + Of clouds and the boreal fleece. + + I will divide my goods; + Call in the wretch and slave + None shall rule but the humble, + And none but Toil shall have. + + I will have never a noble, + No lineage counted great; + Fishers and choppers and ploughmen + Shall constitute a state. + + Go, cut down trees in the forest + And trim the straightest boughs; + Cut down trees in the forest + And build me a wooden house. + + Call the people together, + The young men and the sires, + The digger in the harvest-field, + Hireling and him that hires; + + And here in a pine state-house + They shall choose men to rule + In every needful faculty, + In church and state and school. + + Lo, now! if these poor men + Can govern the land and the sea + And make just laws below the sun, + As planets faithful be. + + And ye shall succor men; + 'Tis nobleness to serve; + Help them who cannot help again + Beware from right to swerve. + + I break your bonds and masterships, + And I unchain the slave + Free be his heart and hand henceforth + As wind and wandering wave. + + I cause from every creature + His proper good to flow + As much as he is and doeth, + So much he shall bestow. + + But, laying hands on another + To coin his labor and sweat, + He goes in pawn to his victim + For eternal years in debt. + + To-day unbind the captive, + So only are ye unbound; + Lift up a people from the dust, + Trump of their rescue, sound! + + Pay ransom to the owner + And fill the bag to the brim. + Who is the owner? The slave is owner, + And ever was. Pay him. + + O North! give him beauty for rags, + And honor, O South! for his shame; + Nevada! coin thy golden crags + With Freedom's image and name. + + Up! and the dusky race + That sat in darkness long,-- + Be swift their feet as antelopes, + And as behemoth strong. + + Come, East and West and North, + By races, as snow-flakes, + And carry my purpose forth, + Which neither halts nor shakes. + + My will fulfilled shall be, + For, in daylight or in dark, + My thunderbolt has eyes to see + His way home to the mark. + + + + +THE TITMOUSE + + You shall not be overbold + When you deal with arctic cold, + As late I found my lukewarm blood + Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. + + How should I fight? my foeman fine + Has million arms to one of mine + East, west, for aid I looked in vain, + East, west, north, south, are his domain, + Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home; + Must borrow his winds who there would come. + Up and away for life! be fleet!-- + The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, + Sings in my ears, my hands are stones + Curdles the blood to the marble bones, + Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense, + And hems in life with narrowing fence. + Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,-- + The punctual stars will vigil keep,-- + Embalmed by purifying cold; + The winds shall sing their dead-march old, + The snow is no ignoble shroud, + The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. + + Softly--but this way fate was pointing, + 'Twas coming fast to such anointing, + When piped a tiny voice hard by, + Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, + Chic-chic-a-dee-dee! saucy note + Out of sound heart and merry throat, + As if it said, "Good day, good sir! + Fine afternoon, old passenger! + Happy to meet you in these places + Where January brings few faces." + + This poet, though he lived apart, + Moved by his hospitable heart, + Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, + To do the honors of his court, + As fits a feathered lord of land; + Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, + Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, + Prints his small impress on the snow, + Shows feats of his gymnastic play, + Head downward, clinging to the spray. + + Here was this atom in full breath, + Hurling defiance at vast death; + This scrap of valor just for play + Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, + As if to shame my weak behavior; + I greeted loud my little savior, + "You pet! what dost here? and what for? + In these woods, thy small Labrador, + At this pinch, wee San Salvador! + What fire burns in that little chest + So frolic, stout and self-possest? + Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine; + Ashes and jet all hues outshine. + Why are not diamonds black and gray, + To ape thy dare-devil array? + And I affirm, the spacious North + Exists to draw thy virtue forth. + I think no virtue goes with size; + The reason of all cowardice + Is, that men are overgrown, + And, to be valiant, must come down + To the titmouse dimension." + + 'Tis good will makes intelligence, + And I began to catch the sense + Of my bird's song: "Live out of doors + In the great woods, on prairie floors. + I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea, + I too have a hole in a hollow tree; + And I like less when Summer beats + With stifling beams on these retreats, + Than noontide twilights which snow makes + With tempest of the blinding flakes. + For well the soul, if stout within, + Can arm impregnably the skin; + And polar frost my frame defied, + Made of the air that blows outside." + + With glad remembrance of my debt, + I homeward turn; farewell, my pet! + When here again thy pilgrim comes, + He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs, + Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, + Thou first and foremost shah be fed; + The Providence that is most large + Takes hearts like throe in special charge, + Helps who for their own need are strong, + And the sky dotes on cheerful song. + Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant + O'er all that mass and minster vaunt; + For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, + As 'twould accost some frivolous wing, + Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be! + And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee! + I think old Caesar must have heard + In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, + And, echoed in some frosty wold, + Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. + And I will write our annals new, + And thank thee for a better clew, + I, who dreamed not when I came her + To find the antidote of fear, + Now hear thee say in Roman key. + Paean! Veni, vidi, vici. + + + + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + + + + +HAKON'S LAY + + Then Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate, + Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, + And said: "O Skald, sing now an olden song, + Such as our fathers heard who led great lives; + And, as the bravest on a shield is borne + Along the waving host that shouts him king, + So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas!" + + Then the old man arose; white-haired he stood, + White-bearded with eyes that looked afar + From their still region of perpetual snow, + Over the little smokes and stirs of men: + His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years, + As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, + But something triumphed in his brow and eye, + Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch: + Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, + Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle + Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods, + So wheeled his soul into the air of song + High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang: + + "The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out + Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; + And, from a quiver full of such as these, + The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, + Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. + Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate? + What archer of his arrows is so choice, + Or hits the white so surely? They are men, + The chosen of her quiver; nor for her + Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick + At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked: + Such answer household ends; but she will have + Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound + Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips + All needless stuff, all sapwood; hardens them; + From circumstance untoward feathers plucks + Crumpled and cheap; and barbs with iron will: + The hour that passes is her quiver-boy; + When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, + Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings, + For sun and wind have plighted faith to her + Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold, + In the butt's heart her trembling messenger! + + "The song is old and simple that I sing; + Good were the days of yore, when men were tried + By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold; + But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men, + And the free ocean, still the days are good; + Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity + And knocks at every door of but or hall, + Until she finds the brave soul that she wants." + + He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide + Of interrupted wassail roared along; + But Leif, the son of Eric, sat apart + Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, + Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen; + lint then with that resolve his heart was bent, + Which, like a humming shaft, through many a stripe + Of day and night across the unventured seas, + Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands + The first rune in the Saga of the West. + + + + +FLOWERS + + O poet! above all men blest, + Take heed that thus thou store them; + Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest, + Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!) + Watchfully brooding o'er them. + And from those flowers of Paradise + Scatter thou many a blessed seed, + Wherefrom an offspring may arise + To cheer the hearts and light the eyes + Of after-voyagers in their need. + They shall not fall on stony ground, + But, yielding all their hundred-fold, + Shall shed a peacefulness around, + Whose strengthening joy may not be told! + So shall thy name be blest of all, + And thy remembrance never die; + For of that seed shall surely fall + In the fair garden of Eternity, + Exult then m the nobleness + Of this thy work so holy, + Yet be not thou one jot the less + Humble and meek and lowly, + But let throe exultation be + The reverence of a bended knee; + And by thy life a poem write, + Built strongly day by day-- + on the rock of Truth and Right + Its deep foundations lay. + + + + +IMPARTIALITY + + I cannot say a scene is fair + Because it is beloved of thee + But I shall love to linger there, + For sake of thy dear memory; + I would not be so coldly just + As to love only what I must. + + I cannot say a thought is good + Because thou foundest joy in it; + Each soul must choose its proper food + Which Nature hath decreed most fit; + But I shall ever deem it so + Because it made thy heart o'erflow. + + I love thee for that thou art fair; + And that thy spirit joys in aught + Createth a new beauty there, + With throe own dearest image fraught; + And love, for others' sake that springs, + Gives half their charm to lovely things. + + + + +MY LOVE + + I not as all other women are + Is she that to my soul is dear; + Her glorious fancies come from far, + Beneath the silver evening-star, + And yet her heart is ever near. + + Great feelings has she of her own, + Which lesser souls may never know; + God giveth them to her alone, + And sweet they are as any tone + Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. + + Yet in herself she dwelleth not, + Although no home were half so fair; + No simplest duty is forgot, + Life hath no dim and lowly spot + That doth not in her sunshine share. + + She doeth little kindnesses, + Which most leave undone, or despise; + For naught that sets one heart at ease, + And giveth happiness or peace, + Is low-esteemed m her eyes. + + She hath no scorn of common things, + And, though she seem of other birth, + Round us her heart entwines and clings, + And patiently she folds her wings + To tread the humble paths of earth. + + Blessing she is: God made her so, + And deeds of week-day holiness + Fall from her noiseless as the snow, + Nor hath she ever chanced to know + That aught were easier than to bless. + + She is most fair, and thereunto + Her life loth rightly harmonize; + Feeling or thought that was not true + Ne'er made less beautiful the blue + Unclouded heaven of her eyes. + + She is a woman: one in whom + The spring-time of her childish years + Hath never lost its fresh perfume, + Though knowing well that life bath room + For many blights and many tears. + + I love her with a love as still + As a broad river's peaceful might, + Which, by high tower and lowly mill, + Goes wandering at its own will, + And yet doth ever flow aright. + + And, on its full, deep breast serene, + Like quiet isles my duties lie; + It flows around them and between, + And makes them fresh and fair and green, + Sweet homes wherein to live and die. + + + + +THE FOUNTAIN + + Into the sunshine, + Full of the light, + Leaping and flashing + From morn till night! + + Into the moonlight, + Whiter than snow, + Waving so flower-like + When the winds blow! + + Into the starlight, + Rushing in spray, + Happy at midnight, + Happy by day! + + Ever in motion, + Blithesome and cheery. + Still climbing heavenward, + Never aweary + + Glad of all weathers, + Still seeming best, + Upward or downward, + Motion thy rest;-- + + Full of a nature + Nothing can tame, + Changed every moment, + Ever the same;-- + + Ceaseless aspiring, + Ceaseless content, + Darkness or sunshine + Thy element;-- + + Glorious fountain! + Let my heart be + Fresh, changeful, constant, + Upward, like thee! + + + + +THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS + + There came a youth upon the earth, + Some thousand years ago, + Whose slender hands were nothing worth, + Whether to plow, to reap, or sow. + + Upon an empty tortoise-shell + He stretched some chords, and drew + Music that made men's bosoms swell + Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. + + Then King Admetus, one who had + Pure taste by right divine, + Decreed his singing not too bad + To hear between the cups of wine + + And so, well-pleased with being soothed + Into a sweet half-sleep, + Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, + And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. + + His words were simple words enough, + And yet he used them so, + That what in other mouths was rough + In his seemed musical and low. + + Men called him but a shiftless youth, + In whom no good they saw; + And yet, unwittingly, in truth, + They made his careless words their law. + + They knew not how he learned at all, + For idly, hour by hour, + He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, + Or mused upon a common flower. + + It seemed the loveliness of things + Did teach him all their use, + For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, + He found a healing power profuse. + + Men granted that his speech was wise, + But, when a glance they caught + Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, + They laughed, and called him good-for-naught. + + Yet after he was dead and gone, + And e'en his memory dim, + Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, + More full of love, because of him. + + And day by day more holy grew + Each spot where he had trod, + Till after--poets only knew + Their first-born brother as a god. + + + + +ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION +July 21, 1865 + +(Selection) + + Weak-Winged is Song, + Nor aims at that clear-ethered height + Whither the brave deed climbs for light + We seem to do them wrong, + Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse + Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse. + Our trivial song to honor those who come + With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum. + And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire + Live battle-odes whose lines mere steel and fire: + Yet sometimes feathered words are strong, + A gracious memory to buoy up and save + From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave + Of the unventurous throng. + + Many loved Truth, and lavished Life's best oil + Amid the dust of books to find her, + Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, + With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. + Many in sad faith sought for her, + Many with crossed hands sighed for her; + But these, our brothers, fought for her, + At life's dear peril wrought for her, + So loved her that they died for her, + Tasting the raptured fleetness + Of her divine completeness + Their higher instinct knew + Those love her best who to themselves are true, + And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; + They followed her and found her + Where all may hope to find, + Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, + But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her. + Where faith made whole with deed + Breathes its awakening breath + Into the lifeless creed, + They saw her plumed and mailed, + With sweet, stern face unveiled, + And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. + + Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides + Into the silent hollow of the past; + What is there that abides + To make the next age better for the last? + Is earth too poor to give us + Something to live for here that shall outlive us? + Some more substantial boon + Than such as flows and ebbs with + Fortune's fickle moon? + The little that we sec: + From doubt is never free; + The little that we do + Is but half-nobly true; + With our laborious hiving + What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, + Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, + Only secure in every one's conniving, + A long account of nothings paid with loss, + Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires, + After our little hour of strut and rave, + With all our pasteboard passions and desires, + Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires, + Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave. + But stay! no age was e'er degenerate, + Unless men held it at too cheap a rate, + For in our likeness still we shape our fate. + + Whither leads the path + To ampler fates that leads? + Not down through flowery meads, + To reap an aftermath + Of youth's vainglorious weeds, + But up the steep, amid the wrath + And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, + Where the world's best hope and stay + By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way, + And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds. + Peace hath her not ignoble wreath, + Ere yet the sharp, decisive word + Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword + Dreams in its easeful sheath; + But some day the live coal behind the thought, + Whether from Baal's stone obscene, + Or from the shrine serene + Of God's pure altar brought, + Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen + Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught, + And, helpless in the fiery passion caught, + Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men + Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed + Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, + And trips reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise, + And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; + I claim of thee the promise of thy youth; + Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, + The victim of thy genius, not its mate!" + Life may be given in many ways, + And loyalty to Truth be sealed + As bravely in the closet as the field, + So bountiful is Fate; + But then to stand beside her, + When craven churls deride her, + To front a lie in arms and not to yield, + This shows, methinks, God's plan + And measure of a stalwart man, + Limbed like the old heroic breeds, + Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth, + Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, + Fed from within with all the strength he needs. + + Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, + Whom late the Nation he had led, + With ashes on her head, + wept with the passion of an angry grief. + Forgive me, if from present things I turn + To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, + And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. + Nature, they say, doth dote, + And cannot make a man + Save on some worn-out plan, + Repeating us by rote + For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw, + And, choosing sweet clay from the breast + Of the unexhausted West, + With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, + Vise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. + How beautiful to see + Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, + Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; + One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, + Not lured by any cheat of birth, + But by his clear-grained human worth, + And brave old wisdom of sincerity! + They knew that outward grace is dust; + They could not choose but trust + In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, + And supple-tempered will + That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. + His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, + Thrusting to thin air o er our cloudy bars, + A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; + Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, + Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, + Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. + Nothing of Europe here, + Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, + Ere any names of Serf and Peer + Could Nature's equal scheme deface + And thwart her genial will; + Here was a type of the true elder race, + And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. + I praise him not; it were too late; + And some innative weakness there must be + In him who condescends to victory + Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, + Safe in himself as in a fate. + So always firmly he + He knew to bide his time, + And can his fame abide, + Still patient in his simple faith sublime, + Till the wise years decide. + Great captains, with their guns and drums, + Disturb our judgment for the hour, + But at last silence comes; + These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, + Our children shall behold his fame, + The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, + Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, + New birth of our new soil, the first American. + + + + +THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL + +PRELUDE TO PART FIRST + + Over his keys the musing organist, + Beginning doubtfully and far away, + First lets his fingers wander as they list, + And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: + Then, as the touch of his loved instrument + Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme + First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent + Along the wavering vista of his dream. + + Not only around our infancy + Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; + Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, + We Sinais climb and know it not. + + Over our manhood bend the skies; + Against our fallen and traitor lives + The great winds utter prophecies; + With our faint hearts the mountain strives; + Its arms outstretched, the druid wood + Waits with its benedicite; + And to our age's drowsy blood + Mill shouts the inspiring sea. + + Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; + The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, + The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, + We bargain for the graves we lie in; + At the devil's booth are all things sold, + Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; + For a cap and bells our lives we pay, + Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking + 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, + 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; + No price is set on the lavish summer; + June may be had by the poorest comer. + + And what is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days; + Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, + And over it softly her warm ear lays + Whether we look, or whether we listen, + We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; + Every, clod feels a stir of might, + An instinct within it that reaches and towers, + And, groping blindly above it for light, + Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; + The flush of life may well be seen + Thrilling back over hills and valleys; + The cowslip startles in meadows green, + The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, + And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean + To be some happy creature's palace; + The little bird sits at his door in the sun, + Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, + And lets his illumined being o'errun + With the deluge of summer it receives; + His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, + And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sink + He pings to the wide world, and she to her nest, + In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? + + Now is the high-tide of the year, + And whatever of life bath ebbed away + Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, + Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; + Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, + We are happy now because God wills it; + No matter how barren the past may have been, + 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; + We sit in the warm shade and feel right well + How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; + We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing + That skies are clear and grass is growing; + The breeze comes whispering in our ear, + That dandelions are blossoming near, + That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, + That the river is bluer than the sky, + That the robin is plastering his house hard by; + And if the breeze kept the good news back, + For other couriers we should not lack; + We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, + And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, + Warmed with the new wine of the year, + Tells all in his lusty crowing! + + Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; + Everything is happy now, + Everything is upward striving; + 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true + As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-- + Tis the natural way of living + Who knows whither the clouds have fled? + In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; + And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, + The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; + The soul partakes the season's youth, + And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe + Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, + Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. + What wonder if Sir Launfal now + Remembered the keeping of his vow? + + + + +BIGLOW PAPERS + +I. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS + + Guvener B. is a sensible man; + He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; + He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, + An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;-- + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. + + My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? + We can't never choose him o' course,--thet's flat; + Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) + An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; + Fer John P. + Robinson he + Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener + + Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: + He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; + But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-- + He's been true to one party--an' thet is himself;-- + So John P. + Robinson he + Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. + + Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; + He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud; + Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, + But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? + So John P. + Robinson he + Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. + + We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, + With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint + We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, + An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint, + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. + + The side of our country must oilers be took, + An' Presidunt Polk' you know he is our country. + An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book + Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry + An' John P. + Robinson he + Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. + + Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; + Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum: + An' thet all this big talk of our destinies + Is half on it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum, + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez it aint no seek thing; an', of course, so must we. + + Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life + Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, + An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, + To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes, + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez they didn't know everthin' down in Judee. + + Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us + The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, + I vow, God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers + To start the world's team wen it gits in a Slough; + Fer John P. + Robinson he + Sez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! + + + + +II. THE COURTIN' + + God makes sech nights, all white an' still + Fur 'z you can look or listen, + Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, + All silence an' all glisten. + + Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown + An' peeked in thru' the winder, + An' there sot Huldy all alone, + 'Ith no one nigh to hender. + + A fireplace filled the room's one side + With half a cord o' wood in-- + There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) + To bake ye to a puddin'. + + The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out + Towards the pootiest, bless her, + An' leetle flames danced all about + The chiny on the dresser. + + Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, + An' in amongst 'em rusted + The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young + Fetched back from Concord busted. + + The very room, coz she was in, + Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', + An' she looked full ez rosy agin + Ez the apples she was peelin'. + + 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look + On seek a blessed cretur, + A dogrose blushin' to a brook + Ain't modester nor sweeter. + + He was six foot o' man, A 1, + Clean grit an' human natur'; + None couldn't quicker pitch a ton + Nor dror a furrer straighter. + + He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, + He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, + Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- + All is, he couldn't love 'em. + + But long o' her his veins 'ould run + All crinkly like curled maple, + The side she breshed felt full o' sun + Ez a south slope in Ap'il. + + She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing + Ez hisn in the choir; + My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, + She knowed the Lord was nigher. + + An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, + When her new meetin'-bunnet + Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair + O' blue eyes sot upun it. + + Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! + She seemed to 've gut a new soul, + For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, + Down to her very shoe-sole. + + She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu; + A-raspin' on the scraper,-- + All ways to once her feelin's flew + Like sparks in burnt-up paper. + + He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, + Some doubtfle o' the sekle, + His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, + But hern went pity Zekle. + + An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk + Ez though she wished him furder, + An' on her apples kep' to work, + Parin' away like murder. + + "you want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" + "Wal...no...I come dasignin'"-- + "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es + Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." + + To say why gals acts so or so, + Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; + Mebby to mean yes an' say no + Comes nateral to women. + + He stood a spell on one foot fust, + Then stood a spell on t'other, + An' on which one he felt the wust + He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. + + Says he, "I'd better call agin;" + Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" + Thet last word pricked him like a pin, + An'... Wal, he up an' kist her. + + When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, + Huldy sot pale ez ashes, + All kin' o' smily roun' the lips + An' teary roun' the lashes. + + For she was jes' the quiet kind + Whose naturs never vary, + Like streams that keep a summer mind + Snowhid in Jenooary. + + The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued + Too tight for all expressin', + Tell mother see how metters stood, + And gin 'em both her blessin'. + + Then her red come back like the tide + Down to the Bay o' Fundy, + An' all I know is they was cried + In meetin' come nex' Sunday. + + + + +III. SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE + + Once git a smell o' musk into a draw, + An' it clings hold like precerdents in law; + Your gra'ma'am put it there,--when, goodness knows,-- + To jes this--worldify her Sunday-clo'es; + But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife, + (For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?) + An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread + O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed, + Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides + To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides; + But better days stick fast in heart an' husk, + An' all you keep in't gits a scent o' musk. + Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly read + Git,s kind o' worked into their heart-an' head, + So 's 't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers + With furrin countries or played-out ideers, + Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smack + O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back. + This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things, + Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,-- + (Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink + Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,) + This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May, + Which 't ain't, for all the almanicks can say. + O little city-gals, don't never go it + Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet! + They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looks + Up in the country, ez it dons in books + They're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives, + Or printed sarmons be to holy lives. + I, with my trouses perched on cow-hide boots, + Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots, + Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse + Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's, + Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose, + An' dance your throats sore m morocker shoes + I've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would, + Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood. + Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch, + Ez though 'twuz sunthin' paid for by the inch; + But yit we du contrive to worry thru, + Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du, + An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out, + Ez stidchly ez though 'twaz a redoubt. + I, country-born an' bred, know where to find + Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind, + An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's notes,-- + Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, + Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl, + Each on 'em 's cradle to a baby-pearl,-- + But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin, + The rebble frosts'll try to drive 'em in; + For half our May's so awfully like Mayn't, + 'Twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint; + Though I own up I like our back'ard springs + Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, + An' when you most give up, 'ithout more words + Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds + Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt, + But when it doos git stirred, ther' 's no gin-out! + + Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, + An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,-- + Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned + Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind. + 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief, + The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, + Then saffern swarms swing off from' all the willers + So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, + Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfold + Softer'n a baby's be at three days old + Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knows + Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom-snows + So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse, + He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. + Then seems to come a hitch,--things lag behind, + Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind, + An' ez, when snow-swelled avers cresh their dams + Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, + A leak comes spirtin thru some pin-hole cleft, + Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, + Then all the waters bow themselves an' come + Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, + Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune + An gives one leap from April into June + Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think, + Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink + The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud; + The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; + Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, + An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; + The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade + An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade; + In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings + An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings; + All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers + The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, + Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try + With pins--they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby! + But I don't love your cat'logue style,--do you?-- + Ez ef to sell off Natur' b y vendoo; + One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two: + 'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year, + Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; + Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, + Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, + Or, givin' way to't in a mock despair, + Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. + I ollus feels the sap start in my veins + In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly pains, + Thet drive me, when I git a chance, to walk + Off by myself to hev a privit talk + With a queer critter thet can't seem to 'gree + Along o' me like most folks,--Mister Me. + Ther' 's times when I'm unsoshle ez a stone + An' sort o' suffocate to be alone,-- + I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh, + An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky; + Now the wind's full ez shifty in the mind + Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind, + An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather, + My innard vane pints east for weeks together, + My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sins + Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins: + Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' sight + An' take it out in a fair stan'-up fight + With the one cuss I can't lay on the shelf, + The crook'dest stick in all the heap,--Myself. + + 'Twuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'-time: + F'indin' my feelin's wouldn't noways rhyme + With nobody's, but off the hendle flew + An' took things from an east-wind pint o' view, + I started off to lose me in the hills + Where the pines be, up back o' Siah's Mills: + Pines, ef you're blue, are the best friends I know, + They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so,-- + They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I swan, + You half-forgit you've gut a body on. + "Ther' 's a small school'us' there where four road, meet, + The door-steps hollered out by little feet, + An side-posts carved with names whose owners grew + To gret men, some on 'em an' deacons, tu; + 'Tain't used no longer, coz the town hez gut + A high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut: + Three-story larnin' 's poplar now: I guess + We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories less, + For it strikes me ther' 's sech a thing ez sinnin' + By overloadin' children's underpinnin: + Wal, here it wuz I larned my A B C, + An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with me. + We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute + Thet ever fits us easy while we're in it; + Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twould be perfect bliss,-- + Soon ez it's past, thet time's wuth ten o' this + An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told + Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold. + A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan + An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man; + Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I enjoy + Like dreamin' back along into a boy: + So the ole school'us' is a place I choose + Afore all others, ef I want to muse; + I set down where I used to set, an' git + Diy boyhood back, an' better things with it,-- + Faith, Hope, an' sunthin' ef it isn't Cherrity, + It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret a rerrity. + Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath arternoon + Thet I sot out to tramp myself in tune, + I found me in the school'us' on my seat, + Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet. + Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say, + Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way: + It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew, + Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue. + + From this to thet I let my worryin' creep + Till finally I must ha' fell asleep. + + Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide + Twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each side, + Where both shores' shadders kind o' mix an' mingle + In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either single; + An' when you cast off moorin's from To-day, + An' down towards To-morrer drift away, + The imiges thet tengle on the stream + Make a new upside-down'ard world o' dream: + Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warnin's + O' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's, + An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite, + Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't gone right. + I'm gret on dreams: an' often, when I wake, + I've lived so much it makes my mem'ry ache, + An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer + 'Thout hevin' 'em, some good, some bad, all queer. + + Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed, + An' ain't sure yit whether I rally dreamed, + Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep', + When I hearn some un stompin' up the step, + An' lookirz' round, ef two an' two make four, + I see a Pilgrim Father in the door. + + He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' spurs + With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut-burrs, + An' his gret sword behind him sloped away + Long'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say.-- + "Ef your name's Biglow, an' your given-name + Hosee," sez he, "it's arter you I came; + I'm your gret-gran they multiplied by three." + "My wut?" sez I.--your gret-gret-gret," sez he: + "You wouldn't ha' never ben here but for me. + Two hundred an' three year ago this May, + The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay; + I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,-- + But wut on girth hev ,you gut up one for? + Coz we du things in England, 'tain't for you + To git a notion you can du 'em tu: + I'm told you write in public prints: ef true, + It's nateral you should know a thing or two."-- + "Thet air's an argymunt I can't endorse,-- + 'Twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a horse: + + But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go, + How in all Natur' did you come to know + 'Bout our affairs," sez I "in Kingdom-Come?"-- + "Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some, + An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone, + In hopes o' larnin wut wuz goin' on," + Sez he, "but mejums lie so like all-split + Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit. + But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin', + You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'."-- + "Gran'ther," sez I, "a vane warn't never known + Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own; + An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints, + It's safe to trust its say on certin pints + It knows the wind's opinions to a T, + An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be." + "I never thought a scion of our stock + Could grow the wood to make a weathercock; + When I wuz younger'n you, skurce more'n a shaver, + No airthly wind," sez he, "could make me waver!" + (Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead, + Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.) + "Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I, "I swow, + When I wuz younger'n wut you see me now,-- + Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet, + Thet I warm't full-cocked with my jedgment on it; + But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find + It's a sight harder to make up my mind,-- + Nor I don't often try tu, when events + Will du it for me free of all expense. + The moral question's ollus plain enough,-- + It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough; + Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,-- + The pinch comes in decidin' wut to du; + Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease, + Coz there the men ain't nothin' more'n idees,-- + But come to make it, ez we must to-day, + Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way + It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,-- + They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with nigers; + But come to try your the'ry on,--why, then + Your facts an' figgers change to ign'ant men + Actin' ez ugly--"--"Smite 'em hip an' thigh!" + Sez gran'ther, "and let every man-child die! + Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord! + Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword! + "Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee, + But you forgit how long it's hen A.D.; + You think thet's ellerkence--I call it shoddy, + A thing," sez I, "wun't cover soul nor body; + I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense, + Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence. + You took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned. + An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second; + Now, wut I want's to hev all we gain stick, + An' not to start Millennium too quick; + We hain't to punish only, but to keep, + An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep" + "Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue," + Sez he, "an' so you'll find before you're thru; + + "Strike soon," sez he, "or you'll be deadly ailin'-- + Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; + God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe + He'll settle things they run away an' leave!" + He brought his foot down fiercely, ez he spoke, + An' give me sech a startle thet I woke. + + + + +AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE + + What visionary tints the year puts on, + When failing leaves falter through motionless air + Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! + How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, + As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills + The bowl between me and those distant hills, + And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair! + + No more the landscape holds its wealth apart. + Making me poorer in my poverty, + But mingles with my senses and my heart; + My own projected spirit seems to me + In her own reverie the world to steep; + 'Tis she that waves to sympathetic sleep, + Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill, and tree. + + How fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees, + Clasped by the faint horizon's languid arms, + Each into each, the hazy distances! + The softened season all the landscape charms; + Those hills, my native village that embay, + In waves of dreamier purple roll away, + And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms. + + Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee + Close at my side; far distant sound the leaves; + The fields seem fields of dream, where Memory + Wanders like gleaning Ruth; and as the sheaves + Of wheat and barley wavered in the eye + Of Boaz as the maiden's glow went by, + So tremble and seem remote all things the sense receives. + + The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn, + Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates, + Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne, + Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's Straits; + Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails; + Silently overhead the henhawk sails, + With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits. + + The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, + Leeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer; + The squirrel on the shingly shagbark's bough, + Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear, + Then drops his nut, and, with a chipping bound, + Whisks to his winding fastness underground; + The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere. + + O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows + Drowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman's call + Creeps, faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows; + The single crow a single caw lets fall + And all around me every bush and tree + Says Autumn's here, and Winter soon will + Who snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all. + + The birch, most shy and lady-like of trees, + Her poverty, as best she may, retrieves, + And hints at her foregone gentilities + With some saved relics of her wealth of leaves + The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on, + Glares red as blood across the sinking sun, + As one who proudlier to a falling fortune cleaves + + He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt, + Who, mid some council of the sad-garbed whites, + Erect and stern, in his own memories lapt, + With distant eye broods over other sights, + Sees the hushed wood the city's flare replace, + The wounded turf heal o'er the railway's trace, + And roams the savage Past of his undwindled rights. + + The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost, + And, with his crumpled foliage stiff and dry, + After the first betrayal of the frost, + Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky; + The chestnuts, lavish of their long-hid gold, + To the faint Summer, beggared now and old, + Pour back the sunshine hoarded 'neath her favoring eye. + + The ash her purple drops forgivingly + And sadly, breaking not the general hush; + The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea, + Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush; + All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze; + Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days, + Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush. + + O'er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone, + Where vines, and weeds, and scrub-oaks intertwine + Safe from the plough, whose rough, discordant stone + Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine, + The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves + A prickly network of ensanguined leaves; + Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine. + + Pillaring with flame this crumbling boundary, + Whose loose blocks topple 'neath the ploughboy's foot, + Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye, + Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot, + The woodbine up the elm's straight stem aspires. + Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal fires; + In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute. + + Below, the Charles--a stripe of nether sky, + Now hid by rounded apple-trees between, + Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by, + Now flickering golden through a woodland screen, + Then spreading out at his next turn beyond, + A silver circle like an inland pond-- + Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green. + + Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sight + Who cannot in their various incomes share, + From every season drawn, of shade and light, + Who sees in them but levels brown and bare; + Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free + On them its largesse of variety, + For nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare. + + In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green, + O'er which the light winds run with glimmering feet; + Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen + here, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet; + And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, + As if the silent shadow of a cloud + Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet. + + All round, upon the river's slippery edge, + Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide, + Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling sedge; + Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide, + Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun, + And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run + Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide. + + In Summer 'tis a blithesome sight to see, + As step by step, with measured swing, they pass, + The wide-ranked mowers evading to the knee, + Their sharp scythes panting through the thick-set grass + Then, stretched beneath a rick's shade in a ring, + Their nooning take, while one begins to sing + A stave that droops and dies 'neath the close sky of brass. + + Meanwhile the devil-may-care, the bobolink, + Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops + Just ere he sweeps O'er rapture's tremulous brink, + And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops, + A decorous bird of business, who provides + For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, + And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops. + + Another change subdues them in the Fall, + But saddens not, they still show merrier tints, + Though sober russet seems to cover all; + When the first sunshine through their dew-drops glints, + Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across, + Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss, + As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints. + + Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest, + Lean o'er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill, + While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west, + Glow opposite; the marshes drink their fill + And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade + Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade, + Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond's darkening hill. + + Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts, + Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates, + And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts, + While the firmer ice the eager boy awaits, + Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire, + And until bedtime--plays with his desire, + Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates;-- + + Then, every morn, the river's banks shine bright + With smooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail, + By the frost's clinking hammers forged at night, + "Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail, + Giving a pretty emblem of the day + When guitar arms in light shall melt away, + And states shall move free limbed, loosed from war's cramping + mail. + + And now those waterfalls the ebbing river + Twice everyday creates on either side + Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiver + In grass-arched channels to the sun denied; + High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow, + The silvered flats gleam frostily below, + Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide. + + But, crowned in turn by vying seasons three, + Their winter halo hath a fuller ring; + This glory seems to rest immovably,-- + The others were too fleet and vanishing; + When the hid tide is at its highest flow, + O'er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snow + With brooding fulness awes and hushes everything. + + The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind, + As pale as formal candles lit by day; + Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind; + The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play, + Show pearly breakers combing o'er their lee, + White crests as of some just enchanted sea, + Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised midway. + + But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant, + From mid-sea's prairies green and rolling plains + Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt, + And the roused Charles remembers in his veins + Old Ocean's blood and snaps his gyves of frost, + That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost + In dreary wreck, and crumbling desolation reigns. + + Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like device, + With leaden pools between or gullies bare, + The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stonehenge of ice; + No life, no sound, to break the grim despair, + Save sullen plunge, as through the sedges stiff + Down crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff, + Or ashen the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there. + + But let me turn from fancy-pictured scenes + To that whose pastoral calm before me lies: + Here nothing harsh or rugged intervenes; + The early evening with her misty dyes + Smooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh, + Relieves the distant with her cooler sky, + And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes + + There gleams my native village, dear to me, + Though higher change's waves each day are seen, + Whelming fields famed in boyhood's history, + Sanding with houses the diminished green; + There, in red brick, which softening time defies, + Stand square and stiff the Muses' factories; + How with my life knit up is every well-known scene! + + Flow on, dear river! not alone you flow + To outward sight, and through your marshes wind; + Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago, + Your twin flows silent through my world of mind + Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening's gray! + Before my inner sight ye stretch away, + And will forever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind. + + + + +A FABLE FOR CRITICS + +(Selections) + +I. Emerson. + + "There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, + Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on, + Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows, + Is some of it pr---- No, 'tis not even prose; + I'm speaking of metres; some poems have welled + From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been excelled; + They're not epics, but that doesn't matter a pin, + In creating, the only hard thing's to begin; + A grass-blade's no easier to make than an oak, + If you've once found the way you've achieved the grand stroke; + In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter, + But thrown in a heap with a crash and a clatter + Now it is not one thing nor another alone + Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, + The something pervading, uniting, the whole, + The before unconceived, unconceivable soul, + So that just in removing this trifle or that, you + Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue; + Roots, wood, bark, and leaves, singly perfect may be, + But, clapt bodge-podge together, they don't make a tree. + + "But, to come back to Emerson, (whom by the way, + I believe we left waiting,)--his is, we may say, + A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range + Has Olympus for one pole, for t' other the Exchange; + Life, nature, lore, God, and affairs of that sort, + He looks at as merely ideas; in short, + As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet, + Of such vast extent that our earth's a mere dab in it; + Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, + Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure lecturer; + You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration, + Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion, + With the quiet precision of science he'll sort em, + But you can't help suspecting the whole a post mortem. + + +II. Bryant. + + "There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified, + As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified, + Save when by reflection 'tis kindled o' nights, + With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Nights. + He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation, + + (There's no doubt that he stands in supreme iceolation,) + Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, + But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on-- + He's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on: + Unqualified merits, I'll grant, if you choose, he has em, + But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm; + If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, + Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. + + "He is very nice reading in summer, but inter + Nos, we don't want extra freezing in winter; + Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is, + When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. + But, deduct all you can, there's enough that's right good in + him, + He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him; + And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is, + Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities, + To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet? + No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their lime stone and + granite. + + +III. Whinier. + + "There is Whinier, whose swelling and vehement heart + Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, + And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect, + Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect; + There was ne'er a man born who had more of the swing + Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing; + And his failures arise, (though perhaps he don't know it,) + From the very same cause that has made him a poet,-- + A fervor of mind which knows no separation + 'Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration, + As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from not knowing + If 'twere I or mere wind through her tripod was blowing; + Let his mind once get head in its favorite direction + And the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflection, + While, borne with the rush of the metre along, + The poet may chance to go right or go wrong, + Content with the whirl and delirium of song; + Then his grammar's not always correct, nor his rhymes, + And he's prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes, + Not his best, though, for those are struck off at white-heats + When the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer beats + And can ne'er be repeated again any more + Than they could have been carefully plotted before + "All honor and praise to the right-hearted bard + Who was true to The Voice when such service was hard, + Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave + When to look but a protest in silence was brave; + + +IV. Hawthorne. + + 'There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare + That you hardly at first see the strength that is there; + A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet, + So earnest, so graceful, so solid, so fleet, + Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet; + 'Tis as if a rough oak that for ages had stood, + With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood + Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe, + With a single anemone trembly and rathe; + His strength is so tender; his wildness so meek, + That a suitable parallel sets one to seek-- + He's a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puritan Tieck; + When nature was shaping him, clay was not granted + For making so full-sized a man as she wanted, + So, to fill out her model, a little she spared + From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared. + And she could not have hit a more excellent plan + For making him fully and perfectly man. + The success of her scheme gave her so much delight, + That she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight, + Only, while she was kneading and shaping the clay, + She sang to her work in her sweet childish way, + And found, when she'd put the last touch to his soul, + That the music had somehow got mixed with the whole. + + +V. Cooper. + + "Here's Cooper, who's written six volumes to show + He's as good as a lord: well, let's grant that he's so; + If a person prefer that description of praise, + Why, a coronet's certainly cheaper than bays; + But he need take no pains to convince us he's not + (As his enemies say) the American Scott. + Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud + That one of his novels of which he's most proud, + And I'd lay any bet that, without ever quitting + Their box, they'd be all, to a man, for acquitting. + He has drawn you he's character, though, that is new, + One wildflower he's plucked that is wet with the dew + Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince, + He has done naught but copy it ill ever since; + His Indians, with proper respect be it said, + Are just Natty Bumpo daubed over with red, + And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, + Rigged up in duck pants and a sou'-wester hat, + (Though once in a Coffin, a good chance was found + To have slipt the old fellow away underground.) + All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks + The derniere chemise of a man in a fix, + (As a captain besieged, when his garrison's small, + bets up caps upon poles to be seen o'er the wall;) + And the women he draws from one model don't vary, + All sappy as maples and flat as a prairie. + When a character's wanted, he goes to the task + As a cooper would do in composing a cask; + He picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful, + Just hoops them together as tight as is needful, + And, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he + Has made at the most something wooden and empty. + + "Don't suppose I would underrate Cooper's abilities + If I thought you'd do that, I should feel very ill at ease; + The men who have given to one character life + And objective existence, are not very rife, + You may number them all, both prose-writers and singers, + Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers, + And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker + Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar. + + "There is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that is + That on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis, + Not precisely so either, because, for a rarity, + He is paid for his tickets in unpopularity. + Now he may overcharge his American pictures, + But you'll grant there's a good deal of truth in his + strictures; + And I honor the man who is willing to sink + Half his present repute for the freedom to think, + And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, + Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak, + Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store, + Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower. + + +VI. Poe and Longfellow. + + "There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, + Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge, + Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, + In a way to make people of common-sense damn metres, + Who has written some things quite the best of their kind, + But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind, + Who--but hey-day! What's this? Messieurs Mathews and Poe, + You mustn't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so, + Does it make a man worse that his character's such + As to make his friends love him (as you thin) too much? + Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive + More willing than he that his fellows should thrive, + While you are abusing him thus, even now + He would help either one of you out of a dough; + You may say that he's smooth and all that till you're hoarse + But remember that elegance also is force; + After polishing granite as much as you will, + The heart keeps its tough old persistency still; + Deduct all you can that still keeps you at bay, + Why, he'll live till men weary of Collins and Gray. + + 'Tis truth that I speak + Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, + I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change a line + In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline. + That's not ancient nor modern, its place is apart + Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art, + 'Tis a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife + As quiet and chaste as the author's own life. + + +VII. Irving. + + "What! Irving? thrice welcome, warm heart and fine brain, + You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, + And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there + Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair; + Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching,-- + I shan't run directly against my own preaching, + And, having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, + Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; + But allow me to speak what I honestly feel,-- + To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, + Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, + With the whole of that partnership's stock and good will, + Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell, + The fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well, + Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain + That only the finest and clearest remain, + Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives + From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, + And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving + A name either English or Yankee,--just Irving. + + +VIII. Holmes. + + "There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; + A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit + The electrical tingles of hit after hit; + In long poems 'tis painful sometimes, and invites + A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, + Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully + As if you got more than you'd title to rightfully, + And you find yourself hoping its wild father Lightning + Would flame in for a second and give you fright'ning. + He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre, + But many admire it, the English pentameter, + And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, + With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse, + Nor e'er achieved aught in 't so worthy of praise + As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise. + You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon; + Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on, + Heaping verses on verses and tames upon tomes, + He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Holmes. + His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric + Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satyric + In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes + That are trodden upon are your own or your foes'. + + +IX. Lowell. + + "There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb + With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, + He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, + But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders + The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching + Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching; + His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, + But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell + And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, + At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem. + + +X. Spirit of Ancient Poetry. + + "My friends, in the happier days of the muse, + We were luckily free from such things as reviews, + Then naught came between with its fog to make clearer + The heart of the poet to that of his hearer; + Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they + Felt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay; + Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul + Pre-created the future, both parts of one whole; + Then for him there was nothing too great or too small. + For one natural deity sanctified all; + Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods + Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods + O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods + He asked not earth's verdict, forgetting the clods, + His soul soared and sang to an audience of gods. + 'Twas for them that he measured the thought and the line, + And shaped for their vision the perfect design, + With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true, + As swung out the worlds in the infinite blue; + Then a glory and greatness invested man's heart + The universal, which now stands estranged and apart, + In the free individual moulded, was Art; + Then the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with desire + For something as yet unattained, fuller, higher, + As once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening, + And her whole upward soul in her countenance glistening, + Eurydice stood--like a beacon unfired, + Which, once touched with flame, will leap heav'nward inspired-- + And waited with answering kindle to mark + The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark. + Then painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve + the need that men feel to create and believe, + And as, in all beauty, who listens with love + Hears these words oft repeated--'beyond and above.' + So these seemed to be but the visible sign + Of the grasp of the soul after things more divine; + They were ladders the Artist erected to climb + O'er the narrow horizon of space and of time, + And we see there the footsteps by which men had gained + To the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained, + As shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod + The last spurning print of a sky-cleaving god. + + + + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + + + + +OLD IRONSIDES + + Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! + Long has it waved on high, + And many an eye has danced to see + That banner in the sky; + Beneath it rung the battle shout, + And burst the cannon's roar;-- + The meteor of the ocean air + Shall sweep the clouds no more! + + Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, + Where knelt the vanquished foe, + When winds were hurrying o'er the floods + And waves were white below, + No more shall feel the victor's tread, + Or know the conquered knee;-- + The harpies of the shore shall pluck + The eagle of the sea! + + O better that her shattered hulk + Should sink beneath the wave; + Her thunders shook the mighty deep, + And there should be her grave; + Nail to the mast her holy flag, + Set every threadbare sail, + And give her to the god of storms, + The lightning and the gale! + + + + +THE LAST LEAF + + I saw him once before, + As he passed by the door, + And again + The pavement stones resound, + As he totters o'er the ground + With his cane. + + They say that in his prime, + Ere the pruning-knife of Time + Cut him down, + Not a better man was found, + By the Crier on his round + Through the town. + + But now he walks the streets, + And he looks at all he meets + Sad and wan, + And he shakes his feeble head, + That it seems as if he said, + "They are gone." + + The mossy marbles rest + On the lips that he has prest + In their bloom, + And the names he loved to hear + Have been carved for many a year + On the tomb. + + My grandmamma has said-- + Poor old lady, she is dead + Long ago-- + That he had a Roman nose, + And his cheek was like a rose + In the snow. + + But now his nose is thin, + And it rests upon his chin + Like a staff, + And a crock is in his back, + And a melancholy crack + In his laugh. + + I know it is a sin + For me to sit and grin + At him here; + But the old three-cornered hat, + And the breeches, and all that, + Are so queer! + + And if I should live to be + The last leaf upon the tree + In the spring, + Let them smile, as I do now, + At the old forsaken bough + Where I cling. + + + + +MY AUNT + + My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! + Long years have o'er her flown; + Yet still she strains the aching clasp + That binds her virgin zone; + I know it hurts her,--though she looks + As cheerful as she can; + Her waist is ampler than her life, + For life is but a span. + + My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! + Her hair is almost gray; + Why will she train that winter curl + In such a spring-like way? + How can she lay her glasses down, + And say she reads as well, + When through a double convex lens, + She just makes out to spell? + + Her father--grandpapa! forgive + This erring lip its smiles-- + Vowed she should make the finest girl + Within a hundred miles; + He sent her to a stylish school; + 'Twas in her thirteenth June; + And with her, as the rules required, + "Two towels and a spoon." + + They braced my aunt against a board, + To make her straight and tall; + They laced her up, they starved her down, + To make her light and small; + They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, + They screwed it up with pins;-- + O never mortal suffered more + In penance for her sins. + + So, when my precious aunt was done, + My grandsire brought her back; + (By daylight, lest some rabid youth + Might follow on the track;) + "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook + Some powder in his pan, + "What could this lovely creature do + Against a desperate man!" + + Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, + Nor bandit cavalcade, + Tore from the trembling father's arms + His all-accomplished maid. + For her how happy had it been! + And Heaven had spared to me + To see one sad, ungathered rose + On my ancestral tree. + + + + +THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS + + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, + Sails the unshadowed main,-- + The venturous bark that flings + On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings + In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, + And coral reefs lie bare, + Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. + + Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; + Wrecked is the ship of pearl! + And every chambered cell, + Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, + As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, + Before thee lies revealed,-- + Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! + + Year after year beheld the silent toil + That spread his lustrous coil; + Mill, as the spiral grew, + He left the past year's dwelling for the new, + Stole with soft step its shining archway through, + Built up its idle door, + Stretched m his last-found home, and knew the old no more. + + Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, + Child of the wandering sea, + Cast from her lap, forlorn! + From thy dead lips a clearer note is born + Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! + While on mine ear it rings, + Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- + + Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll! + Leave thy low-vaulted past! + Let each new temple, nobler than the last, + Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, + Till thou at length art free, + Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! + + + + +CONTENTMENT + + "Man wants but little here below." + Little I ask; my wants are few; + I only wish a hut of stone, + (A very plain, brown stone' will do,) + That I may call my own; + And close at hand is such a one, + In yonder street that fronts the sun. + + Plain food is quite enough for me; + Three courses are as good as ten; + If Nature can subsist on three, + Thank Heaven for three. Amen! + I always thought cold victual nice;-- + My choice would be vanilla-ice. + + I care not much for gold or land; + Give me a mortgage here and there, + Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, + Or trifling railroad share,-- + I only ask that Fortune send + A little more than I shall spend. + + Honors are silly toys, I know, + And titles are but empty names; + I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,-- + But only near St. James; + I'm very sure I should not care + To fill our Gubernator's chair. + + Jewels are bawbles; 'tis a sin + To care for such unfruitful things; + One good-sized diamond in a pin,-- + Some, not so large, in rings,-- + A ruby, and a pearl, or so, + Will do for me;--I laugh at show. + + My dame should dress in cheap attire; + (Good, heavy silks are never dear;) + I own perhaps I might desire + Some shawls of true Cashmere,-- + Some marrowy crapes of China silk, + Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. + + I would not have the horse I drive + So fast that folks must stop and stare; + An easy gait--two, forty-five-- + Suits me; I do not care; + Perhaps, for just a single spurt, + Some seconds less would do no hurt. + + Of pictures, I should like to own + Titians and Raphaels three or four, + I love so much their style and tone,-- + One Turner, and no more, + (A landscape,--foreground golden dirt,-- + The sunshine painted with a 'squirt.) + + Of books but few,--some fifty score + For daily use, and bound for wear; + The rest upon an upper floor;-- + Some little luxury there + Of red morocco's gilded gleam, + And vellum rich as country cream. + + Busts, cameos, gems,--such things as these, + Which others often show for pride, + I value for their power to please, + And selfish churls deride;-- + One Stradivarius, I confess, + Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess. + + Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn + Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; + Shall not carved tables serve my turn, + But all must be of buhl? + Give grasping pomp its double share,-- + I ask but one recumbent chair. + + Thus humble let me live and die, + Nor long for Midas' golden touch; + If Heaven more generous gifts deny, + I shall not miss them much,-- + Too grateful for the blessing lent + Of simple tastes and mind content! + + + + +THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; + +or + +THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY" + + A LOGICAL STORY + + Have you heard of the wonderful one-horse shay, + That was built in such a logical way + It ran a hundred years to a day, + And then, of a sudden, it--ah but stay, + I'll tell you what happened without delay, + Scaring the parson into fits, + Frightening people out of their wits, + Have you ever heard of that, I say? + + Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, + Georgius Secundus was then alive, + Snuffy old drone from the German hive. + That was the year when Lisbon-town + Saw the earth open and gulp her down + And Braddock's army was done so brown, + Left without a scalp to its crown. + It was on the terrible Earthquake-day + That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. + + Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, + There is always somewhere a weakest spot,-- + In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, + In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, + In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still, + Find it somewhere you must and will,-- + Above or below, or within or without,-- + And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, + That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. + + But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, + With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") + He would build one shay to beat the taown + 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; + It should be so built that it couldn' break daown, + "Fur," said the Deacon, "It's mighty plain + Thut the weakes' place mus' Stan' the strain; + 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, + Is only jest + T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." + + So the Deacon inquired of the village folk + Where he could find the strongest oak, + That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, + That was for spokes and floor and sills; + He sent for lancewood to make the thins; + The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees. + The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, + But lasts like iron for things like these; + The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- + + Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, + Never an axe had seen their chips, + And the wedges flew from between their lips, + Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; + Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, + Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, + Steel of the finest, bright and blue; + Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; + Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide + Found in the pit when the tanner died. + That was the way he "put her through." + "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" + + Do! I tell you, I rather guess + She was a wonder, and nothing less! + Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, + Deacon and deaconess dropped away, + Children and grandchildren--where were they? + But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay + As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day + + EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found + The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. + Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- + "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. + Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- + Running as usual; much the same. + Thirty and forty at last arrive, + And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. + + Little of all we value here + Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year + Without both feeling and looking queer. + In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, + So far as I know but a tree and truth. + (This is a moral that runs at large; + Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.) + + FIRST of NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day-- + There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, + A general flavor of mild decay, + But nothing local, as one may say. + There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art + Had made it so like in every part + That there wasn't a chance for one to start. + For the wheels were just as strong as the thins, + And the floor was just as strong as the sills, + And the panels just as strong as the floors + And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, + And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, + And spring and axle and hub encore. + And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt + In another hour it will be worn out! + + First of November, 'Fifty-five! + This morning the parson takes a drive. + Now, small boys, get out of the way! + Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, + Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. + "Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they. + The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- + Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed + At what the--Moses--was coming next. + + All at once the horse stood still, + Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. + First a shiver, and then a thrill, + Then something decidedly like a spill,-- + And the parson was sitting upon a rock, + At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock-- + Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! + + What do you think the parson found, + When he got up and stared around? + The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, + As if it had been to the mill and ground! + You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, + How it went to pieces all at once, + All at once, and nothing first, + Just as bubbles do when they burst. + + End of the wonderful one-boss shay. + Logic is logic. That's all I say. + + + + +THOMAS BUCHANAN READ + + + + +STORM ON ST. BERNARD + + Oh, Heaven, it is a fearful thing + Beneath the tempest's beating wing + To struggle, like a stricken hare + When swoops the monarch bird of air; + To breast the loud winds' fitful spasms, + To brave the cloud and shun the chasms, + Tossed like a fretted shallop-sail + Between the ocean and the gale. + + Along the valley, loud and fleet, + The rising tempest leapt and roared, + And scaled the Alp, till from his seat + The throned Eternity of Snow + His frequent avalanches poured + In thunder to the storm below. + + And now, to crown their fears, a roar + Like ocean battling with the shore, + Or like that sound which night and day + Breaks through Niagara's veil of spray, + From some great height within the cloud, + + To some unmeasured valley driven, + Swept down, and with a voice so loud + It seemed as it would shatter heaven! + The bravest quailed; it swept so near, + It made the ruddiest cheek to blanch, + While look replied to look in fear, + "The avalanche! The avalanche!" + It forced the foremost to recoil, + Before its sideward billows thrown,-- + Who cried, "O God! Here ends our toil! + The path is overswept and gone!" + + The night came down. The ghostly dark, + Made ghostlier by its sheet of snow, + Wailed round them its tempestuous wo, + Like Death's announcing courier! "Hark + There, heard you not the alp-hound's bark? + And there again! and there! Ah, no, + 'Tis but the blast that mocks us so!" + + Then through the thick and blackening mist + Death glared on them, and breathed so near, + Some felt his breath grow almost warm, + The while he whispered in their ear + Of sleep that should out-dream the storm. + Then lower drooped their lids,--when, "List! + Now, heard you not the storm-bell ring? + And there again, and twice and thrice! + Ah, no, 'tis but the thundering + Of tempests on a crag of ice!" + + Death smiled on them, and it seemed good + On such a mellow bed to lie + The storm was like a lullaby, + And drowsy pleasure soothed their blood. + But still the sturdy, practised guide + His unremitting labour plied; + Now this one shook until he woke, + And closer wrapt the other's cloak,-- + Still shouting with his utmost breath, + To startle back the hand of Death, + Brave words of cheer! "But, hark again,-- + Between the blasts the sound is plain; + The storm, inhaling, lulls,--and hark! + It is--it is! the alp-dog's bark + And on the tempest's passing swell-- + The voice of cheer so long debarred-- + There swings the Convent's guiding-bell, + The sacred bell of Saint Bernard!" + + + + +DRIFTING + + + My soul to-day + Is far away, + Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; + My winged boat + A bird afloat, + Swings round the purple peaks remote:-- + + Round purple peaks + It sails, and seeks + Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, + Where high rocks throw, + Through deeps below, + A duplicated golden glow. + + Far, vague, and dim, + The mountains swim; + While an Vesuvius' misty brim, + With outstretched hands, + The gray smoke stands + O'erlooking the volcanic lands. + + Here Ischia smiles + O'er liquid miles; + And yonder, bluest of the isles, + Calm Capri waits, + Her sapphire gates + Beguiling to her bright estates. + + I heed not, if + My rippling skiff + Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Under the walls of Paradise. + + Under the walls + Where swells and falls + The Bay's deep breast at intervals + At peace I lie, + Blown softly by, + A cloud upon this liquid sky. + + The day, so mild, + Is Heaven's own child, + With Earth and Ocean reconciled; + The airs I feel + Around me steal + Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. + + Over the rail + My hand I trail + Within the shadow of the sail, + A joy intense, + The cooling sense + Glides down my drowsy indolence. + + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Where Summer sings and never dies, + O'erveiled with vines + She glows and shines + Among her future oil and wines. + + Her children, hid + The cliffs amid, + Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; + Or down the walls, + With tipsy calls, + Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. + + The fisher's child, + With tresses wild, + Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, + With glowing lips + Sings as she skips, + Or gazes at the far-off ships. + + Yon deep bark goes + Where traffic blows, + From lands of sun to lands of snows; + This happier one,-- + Its course is run + From lands of snow to lands of sun. + + O happy ship, + To rise and dip, + With the blue crystal at your lip! + O happy crew, + My heart with you + Sails, and sails, and sings anew! + + No more, no more + The worldly shore + Upbraids me with its loud uproar + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Under the walls of Paradise! + + + + +WALT WHITMAN + + + + +PIONEERS! O PIONEERS! + +(Selection) + + Come, my tan-faced children, + Follow well in order, get your weapons ready; + Have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes? + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + For we cannot tarry here; + We must march, my darlings, we must bear the brunt of + danger, + We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, + Pioneers! O pioneers + + O you youths, Western youths, + So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and + friendship, + Plain I see you, Western youths, see you tramping with the + foremost, + Pioneers! O pioneers + + Have the elder races halted? + Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there + beyond the seas? + We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the + lesson, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + All the past we leave behind, + We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world; + Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and + the march, + Pioneers! O pioneers + + We detachments steady throwing, + Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains + steep, + Conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the + unknown ways, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + We primeval forests felling, + We the rivers stemming, vexing and piercing deep the mines + within, + We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil + upheaving, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Colorado men are we; + From the peaks gigantic, from the great Sierras and the + high plateaus, + From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail, + we come, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + From Nebraska, from Arkansas, + Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the + continental blood intervein'd; + All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all + the Northern, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + O resistless restless race! + O beloved race in all! O my-breast aches with tender love + for all! + O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Raise the mighty mother mistress, + Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry + mistress (bend your heads all), + Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, + weapon'd mistress, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + See, my children, resolute children, + By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or + falter, + Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us + urging, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + On and on the compact ranks, + With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead + quickly fill'd, + Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never + stopping, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Minstrels latent on the prairies + (Shrouded bards of other lands, you may rest, you have + done your work), + Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp + amid us, + Pioneers! 0 pioneers! + + Not for delectations sweet, + Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful, and the + studious, + Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame + enjoyment, + Pioneers! O Pioneers! + + Do the feasters gluttonous feast? + Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and + bolted doors? + Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the + ground, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Has the night descended? + Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged + nodding on our way? + Yet a passing hour I yield you in your tracks to pause + oblivious, + Pioneers! 0 pioneers + + Till with sound of trumpet, + Far, far off the daybreak call--hark! how loud and clear I + hear it wind! + Swift! to the head of the army!--swift! Spring to your + places, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + + + +O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! + + O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done + The ship has weather'd every rack; the prize we sought is won; + The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, + While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring. + But O heart! heart! heart! + O the bleeding drops of red, + Where on the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; + Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills-- + For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding + For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning. + Here, Captain! dear father! + This arm beneath your head! + It is some dream that on the deck + You've fallen cold and dead. + + My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; + My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. + The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; + From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won. + Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! + But I with mournful tread + Walk the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + + + + +NOTES + + +ANNE DUDLEY BRADSTREET + +"One wishes she were more winning: yet there is no gainsaying that she +was clever; wonderfully well instructed for those days; a keen and close +observer; often dexterous in her verse--catching betimes upon epithets +that are very picturesque: But--the Tenth Muse is too rash." + + --DONALD G. MITCHELL. + +Born in England, she married at sixteen and came to Boston, where she +always considered herself an exile. In 1644 her husband moved deeper +into the wilderness and there "the first professional poet of New +England" wrote her poems and brought up a family of eight children. +Her English publisher called her the "Tenth Muse, lately sprung up +in America." + + +CONTEMPLATION + +2. Phoebus: Apollo, the Greek sun god, hence in poetry the sun. +7. delectable giving pleasure. +13. Dight: adorned. + + + +MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH (1631-1705) + +"He was, himself, in nearly all respects, the embodiment of what was +great earnest, and sad, in Colonial New England.... In spite, however, +of all offences, of all defects, there are in his poetry an irresistible +sincerity, a reality, a vividness, reminding one of similar qualities in +the prose of John Bunyan." + + M. C. TYLER. + +Born in England, he was brought to America at the age of seven. He +graduated from Harvard College and then became a preacher. He later +added the profession of medicine and practiced both professions. + + +THE DAY of DOOM + +There seems to be no doubt that this poem was the most popular piece of +literature, aside from the Bible, in the New England Puritan colonies. +Children memorized it, and its considerable length made it sufficient for +many Sunday afternoons. Notice the double attempt at rhyme; the first, +third, fifth, and seventh lines rhyme within themselves; the second line +rhymes with the fourth, the sixth with the eighth. The pronunciation in +such lines as 35, 77, 79, 93, 99, 105, and 107 requires adaptation to +rhyme, as does the grammar in line 81, for example. + +3. carnal: belonging merely to this world as opposed to spiritual. + +11-15. See Matthew 25: 1-13. + +40. wonted steads: customary places + + + +PHILIP FRENEAU (1752-1832) + +"The greatest poet born in America before the Revolutionary War.... His +best poems are a few short lyrics, remarkable for their simplicity, +sincerity, and love of nature." + + -REUBEN P. HALLECK. + +Born in New York, he graduated from Princeton at the age of nineteen and +became school teacher, sea captain, interpreter, editor, and poet. He +lost his way in a severe storm and was found dead the next day. + + +TO A HONEY BEE + +29-30. Pharaoh: King of Egypt in the time of Joseph, who perished in the +Red Sea. See Exodus, Chapter xiv. + +34. epitaph: an inscription in memory of the dead. + +36. Charon: the Greek mythical boatman on the River Styx. + + +EUTAW SPRINGS + +Eutaw Springs. Sept. 8th 1781, the Americans under General Greene fought +a battle which was successful for the Americans, since Georgia and the +Carolinas were freed from English invasion. + +21. Greene: Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island was one of the men who +became a leader early in the war and who in spite of opposition and +failure stood by the American cause through all the hard days of the war. + +25. Parthian: the soldiers of Parthia were celebrated as horse-archers. +Their mail-clad horseman spread like a cloud round the hostile army and +poured in a shower of darts. Then they evaded any closer conflict by a +rapid flight, during which they still shot their arrows backwards upon +the enemy. See Smith, Classical Dictionary. + + + +FRANCIS HOPKINSON (1737-1791) + +He was "a mathematician, a chemist, a physicist, a mechanician, an +inventor, a musician and a composer of music, a man of literary knowledge +and practice, a writer of airy and dainty songs, a clever artist with +pencil and brush, and a humorist of unmistakable power." + + --MOSES COLT TYLER. + +Born in Philadelphia, he graduated from the College of Philadelphia and +began the practice of law. He signed the Declaration of Independence and +held various offices under the federal government. "The Battle of the +Kegs" is his best-known production. + + +THE BATTLE of THE KEGS + +59. Stomach: courage. + + + +JOSEPH HOPKINSON (1770-1842) + +"His legal essays and decisions were long accepted as authoritative; but +he will be longest remembered for his national song, 'Hail Columbia,' +written in 1798, which attained immediate popularity and did much to +fortify wavering patriotism." + + --NEW INTERNATIONAL ENCYCLOPEDIA + +THE BALLAD of NATHAN HALE + +For the story of Nathan Hale see any good history of the American +Revolution. He is honored by the students of Yale as one of its noblest +graduates, and the building in which he lived has been remodeled and +marked with a memorial tablet, while a bronze statue stands before it. +This is the last of Yale's old buildings and will now remain for many +years. + +31. minions: servile favorites. + +48. presage: foretell. + + + +TIMOTHY DWIGHT (1752-1817) + +"He was in many ways the first of the great modern college presidents; if +his was the day of small things, he nevertheless did so many of them and +did them so well that he deserves admiration." + + --WILLIAM P. TRENT. + +Born in Northampton, Mass., he graduated from Yale and was then made a +tutor there. He became an army chaplain in 1777, but his father's death +made his return home necessary. He became a preacher later and finally +president of Yale. His hymn, "Love to the Church," is the one thing we +most want to keep of all his several volumes. + + + +SAMUEL WOODWORTH (1785-1842) + +"Our best patriotic ballads and popular lyrics are, of course, based upon +sentiment, aptly expressed by the poet and instinctively felt by the +reader. Hence just is the fame and true is the love bestowed upon the +choicest songs of our 'single-poem poets': upon Samuel Woodworth's 'Old +Oaken Bucket,' etc." + --CHARLES F. RICHARDSON. + +Born at Scituate, Mass., he had very little education. His father +apprenticed him to a Boston printer while he was a young boy. He +remained in the newspaper business all his life, and wrote numerous +poems, and several operas which were produced. + + + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (1794-1878) + +"A moralist, dealing chiefly with death and the more sombre phases of +life, a lover and interpreter of nature, a champion of democracy and +human freedom, in each of these capacities he was destined to do +effective service for his countrymen, and this work was, as it were, cut +out for him in his youth, when he was laboring in the fields, attending +corn-huskings and cabin-raisings, or musing beside forest streams." + + --W. P. TRENT. + +Born in a mill-town village in western Massachusetts, he passed his +boyhood on the farm. Unable to complete his college course, he practiced +law until 1824, when he became editor of the New York Review. He +continued all his life to be a man of letters. + +The poems by Bryant are used by permission of D. Appleton and Company, +authorized publishers of his works. + + +THANATOPSIS + +34. patriarchs of the infant world: the leaders of the Hebrews before +the days of history. + +61. Barcan wilderness: waste of North Africa. + +54. Why does Bryant suggest "the wings of the morning" to begin such a +survey of the world? Would he choose the Oregon now? + +28. ape: mimic. + +This poem is very simple in its form and is typical of Bryant's nature +poems. First, is his observation of the waterfowl's flight and his +question about it. Secondly, the answer is given. Thirdly, the +application is made to human nature. Do you find such a comparison of +nature and human nature in any other poems by Bryant? + +9. plashy: swampy. + +15. illimitable: boundless. + + +GREEN RIVER + +Green River, flows near Great Barrington where Bryant practised law. + +33. simpler: a collector of herbs for medicinal use. + +58. This reference to Bryant's profession is noteworthy. His ambition +for a thorough literary training was abandoned on account of poverty. He +then took up the study of law and practiced it in Great Barrington, +Mass., for nine years. His dislike of this profession is here very +plainly shown. He abandoned it entirely in 1824 and gave himself to +literature. "I Broke the Spell That Held Me Long" also throws a light on +his choice of a life work. + + +THE WEST WIND + +With this may be compared with profit Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" +and Kingsley's "Ode to the Northeast Wind." State the contrast between +the ideas of the west wind held by Shelley and by Bryant. + + +A FOREST HYMN + +2. architrave: the beam resting on the top of the column and supporting +the frieze. + +5. From these details can you form a picture of this temple in its +exterior and interior? Is it like a modern church? + +darkling: dimly seen; a poetic word. Do you find any other adjectives in +this poem which are poetic words? + +23. Why is the poem divided here? Is the thought divided? Connected? +Can you account in the same way for the divisions at lines 68 and 89? + +34. vaults: arched ceilings. + +44. instinct: alive, animated by. + +66. emanation: that which proceeds from a source, as fragrance is an +emanation from flowers. + +89. This idea that death is the source of other life everywhere in +nature is a favorite one with Bryant. It is the fundamental thought in +his first poem, "Thanatopsis" (A View of Death), which may be read in +connection with "The Forest Hymn." + +96. Emerson discusses this question in "The Problem," See selections +from Emerson. + + +THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS + +26. Bryant's favorite sister, Mrs. Sarah Bryant Shaw, died shortly +after her marriage, of tuberculosis. This poem alludes to her and is in +its early lines the saddest poem Bryant ever wrote. Notice the change of +tone near the end. + +29. unmeet: unsuitable. + + +THE GLADNESS OF NATURE + +b. hang-bird: the American oriole, which hangs its nest from a branch. + +8. wilding: the wild bee which belongs to no hive. + + +To THE FRINGED GENTIAN + +No description of this flower can give an adequate idea of its beauty. +The following account, from Reed's "Flower Guide, East of the Rockies," +expresses the charm of the flower well: "Fringed Gentian because of its +exquisite beauty and comparative rarity is one of the most highly prized +of our wild flowers." "During September and October we may find these +blossoms fully expanded, delicate, vase-shaped creations with four +spreading deeply fringed lobes bearing no resemblance in shape or form to +any other American species. The color is a violet-blue, the color that +is most attractive to bumblebees, and it is to these insects that the +flower is indebted for the setting of its seed.... The flowers are wide +open only during sunshine, furling in their peculiar twisted manner on +cloudy days and at night. In moist woods from Maine to Minnesota and +southwards." + +This guide gives a good colored picture of the flower as do Matthews' +"Field Guide to American Wildflowers" and many other flower books. + +8. ground-bird: the vesper sparrow, so called because of its habit of +singing in the late evening. Its nest is made of grass and placed in a +depression on the ground. + +11. portend: indicate by a sign that some event, usually evil, is about +to happen. + +16. cerulean: deep, clear blue. + + +SONG of MARION'S MEN + +4. Marion, Francis (1732-1795), in 1750 took command of the militia of +South Carolina and carried on a vigorous partisan warfare against the +English. Colonel Tarleton failed o find "the old swamp fox," as he named +him, because the swamp paths of South Carolina were well known to him. +See McCrady, "South Carolina in the Revolution," for full particulars of +his life. + +21. deem: expect. + +30. up: over, as in the current expression, "the time is up." + +41. barb: a horse of the breed introduced by the Moors From Barbary into +Spain and noted for speed and endurance. + +49. Santee: a river in South Carolina. + +32. throes: agony. + +44. Compare this final thought with the solution in "To a "Waterfowl." + + +THE CROWDED STREET + +32. throes: agony + +44. Compare this final thought with the solution in "To a Waterfowl." + + +THE SNOW-SHOWER + +All the New England poets felt the charm of falling snow, and several +have written on the theme. In connection with this poem read Emerson's +"Snow-Storm" and Whittier's "The Frost Spirit." The best known of all is +Whittier's "Snow-Bound "; the first hundred and fifty lines may well be +read here. + +9. living swarm: like a swarm of bees from the hidden chambers of the +hive. + +12. prone: straight down. + +17. snow-stars: what are the shapes of snowflakes + +20. Milky way: the white path which seems to lead acre. The sky at +night and which is composed of millions of stars. + +21. burlier: larger and stronger. + +35. myriads: vast, indefinite number. + +37. middle: as the cloud seems to be between us and the blue sky, so the +snowflakes before they fell occupied a middle position. + + +ROBERT of LINCOLN + +"Robert of Lincoln" is the happiest, merriest poem written by Bryant. It +is characteristic of the man that it should deal with a nature topic. In +what ways does he secure the merriment? + +Analyze each stanza as to structure. Does the punctuation help to +indicate the speaker? + +Look up the Bobolink in the Bird Guide or some similar book. How much +actual information did Bryant have about the bird? Compare the amount of +bird-lore given here with that of Shelley's or Wordsworth's "To a +Skylark." Which is more poetic? Which interests you more? + + +THE POET + +5. deem: consider. Compare with the use in the "Song of Marion's Men," +1.21. + +8. wreak: carry them out in your verse. The word usually has an angry +idea associated with it. The suggestion may be here of the frenzy of a +poet. + +26. unaptly: not suitable to the occasion. + +30. Only in a moment of great emotion (rapture) should the poet revise a +poem which was penned when his heart was on fire with the idea of the +poem. + +38. limn: describe vividly. + +54. By this test where would you place Bryant himself? Did he do what +he here advises? In what poems do you see evidences of such a method? +Compare your idea of him with Lowell's estimate in "A Fable for Critics," +ll. 35-56. + + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + +In connection with this poem the following stanza from "The Battle-Field" +seems very appropriate: + + "Truth, crushed to Earth, shill rise again; + The eternal years of God are hers; + But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, + And dies among his worshippers." + +The American people certainly felt that Truth was Brushed to Earth with +Lincoln's death, but believed that it would triumph. + + + +FRANCIS SCOTT KEY (1780-1843) + +Born in Maryland, he graduated from St. John's College, Md., and +practiced law in Frederick City, Md. He was district attorney for the +District of Columbia during the War of 1812 and while imprisoned by the +British on board the ship Minden, Sept. 13, 1814, he witnessed the +British attack on Fort McHenry and wrote this national anthem. + + +THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER + +30. Why is this mentioned as our motto? + + + +JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE (1795-1820) + +The "Culprit Fay" is so much better than American poetry had previously +been that one is at first disposed to speak of it enthusiastically. An +obvious comparison puts it in true perspective. Drake's life happened +nearly to coincide with that of Keats.... Amid the full fervor of +European experience Keats produced immortal work; Drake, whose whole life +was passed amid the national inexperience of New York, produced only +pretty fancies." + + --BARRETT WENDELL. + +Born in New York, he practiced medicine there. He died of tuberculosis +at the age of twenty-five, and left behind him manuscript verses which +were later published by his daughter. "The Culprit Fay," from which +selections are here given, is generally considered one of the best +productions of early American literature. + + +THE AMERICAN FLAG + +6. milky baldric: the white band supposed by the ancients to circle the +earth and called the zodiac. He may here mean the Milky Way as part of +this band. + +46. careering: rushing swiftly. + +47. bellied: rounded, filled out by the gale. + +56. welkin: sky. + + +THE CULPRIT FAY + +25. ising-stars: particles of mica. + +30. minim: smallest. What objection may be made to this word? + +37. Ouphe: elf or goblin. + +45. behest: command. + +78. shandy: resembling a shell or a scale. + +94. oozy: muddy. + +107. colen-bell: coined by Drake, probably the columbine. + +114. nightshade: a flower also called henbane or belladonna. dern: +drear. + +119. thrids: threads, makes his way through. + +160. prong: probably a prawn; used in this sense only in this one +passage. + +165. quarl: jelly fish. + +178. wake-line: showing by a line of foam the course over which he has +passed. + +193. amain: at full speed. + +210. banned: cursed as by a supernatural power. + +216. henbane: see note on line 114. + +223. fatal: destined to determine his fate. + +245. sculler's notch: depression in which the oar rested. + +255. wimpled: undulated. + +257. athwart: across. + +306. glossed: having gloss, or brightness. + +329. This is only the first of the exploits of the Culprit Fay. +The second quest is described by the monarch as follows + + "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-illume 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 feint spark of its burning train + Shall light the elfin lamp again." + + + +FITZ-GREENE HALLECK (1790-1867) + +"The poems of Halleck are written with great care and finish, and +manifest the possession of a fine sense of harmony and of genial and +elevated sentiments." + + --ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA. + +Born in Guilford, Conn., he was the closest friend of Drake, at whose +death he wrote his best poem, which is given in this collection. "Marco +Bozzaris" aroused great enthusiasm, which has now waned in favor of his +simple lines, "On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake." + + +MARCO BOZZAARIS + +Marco Bozzaris (c. 1790-1823) was a prominent leader in the struggle for +Greek liberty and won many victories from the Turks. During the night of +August 20, 1823, the Greeks won a complete victory which was saddened by +the loss of Bozzaris, who fell while leading his men to the final attack. + +13. Suliote: a tribe of Turkish subjects of mixed Greek and Albanian +blood, who steadily opposed Turkish rule and won for themselves a +reputation for bravery. They fought for Grecian independence under Marco +Bozzaris. + +16-22. These lines refer to the military history of Greece. See +Encyclopedia Britannica--article on Greece (Persian Wars subtitle) for +account of the Persian invasion and battle of Plataea. + +79. What land did Columbus see first? Where did he from? Why then is +he called a Genoese? + +107. pilgrim-circled: visited by pilgrims as are shrines. + + + +JOHN HOWARD PAYNE (1791--1802) + +Born in New York, he graduated from Union College and later went on the +stage. He was appointed U.S. Consul to Tunis, where he died. He is now +best remembered by "home Sweet Home" from one of his operas. + + + +EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849) + +"Small as the quantity of his true verse is, it more sustains his +peculiar genius in American eyes than does his prose; and this is because +it is so unique. He stands absolutely alone as a poet, with none like +him." + --GEORGE E. WOODBURY + +Born in Boston, he spent most of his literary years in New York. His +parents, both actors, died when he was still a little child, and he was +adopted by Mr. Allan, who educated him in Europe. He served as literary +editor and hack writer for several journals and finally died in poverty. + + +TO HELEN + +"To Helen" is said to have been written in 1823, when Poe was only +fourteen years old. It refers to Mrs. Jane Stith Stanard, the mother of +one of his school friends, whose death was a terrible blow to the +sensitive lad. This loss was the cause of numerous poems of sorrow for +death and permanently influenced his work. + +2. Nicean: Nicaea, the modern Iznik in Turkey, was anciently a Greek +province. + +2. Nicean barks: the Greek ships that bore the wanderer, Ulysses, from +Phaeacia to his home. Read "The Wanderings of Ulysses" in Gayley's +Classic Myths, Chapter XXVII. + +7. hyacinth: like Hyacinthus, the fabled favorite of Apollo; hence +lovely, beautiful. + +8. Naiad: a nymph presiding over fountains, lakes, brooks, and wells. + +14. Psyche, a beautiful maiden beloved of Cupid, whose adventure with +the lamp is told in all classical mythologies. + + +ISRAFEL + +Israfel, according to the Koran, is the angel with the sweetest voice +among God's creatures. He will blow the trump on the day of +resurrection. + +2. The idea that Israfel's lute was more than human is taken from +Moore's "Lalla Rookh," although these very words do not occur there. The +reference will be found in the last hundred lines of the poem. + +12. levin: lightning. + +26. Houri: one of the beautiful girls who, according to the Moslem +faith, are to be companions of the faithful in paradise. + + +LENORE + +13. Peccavimus: we have sinned. + +20. Avaunt: Begone! Away! + +26. Paean: song of joy or triumph. + + +THE COLISEUM + +10. Eld: antiquity. + +14. See Matthew 26: 36-56. + +16. The Chaldxans were the world's greatest astrologers. + +26-29. Poe here uses technical architectural terms with success. + +plinth: the block upon which a column or a statue rests. + +shafts: the main part of a column between the base and the capital. + +entablatures: the part of a building borne by the columns. + +frieze: an ornamented horizontal band in the entablature. + +cornices: the horizontal molded top of the entablatures. + +32. corrosive: worn away by degrees; used figuratively of time. + +36. At Thebes there is a statue which is supposed to be Memnon, the +mythical king of Ethiopia, and which at daybreak was said to emit the +music of the lyre. + + +EULALIE.--A SONG + +19. Astarte: the Phoenician goddess of love. + + +THE RAVEN + +41. Pallas: Greek goddess of wisdom. + +46-47. Night's Plutonian shore: Pluto ruled over the powers of the lower +world and over the dead. Darkness and gloom are constantly associated +with him; the cypress tree was sacred to him and black victims were +sacrificed to him. Why does the coming of the raven suggest this realm +to the poet? + +50. relevancy: appropriateness. + +80. Seraphim: one of the highest orders of angels + +82. respite and nepenthe: period of peace and forgetting. + +89. balm in Gilead. See Jeremiah 8: 22; 46: 11 and Genesis 37: 25. + +93. Aideen, fanciful spelling of Eden. + +106. This line has been often criticized on the ground that a lamp could +not cause any shadow on the floor if the bird sat above the door. Poe +answered this charge by saying: "My conception was that of the bracket +candelabrum affixed against the wall, high up above the door and bust, as +is often seen in English palaces, and even in some of the better houses +of New York." + +What effect does this poem have upon you? Work out the rhyme scheme in +the first and second stanzas. Are they alike? Does this rhyme scheme +help to produce the effect of the poem? Have you noticed a similar use +of "more" in any other poem? Point out striking examples of repetition, +of alliteration. Are there many figures of speech here? + + +TO HELEN + +This Helen is Mrs. Whitman. + +15. parterre: a flower garden whose beds are arranged in a pattern and +separated by walks. + +48. Dian: Roman goddess representing the moon. + +60. elysian: supremely happy. + +65. scintillant: sending forth flashes of light. + +66. Venuses: morning stars. + + +THE BELLS + +"The Bells" originally consisted of eighteen lines, and was gradually +enlarged to its present form. + +10. Runic: secret, mysterious. + +11. Why does Poe use this peculiar word? Compare its use with that of +"euphony," 1. 26, "jangling," 1. 62, "moLotone" 1. 8'3. + +26. euphony: the quality of having a pleasant sound. + +72. monody: a musical composition in which some one voice-part +predominates. + +88. Ghouls: imaginary evil beings of the East who rob graves. + + +ELDORADO + +6. Eldorado: any region where wealth may be obtained is abundance; +hence, figuratively, the source of any abundance, as here. + +21. "Valley of the Shadow" suggests death and is a fitting close to +Poe's poetic work. + + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) + + "His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; + Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings + Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, + Are mingling with the tender songs he sings. + Nor shall he cease to sing--in every lay + Of Nature's voice he sings--and will alway." + + --JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. + +Born in Portland, Maine, he graduated from Bowdoin College in 1825 and +went abroad to prepare himself to teach the modern languages. He taught +until 1854, when he became a professional author. During the remaining +years of his fife he lived quietly at Craigie House in Cambridge and +there he died. + +The poems by Longfellow are used by permission of, and by special +arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his +works. + + +HYMN To THE NIGHT + +"Night, thrice welcome." +"Night, undesired by Troy, but to the Greeks +Thrice welcome for its interposing gloom." + +-COWPER, TRANS. OF ILIAD VIII, 488. + +21. Orestes-like. Orestes, the son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, +avenged the death of his father by killing his mother. The Furies chased +him for many years through the world until at last he found pardon and +peace. The story is told in several Greek plays, but perhaps best in +AEschylus' "Libation Pourers" and "Furies" + + +A PSALM of LIFE + +"I kept it," he said, "some time in manuscript, unwilling to show it to +any one, it being a voice from my inmost heart." + +7. "Dust thou art": quoted from Genesis 3:19, "Dust thou art, and unto +dust shalt thou return." + +10. Pope in Epistle IV of his "Essay on Man" says: "0 happiness! our +being's end and aim." How does Longfellow differ with him? + + +THE SKELETON IN ARMOR + +The Skeleton in Armor. "The following Ballad was suggested to me while +riding on the seashore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had +been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armor; and the +idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, +generally known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the +Danes as a work of their early ancestors." + +19. Skald: a Scandinavian minstrel who composed and sang or recited +verses in celebration of famous deeds, heroes, and events. + + "And there, in many a stormy vale, + The Scald had told his wondrous tale." + + --SCOTT, Lay of the Last Minstrel, can. 6, St. 22. + +20. Saga: myth or heroic story. + +28. ger-falcon: large falcon, much used in northern Europe in falconry. + +38. were-wolf: a person who had taken the form of a wolf and had become +a cannibal. The superstition was that those who had voluntarily become +wolves could become men again at will. + +42. corsair: pirate. Originally "corsair" was applied to privateers off +the Barbary Coast who preyed upon Christian shipping under the authority +of their governments. + +49. "wassail-bout": festivity at which healths are drunk. + +53. Berserk. Berserker was a legendary Scandinavian hero who never wore +a shirt of mail. In general, a warrior who could assume the form and +ferocity of wild beasts, and whom fire and iron could not harm. + +94. Sea-mew: a kind of European gull. + +110. Skaw: a cape on the coast of Denmark. + +159. Skoal!: Hail! a toast or friendly greeting used by the Norse +especially in poetry. + + +THE WRECK of THE HESPERUS + +On Dec. 17, 1839, Longfellow wrote in his journal: "News of shipwrecks +horrible, on the coast. Forty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one +lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe, +where many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus." + +On Dec. 30 he added: "Sat till one o'clock by the fire, smoking, when +suddenly it came into my head to write the Ballad of the schooner +Hesperus, which I accordingly did. Then went o bed, but could not sleep. +New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them to the +ballad. It was three by the clock."... "I feel pleased with the ballad. +it hardly cost mean effort. It did not come into my mind by lines but by +stanzas." + +In a letter to Mr. Charles Lanman on Nov. 24, 1871, Mr. Longfellow said: +"I had quite forgotten about its first publication; but I find a letter +from Park Benjamin, dated Jan. 7, 1840, beginning...as follows:-- + +"'Your ballad, The Wreck of the Hesperus, is grand. Enclosed are twenty- +five dollars (the sum you mentioned) for it, paid by the proprietors of +The New World, in which glorious paper it will resplendently coruscate on +Saturday next.'" + +11. flaw: a sudden puff of wind. + +14. Spanish Main: a term applied to that portion of the Caribbean Sea +near the northeast coast of South America, including the route followed +by Spanish merchant ships traveling between Europe and America. + +37-48. This little dialogue reminds us of the "Erlkonig," a ballad by +Goethe. + +66. See Luke 8: 22-25. + +60. Norman's Woe: a reef in", W. Glouster harbor, Mass. + +70. carded wool. The process of carding wool, cotton, flax, etc. +removes by a wire-toothed brush foreign matter and dirt, and leaves it +combed out and cleansed. + + +THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH + +7. Crisp, and black, and long. Mr. Longfellow says that before this +poem was published, he read it to his barber. The man objected that +crisp black hair was never long, and as a result the author delayed +publication until be was convinced in his own mind that no other +adjectives would give a truer picture of the blacksmith as he saw him. + +39-42. Mr. Longfellow's friends agree that these lines depict his own +industry and temperament better than any others can. + + +IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY + +No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. Translated in lines 12 and 24. + +8. freighted: heavily laden. + + +EXCELSIOR + +Mr. Longfellow explained fully the allegory of this poem in a letter to +Mr. Henry T. Tuckerman. He said: "This (his intention) was no more than +to display, in a series of pictures, the life of a man of genius, +resisting all temptations, laying aside all fears, heedless of all +warnings, and pressing right on to accomplish his purpose. His motto is +Excelsior, 'higher.' He passes through the Alpine village,--through the +rough, cold paths of the world--where the peasants cannot understand him, +and where his watchword is 'an unknown tongue.' He disregards the +happiness of domestic peace, and sees the glaciers--his fate--before him. +He disregards the warnings of the old man's wisdom.... He answers to +all, 'Higher yet'! The monks of St. Bernard are the representatives of +religious forms and ceremonies, and with their oft-repeated prayer +mingles the sound of his voice, telling them there is something higher +than forms and ceremonies. Filled with these aspirations he perishes +without having reached the perfection he longed for; and the voice heard +in the air is the promise of immortality and progress ever upward." + +Compare with this Tennyson's "Merlin and The Gleam," in which he tells +his own experience. + +7. falchion: a sword with a broad and slightly curved blade, used in the +Middle Ages; hence, poetically, any type of sword. + + +THE DAY IS DOUR + +26. In this stanza and the two following Longfellow describes what his +poems have come to mean to us and the place they hold in American life. +Compare with Whittier's "Dedication" to "Songs of Labor," Il. 26-36. + + + +WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE + +Walter von der Vogelweide: the most celebrated of medieval German lyric +poets, who lived about the year 1200. He belonged to the lower order of +"nobility of service." He livedin Tyrol, then the home of famous +minnesingers from whom he learned his art. + +4. Walter von der Vogelweide is buried in the cloisters adjoining the +Neumunster church in Wurtzburg, which dates from the eleventh century. + +10. The debt of the poet to the birds has been dwelt upon in many poems, +the best known of which are Shelley's "Skylark" and Wordsworth's "To the +Cuckoo." + +27. War of Wartburg. In 1207 there occurred in this German castle, the +Wartburg, a contest of the minstrels of the time. Wagner has +immortalized this contest in "Tannhauser," in which he describes the +victory of Walter von der Vogelweide over all the other singers. + +42. Gothic spire. See note on "The Builders" 11. 17-19. + + +THE BUILDERS + +17-19. The perfection of detail in the structure and sculpture of Gothic +cathedrals may be seen in the cathedrals of Chartres and Amiens. +Numerous beautiful illustrations may be found in Marriage, "The +Sculptures of Chartres Cathedral," and in Ruskin, "The Bible of Amiens." + + +SANTA FILOMENA + +Santa Filomena stands for Miss Florence Nightingale, who did remarkable +work among the soldiers wounded in the Crimean War (1854-56). This poem +was published in 1857 while the story of her aid was fresh in the minds +of the world. + +42. The palm, the lily, and the spear: St. Filomena is represented in +many Catholic churches and usually with these three emblems to signify +her victory, purity, and martyrdom. Sometimes an anchor replaces the +palm. + + +THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE + +King Alfred's Orosius. Orosius, a Spaniard of the fifth century A.D., +wrote at the request of the church a history of the world down to 414 +A.D. King Alfred (849-901) translated this work and added at least one +important story, that of the voyages of Ohthere and Wulfstan. The part +of the story used by Longfellow may be found in Cook and Tinkers's +Translations from Old English Prose, in Bosworth's, and in Sweet's +editions. + +2. Helgoland: an island in the North Sea, belonging to Prussia. + +42. Hebrides: islands west of Scotland. + +90. a nameless sea. They sailed along the coast of Lapland and into the +White Sea. + +96-100. Alfred reports simply, "He says he was one of a party of six who +killed sixty of these in two days." + +116. The original says: "He made this voyage, in addition to his purpose +of seeing the country, chiefly for walruses, for they have very good bone +in their teeth--they brought some of these teeth to the king--and their +hides are very good for ship-ropes." + + +SANDALPHON + +Sandalphon: one of the oldest angel figures in the Jewish system. In the +second century a Jewish writing described him as follows: "He is an angel +who stands on the earth;.. he is taller than his fellows by the length +of a journey of 500 years; he binds crowns for his Creator." These +crowns are symbols of praise, and with them he brings before the Deity +the prayers of men. See the Jewish Encyclopaedia for further +particulars. + +1. Talmud: the work which embodies the Jewish law of church and state. +It consists of texts, and many commentaries and illustrations. + +12. Refers to Genesis 28: 10-21. + +39. Rabbinical: pertaining to Jewish rabbis or teachers of law. + +44. welkin: poetical term for the sky. + +48. nebulous: indistinct. + + +THE LANDLORD'S TALE + +The "Tales of a Wayside Inn" were series of stories told on three +separate days by the travelers at the Inn at Sudbury, Mass. It is the +same device used by writers since the days of Chaucer, but cleverly +handled furnishes an interesting setting for a variety of tales. Some of +Longfellow's best-known narratives are in these series, among them the +following selections. + +The story is self-explanatory. It is probably the best example of the +simple poetic narrative of an historic event. + +107-110. The reference is to one of the seven men who were killed at +Lexington--possibly to Jonathan Harrington, Jr., who dragged himself to +his own door-step before he died. Many books tell the story, but the +following are the most interesting; Gettemy, Chas. F. True "Story of Paul +Revere:" Colburn, F., The Battle of April 19, 1775. + + +THE SICILIAN'S TALE + +This story of King Robert of Sicily is very old, as it is found among the +short stories of the Gesta Romanorum written in the thirteenth and +fourteenth centuries. + +17. seditious: tending towards disorder and treason. + +52. besprent: poetic for besprinkled. + +66. seneschal: the official in the household of a prince of high noble +who had the supervision of feasts and ceremonies. + +106. Saturnian: the fabled reign of the god Saturn was the golden age of +the world, characterized by simplicity, virtue, and happiness. + +110. Enceladus, the giant. Longfellow's poem "Enceladus" emphasizes +this reference. For the story of the giants and the punishment of +Enceladus see any good Greek mythology. + + +THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE + +9. dial: the sun-dial was the clock of the time. + +41. iteration: repetition. + +49. dole: portion. + +bl. almoner: official dispenser of alms. + +100. See Matthew 25: 40. + + + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-1892) + + "Best loved and saintliest of our singing train, + Earth's noblest tributes to thy name belong. + A lifelong record closed without a stain, + A blameless memory shrived in deathless song." + + --OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + +Born at East Haverhill, Mass., in surroundings which he faithfully +describes in "Snow-Bound," he had little education. At the age of +twenty-two he secured an editorial position in Boston and continued to +write all his life. For some years he devoted all his literary ability +to the cause of abolition, and not until the success of "Snow-Bound" in +1866 was he free from poverty. + +The poems by Whittier are used by permission of, and by special +arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his +works. + + +PROEM + +Proem: preface or introduction. + +3. Spenser, Edmund (1552-1599). His best-known work is the "Faerie +Queen." + +4. Arcadian Sidney: Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586); an English courtier, +soldier, and author. He stands as a model of chivalry. He was mortally +wounded at the battle of Zutphen. "Arcadia" was his greatest work; hence +the epithet here. + +23. plummet-line: a weight suspended by a line used to test the +verticality of walls, etc. Here used as if in a sounding process. + +30. Compare this opinion of his own work with Lowell's comments in "A +Fable for Critics." How do they agree? + +32. For Whittier's opinion of Milton see also "Raphael," I. 7 0, and " +Burns," 1. 104. + +33. Marvell, Andrew (1621-1678): an English statesman, poet, and +satirist, friend of Milton. + + +THE FROST SPIRIT + +Whittier has an intense love and appreciation of winter. With this poem +may be read "Snow Bound," the last stanzas of "Flowers in Winter," and +"Lumbermen." Many others may be added to this list. Do you find this +same idea in other poets? + +11. Hecla: a volcano in Iceland which has had 28 known eruptions--one as +late as 1878. It rises 5100 feet above the sea and has a bare +irregular-shaped cone. Its appearance is extremely wild and desolate. + + +SONGS OF LABOR. DEDICATION + +8. The o'er-sunned bloom.... In this collection of poems are a few +written in his youth, the more mature works of the "summer" of his life, +and the later works of his old age. The figure here is carefully carried +through and gives a clear, simplified picture of his literary life. + +22. Whittier himself noted that he was indebted for this line to +Emerson's "Rhodora" + +26-3b. Compare Longfellow's "The Day is Done" for another idea of the +influence of poetry. + +36. Compare Genesis 3: 17-19. + +43-45. Compare Luke 2: 51-52. + + +THE LUMBERMEN + +33. Ambijejis: lake in central Maine. + +35. Millnoket: a lake in central Maine. + +39. Penobscot: one of the most beutiful of Maine rivers. It is about +300 miles long and flows through the central part of the state. + +42. Katahdin: Mount Katahdin is 5385 feet in height and is usually +snow-covered. + + +BARCLAY of URY + +Barclay of Ury: David Barclay (1610-1686). Served under Gustavus +Adolphus, was an officer in the Scotch army during Civil War. He bought +the estate of Ury, near Aberdeen, in 1648. He was arrested after the +Restoration and for a short time was confined to Edinburgh Castle, where +he was converted to Quakerism by a fellow prisoner. His son, also a +Quaker, heard of the imprisonment mentioned in this poem and attempted to +rescue his father. During the years between this trouble in 1676 and his +death in 1686, the persecution seems to have been directed largely +against his son. (See Dictionary of National Biography for details.) +Whinier naturally felt keenly on this subject, as he himself was a +Quaker. + +1. Aberdeen: capital of Aberdeenshire, and chief seaport in north of +Scotland; fourth Scottish town in population, industry, and wealth. The +buildings of Aberdeen College, founded in 1494, are the glory of +Aberdeen. + +7. churl: a rude, low-bred fellow. + +10. carlin: a bluff, good-natured man. + +35. Lutzen: a town in Saxony where the Swedes under Gustavus Adolphus +defeated the Austrians, Nov. 16, 1632. + +36. Gustavus Adolphus, "The Great" (1594-1632). He was one of the great +Swedish kings, and was very prominent in the Thirty Years' War (1618- +1648). + +56. Tilly: Johann Tserklaes, Count von Tilly, a German imperial +commander in the Thirty Years' War. + +57. Walloon: a people akin to the French, inhabiting Belgium and some +districts of Prussia. They have great vivacity than the Flemish, and +more endurance than the French. + +66. Jewry: Judea. + +76. reeve: a bailiff or overseer. + +31. snooded. The unmarried women of Scotland formerly wore a band +around their heads to distinguish them from married women. + +99. Tolbooth: Scotch word for prison. + +126. This idea is expanded in the poem "Seed-time and Harvest." + + +RAPHAEL + +Raphael Sanzio (1483-1520), the great Italian painter. Trained first by +his father, later by the great Perugino. His work was done mainly in +Florence and Rome. + +6. This picture is the portrait of Raphael when scarcely more than a +boy. + +17. Gothland's sage: Sweden's wise man, Emanuel Swedenborg. + +36. Raphael painted many madonnas, but the word "drooped" limits this +description. Several might be included under this: "The Small Holy +Family," "The Virgin with the Rose," or, most probable of all to me, "The +Madonna of the Chair." + +37. the Desert John: John the Baptist. + +40. "The Transfiguration" is not as well known as some of the madonnas, +but shows in wonderful manner Raphael's ability to handle a large group +of people, without detracting from the central figure. It is now in the +Vatican Gallery, at Rome. + +42. There are few great Old Testament stories which are not depicted by +Raphael. Among them are The Passage Through Jordan, The Fall of Jericho, +Joshua Staying the Sun, David and Goliath, The Judgment of Solomon, The +Building of the Temple, Moses Bringing the Tables of the Law, the Golden +Calf, and many others equally well known. + +45. Fornarina. This well-known portrait is now in the Palazzo Barberini +in Rome. + +70. holy song on Milton's tuneful ear. Poetry and painting are here +spoken of together as producing permanent effects, and from the figure he +uses we may add music to the list. Compare Longfellow's "The Arrow and +the Song." In the last stanza the field is still further broadened until +his thought is that all we do lives after us. + + +SEED-TIME AND HARVEST + +Whittier's intense interest in Freedom is here apparent. His earlier +poems were largely on the slavery question in America. His best work was +not done until he began to devote his poetic ability to a wider range of +subjects. + +26. See Longfellow, "A Psalm of Life," 11. 9-12 and note. + + +THE PROPHECY of SAMUEL SEWALL + +12. Samuel Sewall is one of the most interesting characters in colonial +American history. He was born in England in 1652, but came to America +while still a child. He graduated from Harvard College in 1671 and finally +became a justice of the peace. He was instrumental in the Salem witchcraft +decision, but later bitterly repented. He made in 1697 a public confession +of his share in the matter and begged that God would "not visit the sin... +upon the Land." + +28. Hales Reports. Sir Matthew Hale (1609-1676) was one of the most +eminent judges of England. From 1671 to 1676 he occupied the position of +Chief Justice of the King's Bench, the highest judicial position in +England. Sewall was depending upon an authority of the day. + +32. warlock's: a wizard, one who deals in incantations; synonymous with +witch. + +46. Theocracy: a state governed directly by the ministers of God. + +58. hand-grenade: a hollow shell, filled with explosives, arranged to be +thrown by hand among the enemy and to explode on impact. + +73. Koordish robber. The Kurds were a nomadic people living in +Kurdistan, Persia, and Caucasia. They were very savage and vindictive, +specially towards Armenians. The Sheik was the leader of a clan or town +and as such had great power. + +81. Newbury, Mass. Judge Sewall's father was one of the founders of the +town. + +130-156. This prophecy is most effective in its use of local color for a +spiritual purpose. Beginning with local conditions which might be +changed, it broadens to include all nature which shall never grow old. + + +SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE + +Skipper Ireson's Ride. Whittier was told after this poem was published +that it was not historically accurate, since the crew and not Skipper +Ireson was to blame for the desertion of the wreck. He stated that he +had founded his poem on a song sung to him when he was a boy. + +3. Apuleius's Golden Ass. Apuleius was a Latin satirical writer whose +greatest work was a romance or novel called "The Golden Ass." The hero +is by chance changed into an ass,, and has all sorts of adventures until +he is finally freed from the magic by eating roses in the hands of a +priest of Isis. + +3. one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass. See the Arabian Nights' +Entertainments for the story of the one-eyed beggar. + +6. Al-Borak: according to the Moslem creed the animal brought by Gabriel +to carry Mohammed to the seventh heaven. It had the face of a man, the +body of a horse, the wings of an eagle, and spoke with a human voice. + +11. Marblehead, in Massachusetts. + +30. Maenads: the nymphs who danced and sang in honor of Bacchus, the god +of vegetation and the vine. + +35. Chalettr Bay, in Newfoundland, a part of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. + + +THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE of NEWBURY + +6. Deucalion flood. The python was a monstrous serpent which arose from +the mud left after the flood in which Deucalion survived. The python +lived in a cave on Mount Parnassus and there Apollo slew him. Deucalion +and his wife, Pyrrha were saved from the flood because Zeus respected +their piety. They obeyed the oracle and threw stones behind them from +which sprang men and women to repopulate the earth. + +9. See "The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall" for another story of Newbury +town. + +22. stones of Cheops: an Egyptian king, about 2900 b.c.; built the great +pyramid, which is called by his name. + +59. Each town in colonial days set aside certain land for free +pasture-land for the inhabitants. + +80. double-ganger: a double or apparition of a person; here, a reptile +moving in double form. + +76. Cotton Mather (1663-1728). This precocious boy entered Harvard +College at eleven and graduated at fifteen. At seventeen he preached his +first sermon and all his life was a zealous divine. He was undoubtedly +sincere in his judgments in the cases of witchcraft and was not +thoughtlessly cruel. He was a great writer and politician and a public- +minded citizen. + +85. Wonder-Book of Cotton Mather is his story of early New England life +called Magnalia Christi Americana. + + +MAUD MULLER + +94. astral: a lamp with peculiar construction so that the shadow is not +cast directly below it. + + +BURNS + +Burns. In connection with this poem may well be read the following poems +by Robert Burns (1759-1796): "The Twa Dogs," "A Man's a Man for A' That," +"Cotter's Saturday Night" (Selections), "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie +Doon," "Highland Mary." + +40. allegory: the expression of an idea indirectly by means of a story +or narrative. Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress is probably the best-known +allegory. What others can you name? + +67. Craigie-burn and Devon were favorite Scotch streams. + +71. Ayr: a river in Scotland. This whole region is full of associations +with Burns. Near it he was born and there is the Auld Brig of Doon of +Tam o' Shanter fame. Near the river is a Burns monument. Doon: a river +of Scotland 30 miles long and running through wild and picturesque +country. Burns has made it famous. + +91-92. The unpleasant facts of Burns's life, due to weakness of +character, should not be allowed to destroy our appreciation of what he +accomplished when he was his better self. + +99. Magdalen. See John 8:3-11 and many other instances in the Gospels. + +103. The mournful Tuscan: Dante, who wrote "The Divine Comedy." + + +THE HERO + +1. Bayard, Pierre Terrail (1473-1524): a French soldier who, on account +of his heroism, piety, and magnanimity was called "le chevalier sans noun +et sans reproche," the fearless and faultless knight. By his +contemporaries he was more often called "le bon chevalier," the good +knight. + +6. Zutphen: an old town in Holland, which was often besieged, especially +during the wars of freedom waged by the Dutch. The most celebtated fight +under its walls was in September, 1586, when Sir Philip Sidney was +mortally wounded. + +12. See John 16: 21. + +28. Sidney. See note on line 6 and Proem, note on line 4. + +31. Cyllenian ranges: Mount Cyllene, in southern Greece, the fabled +birthplace of Hermes. + +36. Suliote. See Fitz-Greene Halleck, "Marco Bozzaris," note on line 13 + +42. The reference is to Samuel G. Howe, who fought as a young man for +the independence of Greece. + +46. Albanian: pertaining to Albania, a province of western Turkey. + +78. Cadmus: mythological king of Phoenicia; was regarded as the +introducer of the alphabet from Phoenicia into Greece. + +86. Lancelot stands for most of us as the example of a brave knight +whose life was ruined by a great weakness. Malory writes of him in "Mort +d'Arthur," and Tennyson has made him well known to us. + + +THE ETERNAL GOODNESS + +24. See John 19:23 and Matthew 9: 20-22. + +36. After David had suffered, he wrote the greatest of the Psalms which +are attributed to him. The idea of righteous judgement is to be found +throughout them all, but seems especially strong in 9 and 147. + +54. Compare Tennyson's Crossing the Bar. + + +THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW + +9. Lowland: the south and east of Scotland; distinguished from the +Highlands. + +13. pibroch: a wild, irregular martial music played on Scotch bagpipes. + +18. A small English garrison was in possession of the city of Lucknow at +the time of the great Sepoy Mutiny in India,. They were besieged, and +their rescue is described here. + +32. Sir Henry Havelock commanded the relieving army. + +36. Sepoy: a native East-Indian soldier, equipped like a European +soldier. + +51. Goomtee: a river of Hindustan. + +77. Gaelic: belonging to Highland Scotch or other Celtic people. + + +COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION + +The element of superstition which enters into many of Whittier's poems is +well illustrated here. + +19. the Brocken: in the Harz Mountains in Germany. + +35. swart: dark-colored. + +49. See "Prophecy of Samuel Sewall," note on line 32. + +52. Religion among the Pilgrim fathers was a harsh thing. What +illustrations of its character did you find in the early part of this +book + +84. Doctor Dee: an English astrologer (1527-1608). + +85. Agrippa, Heinrich Cornelius: German physician, theologian, and +writer (1486-1535), who tried to turn less precious metals into gold. + +89. Minnesinger. Hares Sachs (1494-1576), the famous cobbler singer, is +probably referred to. For another famous minstrel see notes on +Longfellow, "Walter von der Vogelweide." + +139. Bingen, a city on the Rhine, has been made famous by the poem +written in 1799 by Southey, "God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop." +Longfellow refers to this legend in "The Children's Hour." + +140. Frankfort (on-the-Main), in Germany. + +147. droughty: thirsty, wanting drink. + + +THE MAYFLOWERS + +1. Sad Mayflower: the trailing arbutus. + +14. Our years of wandering o'er. The Pilgrim fathers sought refuge in +Holland, but found life there unsatisfactory, as they were not entirely +free. They then set out for Virginia and almost by chance settled in New +England. + + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON (1803-1882) + +"He shaped an ideal for the commonest life, he proposed an object to the +humblest seeker after truth. Look for beauty in the world around you, he +said, and you shall see it everywhere. Look within, with pure eyes and +simple trust, and you shall find the Deity mirrored in your own soul. +Trust yourself because you trust the voice of God in your inmost +consciousness." + + --OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + +Born in Boston, Mass., of a family with some literary attainments, he +showed little promise of unusual ability during his years at Harvard. He +became pastor of the Second Church in Boston for a time and later settled +in Concord. He lectured extensively and wrote much, living a quiet, +isolated life. + +The poems by Emerson are used by permission of, and by special +arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his +works. + + +GOOD-BYE + +"Good-Bye" was written in 1823 when Emerson, a young boy, was teaching in +Boston. It does not refer to his retirement to the country twelve years +later, but seems a kind of prophecy. + +27. lore: learning. + +28. sophist: a professed teacher of wisdom. + + +EACH AND ALL + +26. noisome offensive. + + +THE PROBLEM + +18. canticles: hymns belonging to church service. + +19. The dome of St. Peter's was the largest in the world at the time of +its construction and was a great architectural achievement. Emerson +feels that it, like every other work that is worth-while, was the result +of a sincere heart. + +20. groined: made the roofs inside the churches according to a +complicated, intersecting pattern. + +28. Notice the figure of speech here. Is it effective? + +39-40. All the mighty buildings of the world were made first in the +minds of the builder or architect, and then took form. + +44. The Andes and Mt. Ararat are very ancient formations and belong to +Nature at her beginning on the earth. These great buildings are so in +keeping with Nature that she accepts them and forgets how modern they +are. + +51. Pentecost: Whitsunday, when the descent of the Holy Spirit is +celebrated. Emerson says here that this spirit animates all beautiful +music and sincere preaching, as it does we do at our noblest. + +65. Chrysostom, Augustine, and the more modern Taylor are all great +religious teachers of the world, and all urged men enter the service of +the church. Augustine: Saint Augustine, the great African bishop (354- +430). He was influential mainly through his numerous writings, which are +still read. His greatest work was his Confessions. + +68. Taylor: Dr. Jeremy Taylor, English bishop and author (1613-1667). +One writer assigns to him "the good humour of gentleman, the eloquence of +an orator, the fancy of a poet, acuteness of a schoolman, the +profoundness of a philosopher, the wisdom of a chancellor, the sagacity +of a prophet, reason of an angel, and the piety of a saint." Why should +a man so endowed be compared to Shakespeare? + + +THE HUMBLE-BEE + +6. What characteristics of the bumblebee make animated torrid-zone +applicable? Why doesn't he need to seek a milder climate in Porto Rico? + +16. Epicurean: one addicted to pleasure of senses, specially eating and +drinking. How does it apply to the bee? + + +THE SNOW-STORM + +Emerson called this poem "a lecture on God's architecture, one of his +beautiful works, a Day." + +9. This picture is strikingly like Whittier's description of a similar +day in "Snow-Bound." + +13. bastions: sections of fortifications. + +18. Parian wreaths were very white because the marble of Paros was pure. + +21. Maugre: in spite of. + + +FABLE + +This fable was written some years before its merits were recognized. +Since then it has steadily grown in popularity. + + +BOSTON HYMN + +16. fend: defend. + +24. boreal: northern. + +80. behemoth: very large beast. + +THE TITMOUSE + +76. impregnably: so that it can resist attack. + +97. wold: Rood, forest. + + + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1819-1891) + +"As political reformer, as editor, as teacher, above all as an example of +the type of scholarly gentleman that the new world was able to produce, +he perhaps did more than any of his contemporaries to dignify American +literature at home and to win for it respect abroad." + + --W. B. CAIRNS. + +Born at Cambridge, Mass., he early showed a love of literature and says +that while he was a student at Harvard he read everything except the +prescribed textbooks. He opened a law office in Boston, but spent his +time largely in reading and writing poetry. He became professor of +literature at Harvard in 1854 and later edited the Atlantic Monthly. +Later he was minister to Spain and to England. In 1885 he returned to +his work at Harvard, where he remained until his death in the very house +in which he was born. + +The poems by Lowell are used by permission of, and by special arrangement +with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his works. + + +HAKON's LAY + +This poem is here given in its original form as published by Lowell in +Graham's Magazine in January, 1855. It was afterwards expanded into the +second canto of "The Voyage to Vinland." + +With what other poems in this book may "Hakon's Lay" be compared? + +3. Skald. See Longfellow, 'The Skeleton in Armor,' note on I. 19. + +10. Hair and beard were both white, we are told. Who is suggested in +this line as white? + +17. eyried. An eagle builds its aerie or nest upon a crag or +inaccessible height above ordinary birds. The simile here begun before +the eagle is mentioned, and the minstrel's thoughts are spoken of as born +in the aerie of his brain, high above his companions. + +20. One of the finest pictures of the singing of a minstrel before his +lord is found in Scott's "Waverly." + +21. fletcher: arrow-maker. + +31. The work of Fate cannot be done by a reed which is proverbially weak +or by a stick which is cut cross-grained and hence will split easily. +She does not take her arrow at random from all the poor and weak weapons +which life offers, but she chooses carefully. + +35. sapwood: the new wood next the bark, which is not yet hardened. + +37. Much of the value of an arrow lies in its being properly feathered. +So when Fate chooses, she removes all valueless feathers which will +hinder success. + +40. In these ways her aim Would be injured. + +43. butt's: target's. + +52. frothy: trivial. + +64. Leif, the son of Eric, near the end of the tenth century went from +Greenland to Norway and was converted to Christianity. About 1000 he +sailed southward and landed at what is perhaps now Newfoundland, then +went on to some part of the New England coast and there spent the winter. + +61. The coming of Leif Ericson with his brave ship to Vinland was the +first happening in the story of America. + +61. rune: a character in the ancient alphabet. + + +FLOWERS + +"Flowers" is another very early poem, but it was included by Lowell in +his first volume, "A Year's Life," in 1841. Compare this idea of a poet's +duty and opportunity with that of other American writers. + +12. Look up Matthew 13: 3-9. + +18. Condensed expression; for some of that seed shall surely fall in +such ground that it shall bloom forever. + + +THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS + +16. viceroy: ruler in place of the king. + +44. Apollo, while he was still young, killed one of the Cyclops of Zeus +and Zeus condemned him to serve a mortal Man as a shepherd. He served +Admetus, as is here described, and secured many special favors for him +from the gods. + + +COMMEMORATION ODE + +3. The men who fought for the cause they loved expressed their love in +the forming of a squadron instead of a poem, and wrote their praise of +battle in fighting-lines instead of tetrameters. + +17. guerdon: reward. + +36. A creed without defenders is lifeless. When to belief in a cause is +added action in its behalf, the creed lives. + +60. This is as life would be without live creeds and results that will +endure. Compare Whittier's "Raphael." + +67. aftermath: a second crop. + +79. Baal's: belonging to the local deities of the ancient Semitic race. + +105. With this stanza may well be compared "The Present Crisis." + +113. dote: have the intellect weakened by age. + +146. Plutarch's men. Plutarch wrote the lives of the greatest men of +Greece and Rome. + + +THE VISION of SIR LAUNFAL (PRELUDE) + +7. auroral: morning. + +12. Sinais. Read Exodus, Chapter 19. Why did Moses climb Mount Sinai? +What would be the advantage to us if we knew when we climbed a Mount +Sinai? + +9-20. Wordsworth says: + + "Heaven lies about us in our infancy! + Shades of the prison-house begin to close + Upon the growing boy," etc. + +Lowell does not agree with him, and in these lines he declares that +heaven is as near to the aged man as to the child, since the skies, the +winds, the wood, and the sea have lessons for us always. + +28. bubbles: things as useless and perishable as the child's +soap-bubbles. + +20-32. The great contrast! What does Lowell mean by Earth? Does he +define it? Which does he love better? + +79. Notice how details are accumulated to prove the hightide. Are his +points definite? + +91. sulphurous: so terrible as to suggest the lower world. + + +BIGLOW PAPERS + +Lowell attempted a large task in the "Biglow Papers," and on the whole he +succeeded well. He wished to discuss the current question in America +under the guise of humorous Yankee attack. The first series appeared in +1848 and dealt with the problem of the Mexican War; the second series in +1866 and refers to the Civil War. From the two series are given here +only three which are perhaps the best known. Mr. Hosea Biglow purports +to be the writer. He is an uneducated Yankee boy who "com home (from +Boston) considerabul riled." His father in No. 1, a letter, describes +the process of composition as follows: "Arter I'd gone to bed I hearn Him +a thrashin round like a shoot-tailed bull in flitime. The old woman ses +she to me ses she, Zekle, sos she, our Hosie's gut the drollery or suthin +anuther, ses she, don't you be skeered, ses I, he's oney a-makin poetery; +ses I, he's ollers on hand at that ere busyness like Da & martin, and +Shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on +eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to +Parson Wilbur." + + +WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS + +1. Guvener B.: George Nixon Briggs of Massachusetts. + +6. John P. Robinson was a lawyer (1. 59) of Lowell, Mass. Mr. Lowell +had no intention of attacking the individual here; Mr. Robinson changed +his party allegiance and the letter published over his signature called +Lowell's attention to him. + +lb. Gineral C.: General Caleb Gushing, who took a prominent part in the +Mexican War, and was at this time the candidate for governor opposed to +Governor Briggs. + +16. pelf: money. + +23. vally: value. + +32. eppyletts: epaulets, the mark of an officer in the army or navy. + +39. debit, per contry: makes him the debtor and on the other side +credits us. + + +THE COURTIN' + +17. crook-necks: gourds. + +19. queen's-arm: musket. + +33-34. He had taken at least twenty girls to the social events of the +town. + +68. sekle: sequel, result. + +94. The Bay of Fundy has an exceptionally high tide which rises with +great rapidity. + + +SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE + +2. precerdents: legal decisions previously made which serve as models +for later decisions. + +4. this-worldify. The women in early New England dressed very simply +and sternly, but the odor of musk would make them seem to belong to this +world, which has beauty as well as severity. + +7. clawfoot: a piece of furniture, here a chest, having clawfeet. + +38. pithed with hardihood. New England people had hardihood at the +center of their lives. + +50. The bloodroot leaf is curled round the tiny write flower bud to +protect it. + +56. haggle: move slowly and with difficulty. + +100. vendoo: vendue, public sale. + +117. What American poets express a similar need of nearness to nature? + +144. Lowell's own education was four-story: grammar school, high school, +college, law school. + +165. A good application of the old story of the man who killed the goose +that laid the golden eggs. + +157. Cap-sheaf: the top sheaf on a stack and hence the completion of any +act. + +165. Lowell, himself, seems to be talking in these last lines, and not +young Hosea Biglow. + +209. English Civil War (1642-1649), which ended in the establishment of +the Commonwealth. + +241. As Adam's fall "Brought death into the world, and all our woe," it +was considered by all Puritans as an event of highest importance; most +men agree that their wives' bonnets stand at the other end of the scale. + +2&I. Crommle: Oliver Cromwell, under whom the English fought for a +Commonwealth. See note on line 219. + +270. After the short period of the Commonwealth, Charles II became ruler +of England (1660-1685). + +272. Millennium: a period when all government will be free from +wickedness. + + +AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE + +5. Autumn personified as Hebe, the cupbearer of the Greek gods. + +11. projected spirit. The poet's own spirit seems to take on material +form in the landscape before him. + +28. See the book of Ruth in the Old Testament for this exquisite story. + +32. Magellan's Strait: passage discovered by Magellan when he sailed +around the southern end of South America. + +51. retrieves: remedies. + +59. lapt: wrapped. + +77. Explain this simile. Has color any part in it? + +83. ensanguined: made blood-red by frost. + +92. The Charles is so placid and blue that it resembles a line of the +sky. + +99. In connection with this description of the marshes. Lanier's "The +Marshes of Glynn" may well be read, as it is the best description of +marshes in American literature. + +133. Compare Bryant's "Robert of Lincoln." + +140. Compare this figure with Bryant's in "To a Waterfowl," 1. 2. + +157. Compare with the Prelude to the Second Part of "The Vision of Sir +Launfal." + +163. The river Charles near its mouth is affected by the ocean tides. + +178. Why is the river pictured as dumb and blind? + +182. Compare Whittier's "Snow-Bound." + +187. gyves: fetters. + +190. Druid-like device. At Stonehenge (1. 192) in England is a confused +mass of stones, some of which are in their original positions and which +are supposed to have been placed by the Druids. It is possible that the +sun was worshiped here, but everything about the Druids is conjecture. + +201. A view near at hand is usually too detailed to be attractive. But +in the twilight, near-by objects become softened, the distance fades into +the horizon, and a soothing picture is formed. + +209. The schools and colleges. Probably Harvard College is here +included, as Lowell graduated there. + +217. Compare this idea with that in the following lines from +Wordsworth's "The Daffodils": + + "I gazed--and gazed--but little thought + What wealth the show to me had brought; + For oft, when on my couch I lie + In vacant or in pensive mood, + They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude; + And then my heart with pleasure fills, + And dances with the daffodils." + +The justice of these opinions should be tested by each student from his +own experience. + + +A FABLE FOR CRITICS + +36. ignified: melted. + +40. An example of Lowell's puns, which are generally critcized as +belonging to a low order of humor. + +41. Parnassus: a mountain in Greece, sacred to Apollo and the Muses, and +hence the domain of the arts in general. + +49. inter nos: between us. + +bl. ices. Isis was the Egyptian goddess of the arts and of agriculture. + +60. bemummying: a word coined by Lowell to mean causing one to dry up +like a mummy. + +68.. Pythoness: woman with power of prophecy. + +69. tripod: a bronze altar over which the Pythoness at Delphi uttered +her oracles. + +"Most of his judgments are, however, those of posterity though often, as +in the case of Hawthorns, he was characterizing writers who had not done +their best work." --CAIRNS. + +92. scathe: injury. + +93. rathe: early in the season. + +96. John Bunyan Fouque is an extraordinary combination of names as of +characteristics. Bunyan is known everywhere for his devotion to truth as +he saw it; the oak in character. Friederich Heinrich Karl, Baron de +Lamotte-Fouque, was a German soldier, but is better known as a romantic +writer. His best-known work is "Undine," the anemone in daintiness of +fancy and delicacy of expression. + +A Puritan Tieck is another anomaly. From the early poems in this +anthology the Puritan type is evident; Tieck was a German writer who +revolted against the sternness of life and believed in beauty and +romance. + +110. In 1821 Scott published The Pilot, a novel of the sea, which was +very popular. Cooper, however, thought he could improve upon it and so +in 1823 he published "The Pilot," hoping to show his superiority. + +112. The bay was used for a garland of honor to a poet. + +124. Nathaniel Bumpo was "Leatherstocking," who gave his name to the +series of Cooper s novels. + +126. Long Tom Coffin was the hero in The Pilot. + +130. derniere chemise. A pun upon the word "shift," which here means +stratagem. + +148. Parson Adams is one of the most delightful of all notion +characters. Fielding pictures him in his novel Joseph Andrews in such a +manner that you always sympathize with him even if you must laugh at his +simplicity. + +Dr. Primrose in Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield is a direct literary +descendant of Parson Adams. He is one of the best-known characters in +English fiction. To be classed with these two men is high praise for +Natty Bumpo. + +161. Barnaby Rudge, the hero of Dickens's novel of that name, kept a +tame raven. + +162. fudge: nonsense, rubbish. + +180. Collins and Gray: English poets. William Collins, an English lyric +poet (1721-1759) was a friend of Dr. Johnson. Thomas Gray (1716-1771) is +best known by his "Elegy in a Country Churchyard." + +182. Theocritus, a Greek poet of the third century B.C., was the founder +of pastoral poetry. Since his idea was the original one, his judgment of +his followers would be better than that of any one else. + +190. Irving had been so long a resident in Europe that America almost +despaired of reclaiming him. He did return, however, in 1832, after +making himself an authority on Spanish affairs. + +196. Cervantes: the author of Don Quixote, and the most famous of all +Spanish authors. He died on the same day as Shakespeare, April 23, 1616. + +200. Addison and Steele together wrote the Spectator Papers (1711-1712), +which had a great influence on the English reading public. The Sir Roger +de Coverley papers are the most widely read of these essays at the +present time. + +224. New Timon, published in 1846; a satire in which Tennyson among +others was severely lampooned. + +237. The comparison suggests Bunyan's journey with his bundle of sin. + +252. no clipper and meter: no person who could cut short or measure the +moods of the poet. + +271. The story of Orpheus and Eurydice may be found in any Greek +mythology. + + + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-1894) + +[In 1830] most of our writers were sentimental; a few were profound; and +the nation at large began to be deeply agitated over social reforms and +political problems. The man who in such a period showed the +possibilities of humor, and whose humor was invariably tempered by +culture and flavored with kindness, did a service to our literature that +can hardly be overestimated." + + --WILLIAM J. LONG + +Born at Cambridge, Mass., he was brought up under the sternest type of +New England theology. He graduated from Harvard College in 1829 after +writing much college verse. It was Lowell who stimulated him to his best +work. He himself says, "Remembering some crude contributions of mine to +an old magazine, it occurred to me that their title might serve for some +fresh papers, and so I sat down and wrote off what came into my head +under the title, 'The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.'" He practiced +medicine in Boston and taught Anatomy and Physiology in Harvard until +1882. The latter years of his life were spent happily in Boston, where +he died. + +The poems by Holmes are used by permission of, and by special arrangement +with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his works. + + +OLD IRONSIDES + +The frigate Constitution was popularly known as "Old Ironsides" and this +poem was written when the naval authorities proposed to break it up as +unfit for service. + + +THE LAST LEAF + +Holmes says this poem was suggested by the appearance in Boston of an old +man said to be a Revolutionary soldier. + + +THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS + +14. irised: having colors like those in a rainbow. + +14. crypt: secret recess. + + +CONTENTMENT + +3. In 1857-1858, when this poem was written, the ideal of elegance in +eastern cities of America was a "brown stone front" house. The +possession of such a mansion indicated large wealth. In the light of +this fact the humor of the verse is evident. The same principle is used +throughout. + +22. The position of Minister Plenipotentiary to the court of St. James-- +England--was considered the highest diplomatic position in the disposal +of the United States. How would such a position compare with filling the +governor's chair of any state? + +35. marrowy: rich. + +48. The paintings of Raphael and Titian are beyond purchase price now. +Most of them belong to the great galleries of Europe. Turner is a modern +painter whose work is greatly admired and held almost above price. + +64. vellum: fine parchment made of the skin of calves and used for +manuscripts. It turns cream-color with age. + +59. Stradivarius: a violin made by Antonio Stradivari, who lived (1644- +1737) in Cremona, Italy. These instruments created a standard so that +they are now the most highly prized violins in existence. + +64. buhl: brass, white metal, or tortoise shell inlaid in patterns is +the wood of furniture. So named from the French woodworker who perfected +it. + + +THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE + +10. Georgius Secundus: King George II of England. He was the son of +George I, who was elector of Hanover, as well as king of England. + +20, felloe: a part of the rim of a wooden wheel in which the spokes are +inserted. + +92. encore: we can say the same thing about their strength. + + +THOMAS BUCHANAN READ (1822-1872) + +Born in Pennsylvania, he was early apprenticed to a tailor. He drifted +until at last he made his way to Italy, where he studied and painted for +several years. Later he made Rome his permanent residence, and died +there. He was known as a clever artist and sculptor, but his best work +is the two poem; here quoted. + +The poems by Read are used by special permission of J. B. Lippincott +Company, the authorized publishers of the poems. + + +STORM ON ST. BERNARD + +Storm on St. Bernard may be compared with Excelsior in general subject +matter. Do they affect you in the same way? Are they alike in purpose? +Which seems most real to you? Why is "Excelsior" the more familiar? + + +DRIFTING + +Read was essentially an artist, and in this poem he expressed his +artistic soul more truly than in anything else he ever did. + +19. Ischia: an island in the bay of Naples. + +22. Capri: an island in the Mediterranean, best known for the Blue +Grotto. + + + +WALT WHITMAN (1819-1891) + +"Walt Whitman...the chanter of adhesiveness, of the love of man for man, +may not be attractive to some of us... But Walt Whitman the tender nurse, +the cheerer of hospitals, the saver of soldier lives, is much more than +attractive he is inspiring." + --W. P. TRENT. + +Born on Long Island, he entered a printer's office when he was thirteen. +By the time he was twenty, he was editing his own paper, but he soon gave +it up for work on a New York newspaper. When he was thirty, he traveled +through the west; in "Pioneers" we have a part of the result. During + +the Civil War he gave himself up to nursing as long as his strength +lasted. From 1873 to the time of his death he was a great invalid and +poor, but every trial was nobly borne. + +The selections from Walt Whitman are included by special permission of +Mitchell Kennerley, the publisher of the complete authorized editions of +Walt Whitman's Works. + + +PIONEERS! O PIONEERS + +18. debouch: go out into. + + +O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! + +Written to express the grief of the nation over the death of Abraham +Lincoln at the time when the joy over the saving of the union was most +intense. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Selections From American Poetry, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETRY *** + +***** This file should be named 3650.txt or 3650.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/5/3650/ + +Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.06/12/01*END* +[Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart +and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.] +[Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales +of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or +software or any other related product without express permission.] + + + + + +This etext was produced by Pat Castevans <Patcat@ctnet.net> +and David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + + + +SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETRY + +With Special Reference to Poe, Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier + +by Margaret Sprague Carhart + + + + +CONTENTS: + +Introduction + + +ANNE BRADSTREET + Contemplation + + +MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH + The Day of Doom + + +PHILLIP FRENEAU + The Wild Honeysuckle + To a Honey Bee + The Indian Burying Ground + Eutaw Springs + + +FRANCIS HOPKINSON + The Battle of the Kegs + + +JOSEPH HOPKINSON + Hail Columbia + + +ANONYMOUS + The Ballad of Nathan Hale + A Fable + + +TIMOTHY DWIGHT + Love to the Church + + +SAMUEL WOODWORTH + The Old Oaken Bucket + + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + Thanatopsis + The Yellow Violet + To a Waterfowl + Green River + The West Wind + "I Broke the Spell that Held Me Long" + A Forest Hymn + The Death of the Flowers + The Gladness of Nature + To the Fringed Gentian + Song of Marion's Men + The Crowded Street + The Snow Shower + Robert of Lincoln + The Poet + Abraham Lincoln + + +FRANCIS SCOTT KEY + The Star Spangled Banner + + +JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE + The American Flag + The Culprit Fay + + +FITZ-GREENE HALLECK + Marco Bozzaris + On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake + + +JOHN HOWARD PAYNE + Home Sweet Home + + +EDGAR ALLAN POE + To Helen + Israfel + Lenore + The Coliseum + The Haunted Palace + To One in Paradise + Eulalie A Song + The Raven + To Helen + Annabel Lee + The Bells + Eldorado + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + Hymn to the Night + A Psalm of Life + The Skeleton in Armor + The Wreck of the Hesperus + The Village Blacksmith + It is not Always May + Excelsior + The Rainy Day + The Arrow and the Song + The Day is Done + Walter Von Vogelweide + The Builders + Santa Filomena + The Discoverer of the North Cape + Sandalphon + Tales of a Wayside Inn + The Landlord's Tale + The Sicilian's Tale + The Theologian's Tale + + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + Proem + The Frost Spirit + Songs of Labor Dedication + Songs of Labor The Lumberman + Barclay of Ury + All's Well + Raphael + Seed-Time and Harvest + The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall + Skipper Ireson's Ride + The Double-headed Snake of Newbury + Maud Muller + Burns + The Hero + The Eternal Goodness + The Pipes at Lucknow + Cobbler Keezar's Vision + The Mayflowers + + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + Goodbye + Each and All + The Problem + The Rhodora + The Humble-Bee + The Snow-Storm + Fable + Forbearance + Concord Hymn + Boston Hymn + The Titmouse + + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + Hakon's Lay + Flowers + Impartiality + My Love + The Fountain + The Shepherd of King Admetus + Ode recited at the Harvard Commemoration + Prelude to the Vision of Sir Launfal + Biglow Papers + What Mr Robinson Thinks + The Courtin' + Sunthin' in the Pastoral Line + An Indain Summer Reverie + A Fable for Critics (selection) + + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + Old Ironsides + The Last Leaf + My Aunt + The Chambered Nautilus + Contentment + The Deacon's Masterpiece + + +THOMAS BUCHANAN READ + Storm on the St. Bernard + Drifting + + +WALT WHITMAN + O Captain! My Captain! + Pioneers! O Pioneers! + + +NOTES + + + + + + SELECTIONS OF AMERICAN POETRY + + +INTRODUCTION + +If we define poetry as the heart of man expressed in beautiful language, +we shall not say that we have no national poetry. True, America has +produced no Shakespeare and no Milton, but we have an inheritance in all +English literature; and many poets in America have followed in the +footsteps of their literary British forefathers. + +Puritan life was severe. It was warfare, and manual labor of a most +exhausting type, and loneliness, and devotion to a strict sense of duty. +It was a life in which pleasure was given the least place and duty the +greatest. Our Puritan ancestors thought music and poetry dangerous, +if not actually sinful, because they made men think of this world rather +than of heaven. When Anne Bradstreet wrote our first known American +poems, she was expressing English thought; "The tenth muse" was not +animated by the life around her, but was living in a dream of the land +she had left behind; her poems are faint echoes of the poetry of England. +After time had identified her with life in the new world, she wrote +"Contemplations," in which her English nightingales are changed to +crickets and her English gilli-flowers to American blackberry vines. +The truly representative poetry of colonial times is Michael +Wigglesworth's "Day of Doom. This is the real heart of the Puritan, +his conscience, in imperfect rhyme. It fulfills the first part of our +definition, but shows by its lack of beautiful style that both elements +are necessary to produce real poetry. + +Philip Freneau was the first American who sought to express his life in +poetry. The test of beauty of language again excludes from real poetry +some of his expressions and leaves us a few beautiful lyrics, such as +"The Wild Honeysuckle," in which the poet sings his love of American +nature. With them American poetry may be said to begin. + +The fast historical event of national importance was the American +Revolution. Amid the bitter years of want, of suffering, and of war; few +men tried to write anything beautiful. Life was harsh and stirring and +this note was echoed in all the literature. As a result we have +narrative and political poetry, such as "The Battle of the Kegs" and "A +Fable," dealing almost entirely with events and aiming to arouse military +ardor. In "The Ballad of Nathan Hale," the musical expression of +bravery, pride, and sympathy raises the poem so far above the rhymes of +their period that it will long endure as the most memorable poetic +expression of the Revolutionary period. + +Poetry was still a thing of the moment, an avocation, not dignified by +receiving the best of a man. With William Cullen Bryant came a change. +He told our nation that in the new world as well as in the old some men +should live for the beautiful. Everything in nature spoke to him in +terms of human life. Other poets saw the re1ation between their own +lives and the life of the flowers and the birds, but Bryant constantly +expressed this relationship. The concluding stanza of "To a Waterfowl" +is the most perfect example of this characteristic, but it underlies also +the whole thought of his youthful poem "Thanatopsis" (A View of Death). +If we could all read the lives of our gentians and bobolinks as he did, +there would be more true poetry in America. Modern thinkers urge us to +step outside of ourselves into the lives of others and by our imagination +to share their emotions; this is no new ambition in America; since Bryant +in "The Crowded Street" analyzes the life in the faces he sees. + +Until the early part of the nineteenth century American poetry dealt +mainly with the facts of history and the description of nature. A new +element of fancy is prominent in Joseph Rodman Drake's "The Culprit Fay." +It dances through a long narrative with the delicacy of the fay himself. + +Edgar Allan Poe brought into our poetry somber sentiment and musical +expression. Puritan poetry was somber, but it was almost devoid of +sentiment. Poe loved sad beauty and meditated on the sad things in life. +Many of his poems lament the loss of some fair one. "To Helen," "Annabel +Lee" "Lenore," and "To One In Paradise" have the theme, while in "The +Raven" the poet is seeking solace for the loss of Lenore. "Eulalie--A +Song" rises, on the other hand to intense happiness. With Poe the sound +by which his idea was expressed was as important as the thought itself. +He knew how to make the sound suit the thought, as in "The Raven" and +"The Bells." One who understands no English can grasp the meaning of the +different sections from the mere sound, so clearly distinguishable are +the clashing of the brass and the tolling of the iron bells. If we +return to our definition of poetry as an expression of the heart of a +man, we shall find the explanation of these peculiarities: Poe was a man +of moods and possessed the ability to express these moods in appropriate +sounds. + +The contrast between the emotion of Poe and the c alm spirit of the man +who followed him is very great. In Henry Wadsworth Longfellow American +poetry reached high-water mark. Lafcadio Hearn in his "Interpretations +of Literature" says: "Really I believe that it is a very good test of any +Englishman's ability to feel poetry, simply to ask him, `Did you like +Longfellow when you were a boy?' If he eats `No,' then it is no use to +talk to him on the subject of poetry at all, however much he might be +able to tell you about quantities and metres." No American has in equal +degree won the name of "household poet." If this term is correctly +understood, it sums up his merits more succinctly than can any other +title. + +Longfellow dealt largely with men and women and the emotions common to us +all. Hiawatha conquering the deer and bison, and hunting in despair for +food where only snow and ice abound; Evangeline faithful to her father +and her lover, and relieving suffering in the rude hospitals of a new +world; John Alden fighting the battle between love and duty; Robert of +Sicily learning the lesson of humility; Sir Federigo offering his last +possession to the woman he loved; Paul Revere serving his country in time +of need; the monk proving that only a sense of duty done can bring +happiness: all these and more express the emotions which we know are true +in our own lives. In his longer narrative poems he makes the legends of +Puritan life real to us; he takes English folk-lore and makes us see +Othere talking to Arthur, and the Viking stealing his bride. His short +poems are even better known than his longer narratives. In them he +expressed his gentle, sincere love of the young, the suffering, and the +sorrowful. In the Sonnets he showed; that deep appreciation of European +literature which made noteworthy his teaching at Harvard and his +translations. + +He believed that he was assigned a definite task in the world which he +described as follows in his last poem: + + "As comes the smile to the lips, + The foam to the surge; + + So come to the Poet his songs, + All hitherward blown + From the misty realm, that belongs + To the vast unknown. + + His, and not his, are the lays + He sings; and their fame + Is his, and not his; and the praise + And the pride of a name. + + For voices pursue him by day + And haunt him by night, + And he listens and needs must obey, + When the Angel says: 'Write!' + +John Greenleaf Whittier seems to suffer by coming in such close proximity +to Longfellow. Genuine he was, but his spirit was less buoyant than +Longfellow's and he touches our hearts less. Most of his early poems +were devoted to a current political issue. They aimed to win converts to +the cause of anti-slavery. Such poems always suffer in time in +comparison with the song of a man who sings because "the heart is so full +that a drop overfills it." Whittier's later poems belong more to this +class and some of them speak to-day to our emotions as well as to our +intellects. "The Hero" moves us with a desire to serve mankind, and the +stirring tone of "Barbara Frietchie" arouses our patriotism by its +picture of the same type of bravery. In similar vein is "Barclay of +Ury," which must have touched deeply the heart of the Quaker poet. "The +Pipes of Lucknow" is dramatic in its intense grasp of a climactic hour +and loses none of its force in the expression. We can actually hear the +skirl of the bagpipes. Whittier knew the artiste of the world and talked +to us about Raphael and Burns with clear-sighted, affectionate interest. +His poems show varied characteristics; the love of the sterner aspects of +nature, modified by the appreciation of the humble flower; the conscience +of the Puritan, tinged with sympathy for the sorrowful; the steadfastness +of the Quaker, stirred by the fire of the patriot. + +The poetry of Ralph Waldo Emerson is marked by serious contemplation +rather than by warmth of emotional expression. In Longfellow the appeal +is constantly to a heart which is not disassociated from a brain; in +Emerson the appeal is often to the intellect alone. We recognize the +force of the lesson in "The Titmouse," even if it leaves us less devoted +citizens than does "The Hero" and less capable women than does +"Evangeline." He reaches his highest excellence when he makes us feel as +well as understand a lesson, as in "The Concord Hymn" and "Forbearance." +If we could all write on the tablets of our hearts that single stanza, +forbearance would be a real factor in life. And it is to this poet whom +we call unemotional that we owe this inspiring quatrain: + + "So nigh is grandeur to our dust, + So near is God to man, + When duty whispers low, Thou must, + The youth replies, I can!" + +James Russell Lowell was animated by a well-defined purpose which he +described in the following lines: + + "It may be glorious to write + Thoughts that make glad the two or three + High souls like those far stars that come in sight + Once in a century. + + But better far it is to speak + One simple word which, now and then + Shall waken their free nature in the weak + And friendless sons of men. + + To write some earnest verse or line + Which, seeking not the praise of art, + + Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine + In the untutored heart." + +His very accomplishments made it difficult for him to reach this aim, +since his poetry does not move "the untutored heart" so readily as does +that of Longfellow or Whittier. It is, on the whole, too deeply burdened +with learning and too individual in expression to fulfil his highest +desire. Of his early poems the most generally known is probably "The +Vision of Sir Launfal," in which a strong moral purpose is combined with +lines of beautiful nature description: + + "And what is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days. + +Two works by which he will be permanently remembered show a deeper and +more effective Lowell. "The Biglow Papers" are the most successful of +all the American poems which attempt to improve conditions by means of +humor. Although they refer in the main to the situation at the time of +the Mexican War, they deal with such universal political traits that they +may be applied to almost any age. They are written in a Yankee dialect +which, it is asserted, was never spoken, but which enhances the humor, as +in "What Mr. Robinson Thinks." Lowell's tribute to Lincoln occurs in the +Ode which he wrote to commemorate the Harvard students who enlisted in +the Civil War. After dwelling on the search for truth which should be +the aim of every college student, he turns to the delineation of +Lincoln's character in a eulogy of great beauty. Clear in analysis, far- +sighted in judgment, and loving in sentiment, he expresses that opinion +of Lincoln which has become a part of the web of American thought. His +is no hurried judgment, but the calm statement of opinion which is to-day +accepted by the world: + + "They all are gone, and, standing like a tower, + Our children shall behold his fame, + The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, + Sagacious, patient, dreading, praise, not blame, + Now birth of our new soil, the first American." + +With Oliver Wendell Holmes comes the last of this brief American list of +honor. No other American has so combined delicacy with the New England +humor. We should be poorer by many a smile without "My Aunt" and "The +Deacon's Masterpiece." But this is not his entire gift. "The Chambered +Nautilus" strikes the chord of noble sentiment sounded in the last stanza +of "Thanatopsis" and it will continue to sing in our hearts "As the swift +seasons roll." There is in his poems the smile and the sigh of the well- +loved stanza, + + "And if I should live to be + The last leaf upon the tree + In the Spring. + Let them smile; as I do now; + As the old forsaken bough + Where I cling." + +And is this all? Around these few names does all the fragrance of +American poetry hover? In the hurry, prosperity, and luxury of modern +life is the care if the flower of poetry lost? Surely not. The last +half of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth have +brought many beautiful flowers of poetry and hints of more perfect +blossoms. Lanier has sung of the life of the south he loved; Whitman and +Miller have stirred us with enthusiasm for the progress of the nation; +Field and Riley have made us laugh and cry in sympathy; Aldrich, Sill, +Van Dyke, Burroughs, and Thoreau have shared with us their hoard of +beauty. Among the present generation may there appear many men and women +whose devotion to the delicate flower shall be repaid by the gratitude of +posterity! + + + + +ANNE BRADSTREET + +CONTEMPLATIONS + + Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide, + When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed, + The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride + Were gilded o'er by his rich golden head. + Their leaves and fruits, seem'd painted, but was true + Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hue, + Rapt were my senses at this delectable view. + + I wist not what to wish, yet sure, thought I, + If so much excellence abide below, + How excellent is He that dwells on high! + Whose power and beauty by his works we know; + Sure he is goodness, wisdom, glory, light, + That hath this underworld so richly dight: + More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter and no night. + + Then on a stately oak I cast mine eye, + Whose ruffling top the clouds seem'd to aspire; + How long since thou wast in thine infancy? + Thy strength, and stature, more thy years admire; + Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born, + Or thousand since thou breakest thy shell of horn? + If so, all these as naught Eternity doth scorn. + + I heard the merry grasshopper then sing, + The black-clad cricket bear a second part, + They kept one tune, and played on the same string, + Seeming to glory in their little art. + Shall creatures abject thus their voices raise? + And in their kind resound their Master's praise: + Whilst I, as mute, can warble forth no higher lays. + + When I behold the heavens as in their prime, + And then the earth (though old) still clad in green, + The stones and trees, insensible of time, + Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; + If winter come, and greenness then do fade, + A spring returns, and they more youthful made; + But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's + laid. + + + +MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH + +THE DAY OF DOOM + +SOUNDING OF THE LAST TRUMP + + Still was the night, Serene & Bright, + when all Men sleeping lay; + Calm was the season, & carnal reason + thought so 'twould last for ay. + Soul, take thine ease, let sorrow cease, + much good thou hast in store: + This was their Song, their Cups among, + the Evening before. + + Wallowing in all kind of sin, + vile wretches lay secure: + The best of men had scarcely then + their Lamps kept in good ure. + Virgins unwise, who through disguise + amongst the best were number'd, + Had closed their eyes; yea, and the wise + through sloth and frailty slumber'd. + + For at midnight brake forth a Light, + which turn'd the night to day, + And speedily a hideous cry + did all the world dismay. + Sinners awake, their hearts do ake, + trembling their loynes surprizeth; + Amaz'd with fear, by what they hear, + each one of them ariseth. + + They rush from Beds with giddy heads, + and to their windows run, + Viewing this light, which shines more bright + than doth the Noon-day Sun. + Straightway appears (they see 't with tears) + the Son of God most dread; + Who with his Train comes on amain + to Judge both Quick and Dead. + + Before his face the Heav'ns gave place, + and Skies are rent asunder, + With mighty voice, and hideous noise, + more terrible than Thunder. + His brightness damps heav'ns glorious lamps + and makes them hang their heads, + As if afraid and quite dismay'd, + they quit their wonted steads. + + No heart so bold, but now grows cold + and almost dead with fear: + No eye so dry, but now can cry, + and pour out many a tear. + Earth's Potentates and pow'rful States, + Captains and Men of Might + Are quite abasht, their courage dasht + at this most dreadful sight. + + Mean men lament, great men do rent + their Robes, and tear their hair: + They do not spare their flesh to tear + through horrible despair. + All Kindreds wail: all hearts do fail: + horror the world doth fill + With weeping eyes, and loud out-cries, + yet knows not how to kill. + + Some hide themselves in Caves and Delves, + in places under ground: + Some rashly leap into the Deep, + to scape by being drown'd: + Some to the Rocks (O senseless blocks!) + and woody Mountains run, + That there they might this fearful sight, + and dreaded Presence shun. + + In vain do they to Mountains say, + fall on us and us hide + From Judges ire, more hot than fire, + for who may it abide? + No hiding place can from his Face + sinners at all conceal, + Whose flaming Eye hid things doth 'spy + and darkest things reveal. + + The Judge draws nigh, exalted high, + upon a lofty Throne, + Amidst a throng of Angels strong, + lo, Israel's Holy One! + The excellence of whose presence + and awful Majesty, + Amazeth Nature, and every Creature, + doth more than terrify. + + The Mountains smoak, the Hills are shook, + the Earth is rent and torn, + As if she should be clear dissolv'd, + or from the Center born. + The Sea doth roar, forsakes the shore, + and shrinks away for fear; + The wild beasts flee into the Sea, + so soon as he draws near. + + Before his Throne a Trump is blown, + Proclaiming the day of Doom: + Forthwith he cries, Ye dead arise, + and unto Judgment come. + No sooner said, but 'tis obey'd; + Sepulchres opened are: + Dead bodies all rise at his call, + and 's mighty power declare. + + His winged Hosts flie through all Coasts, + together gathering + Both good and bad, both quick and dead, + and all to Judgment bring. + Out of their holes those creeping Moles, + that hid themselves for fear, + By force they take, and quickly make + before the Judge appear. + + Thus every one before the Throne + of Christ the Judge is brought, + Both righteous and impious + that good or ill hath wrought. + A separation, and diff'ring station + by Christ appointed is + (To sinners sad) 'twixt good and bad, + 'twixt Heirs of woe and bliss. + + + + +PHILIP FRENEAU + +THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE + + Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, + Hid in this silent, dull retreat, + Untouched thy homed 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. + + + + +TO A HONEY BEE + + Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, + Or quaff the waters of the stream, + 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 perplex, + 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; + Here bigger bees than you might 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 of wine, + Your epitaph--a tear-- + Go, take your seat in Charon's boat; + We'll tell the hive, you died afloat. + + + + +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 die, 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) + 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. + + + + +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: + 'Tis 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 Parthian, 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 bright Phoebus of their own. + + + + +FRANCIS HOPKINSON + +THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS + + Gallants attend and hear a friend + Trill forth harmonious ditty, + Strange things I'll tell which late befell + In Philadelphia city. + + 'Twas early day, as poets say, + Just when the sun was rising, + A soldier stood on a log of wood, + And saw a thing surprising. + + As in amaze he stood to gaze, + The truth can't be denied, sir, + He spied a score of kegs or more + Come floating down the tide, sir. + + A sailor too in jerkin blue, + This strange appearance viewing, + First damned his eyes, in great surprise, + Then said, "Some mischief's brewing. + + "These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold, + Packed up like pickled herring; + And they're come down to attack the town, + In this new way of ferrying." + + The soldier flew, the sailor too, + And scared almost to death, sir, + Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, + And ran till out of breath, sir. + + Now up and down throughout the town, + Most frantic scenes were acted; + And some ran here, and others there, + Like men almost distracted. + + Some fire cried, which some denied, + But said the earth had quaked; + And girls and boys, with hideous noise, + Ran through the streets half naked. + + Sir William he, snug as a flea, + Lay all this time a snoring, + Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm, + In bed with Mrs. Loring. + + Now in a fright, he starts upright, + Awaked by such a clatter; + He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, + "For God's sake, what's the matter?" + + At his bedside he then espied, + Sir Erskine at command, sir, + Upon one foot he had one boot, + And th' other in his hand, sir. + + "Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries, + "The rebels--more's the pity, + Without a boat are all afloat, + And ranged before the city. + + "The motley crew, in vessels new, + With Satan for their guide, sir, + Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs, + Come driving down the tide, sir. + + "Therefore prepare for bloody war; + These kegs must all be routed, + Or surely we despised shall be, + And British courage doubted." + + The royal band now ready stand + All ranged in dread array, sir, + With stomach' stout to see it out, + And make a bloody day, sir. + + The cannons roar from shore to shore. + The small arms make a rattle; + Since wars began I'm sure no man + E'er saw so strange a battle. + + The rebel dales, the rebel vales, + With rebel trees surrounded, + The distant woods, the hills and floods, + With rebel echoes sounded. + + The fish below swam to and fro, + Attacked from every quarter; + Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay, + 'Mongst folks above the water. + + The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made, + Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, + Could not oppose their powerful foes, + The conquering British troops, sir. + + From morn to night these men of might + Displayed amazing courage; + And when the sun was fairly down, + Retired to sup their porridge. + + A hundred men with each a pen, + Or more upon my word, sir, + It is most true would be too few, + Their valor to record, sir. + + Such feats did they perform that day, + Against these wicked kegs, sir, + That years to come: if they get home, + They'll make their boasts and brags, sir. + + + + +JOSEPH HOPKINSON + +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, let us be, + Rallying round our Liberty; + As a band of brothers joined, + Peace and safety we shall find. + + Sound, sound, the trump of Fame! + Let WASHINGTON'S great name + Ring through the world with loud applause, + Ring through the world with loud applause; + 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, let us be, + Rallying round our Liberty; + As a band of brothers joined, + Peace and safety we shall find. + + 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. + + + + +ANONYMOUS + +THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE + + The breezes went steadily through the tall pines, + A-saying "oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "oh! hu-ush!" + As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, + For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush. + + "Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young, + In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road. + "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear + What bodes us no good, what bodes us no good." + + The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home + In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook. + With mother and sister and memories dear, + He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook. + + Cooling shades of the night were coming apace, + The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat. + The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place, + To make his retreat; to make his retreat. + + He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves. + As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood; + And silently gained his rude launch on the shore, + As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood. + + The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, + Had a murderous will; had a murderous will. + They took him and bore him afar from the shore, + To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill. + + No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, + In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell. + But he trusted in love, from his Father above. + In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well. + + An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice, + Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by: + "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, + For he must soon die; for he must soon die." + + The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,-- + The cruel general! the cruel general!-- + His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, + And said that was all; and said that was all. + + They took him and bound him and bore him away, + Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side. + 'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array, + His cause did deride; his cause did deride. + + Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, + For him to repent; for him to repent. + He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, + To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went. + + The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, + As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage. + And Britons will shudder at gallant Hales blood, + As his words do presage, as his words do presage. + + "Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, + Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave; + Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. + No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave." + + + + +A FABLE + + Rejoice, Americans, rejoice! + Praise ye the Lord with heart and voice! + The treaty's signed with faithful France, + And now, like Frenchmen, sing and dance! + + But when your joy gives way to reason, + And friendly hints are not deemed treason, + Let me, as well as I am able, + Present your Congress with a fable. + + Tired out with happiness, the frogs + Sedition croaked through all their bogs; + And thus to Jove the restless race, + Made out their melancholy case. + + "Famed, as we are, for faith and prayer, + We merit sure peculiar care; + But can we think great good was meant us, + When logs for Governors were sent us? + + "Which numbers crushed they fell upon, + And caused great fear,--till one by one, + As courage came, we boldly faced 'em, + Then leaped upon 'em, and disgraced 'em! + + "Great Jove," they croaked, "no longer fool us, + None but ourselves are fit to rule us; + We are too large, too free a nation, + To be encumbered with taxation! + + "We pray for peace, but wish confusion, + Then right or wrong, a--revolution! + Our hearts can never bend to obey; + Therefore no king--and more we'll pray." + + Jove smiled, and to their fate resigned + The restless, thankless, rebel kind; + Left to themselves, they went to work, + First signed a treaty with king Stork. + + He swore that they, with his alliance, + To all the world might bid defiance; + Of lawful rule there was an end on't, + And frogs were henceforth--independent. + + At which the croakers, one and all! + Proclaimed a feast, and festival! + But joy to-day brings grief to-morrow; + Their feasting o'er, now enter sorrow! + + The Stork grew hungry, longed for fish; + The monarch could not have his wish; + In rage he to the marshes flies, + And makes a meal of his allies. + + Then grew so fond of well-fed frogs, + He made a larder of the bogs! + Say, Yankees, don't you feel compunction, + At your unnatural rash conjunction? + + Can love for you in him take root, + Who's Catholic, and absolute? + I'll tell these croakers how he'll treat 'em; + Frenchmen, like storks, love frogs--to eat 'em. + + + + +TIMOTHY DWIGHT + +LOVE TO THE CHURCH + + I love thy kingdom, Lord, + The house of thine abode, + The church our blest Redeemer saved + With his own precious blood. + + I love thy church, O God! + Her walls before thee stand, + Dear as the apple of thine eye, + And graven on thy hand. + + If e'er to bless thy sons + My voice or hands deny, + These hands let useful skill forsake, + This voice in silence die. + + For her my tears shall fall, + For her my prayers ascend; + To her my cares and toils be given + Till toils and cares shall end. + + Beyond my highest joy + I prize her heavenly ways, + Her sweet communion, solemn vows, + Her hymns of love and praise. + + Jesus, thou friend divine, + Our Saviour and our King, + Thy hand from every snare and foe + Shall great deliverance bring. + + Sure as thy truth shall last, + To Zion shall be given + The brightest glories earth can yield, + And brighter bliss of heaven. + + + + +SAMUEL WOODWORTH + +THE OLD OAKEN 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 cataract fell, + The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, + And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well- + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. + + That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, + For often at noon, when returned from the field, + I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, + 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 overflowing, + 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 habitation, + The tear of regret will intrusively swell, + As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, + 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! + + + + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + +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 up + Thine individual being, shalt thou go + To mix forever with the elements, + To be a brother to the insensible rock + And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain + Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak + Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. + + Yet not to thine eternal resting place + Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish + Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down + With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings, + The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good, + Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, + All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills + Rock-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 dashing--yet the dead are there; + And millions in those solitudes, since first + The flight of years began, have laid them down + In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone. + So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw + In silence from the living, and no friend + Take note of thy departure? All that breathe + Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh + When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care + Plod on, and each one as before will chase + His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave + Their mirth and their employments, and shall come + And make their bed with thee. As the long train + Of ages glides away, the sons of men-- + The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes + In the full strength of years, matron and maid, + The speechless babe, and the grayheaded 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. + + + + +THE YELLOW VIOLET + + When beechen buds begin to swell, + And woods the blue-bird's warble know, + The yellow violet's modest bell + Peeps from the last year's leaves below. + + Ere russet fields their green resume, + Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, + To meet thee, when thy faint perfume + Alone is in the virgin air. + + Of all her train, the hands of Spring + First plant thee in the watery mould, + And I have seen thee blossoming + Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. + + Thy parent sun, who bade thee view + Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, + Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, + And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. + + Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, + And earthward bent thy gentle eye, + Unapt the passing view to meet, + When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. + + Oft, in the sunless April day, + Thy early smile has stayed my walk; + But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, + I passed thee on thy humble stalk. + + So they, who climb to wealth, forget + The friends in darker fortunes tried. + I copied them--but I regret + That I should ape the ways of pride. + + And when again the genial hour + Awakes the painted tribes of light, + I'll not o'erlook the modest flower + That made the woods of April bright. + + + + +TO A WATERFOWL + + 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? + + 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 atmosphere, + Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, + Though the dark night is near. + + And soon that toil shall end; + Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, + And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, + Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. + + Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven + Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, in my heart + Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, + And shall not soon depart. + + He who, from zone to zone, + Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, + In the long way that I must tread alone, + Will lead my steps aright. + + + + +GREEN RIVER + + When breezes are soft and skies are fair, + I steal an hour from study and care, + And hie me away to the woodland scene, + Where wanders the stream with waters of green, + As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink + Had given their stain to the waves they drink; + And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, + Have named the stream from its own fair hue. + + Yet pure its waters--its shallows are bright + With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, + And clear the depths where its eddies play, + And dimples deepen and whirl away, + And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot + The swifter current that mines its root, + Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, + The quivering glimmer of sun and rill + With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, + Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. + Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, + With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum; + The flowers of summer are fairest there, + And freshest the breath of the summer air; + And sweetest the golden autumn day + In silence and sunshine glides away. + + Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, + Beautiful stream! by the village side; + But windest away from haunts of men, + To quiet valley and shaded glen; + And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, + Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still, + Lonely--save when, by thy rippling tides, + From thicket to thicket the angler glides; + Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, + For herbs of power on thy banks to look; + Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, + To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. + Still--save the chirp of birds that feed + On the river cherry and seedy reed, + And thy own wild music gushing out + With mellow murmur of fairy shout, + From dawn to the blush of another day, + Like traveller singing along his way. + + That fairy music I never hear, + Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, + And mark them winding away from sight, + Darkened with shade or flashing with light, + While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, + And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, + But I wish that fate had left me free + To wander these quiet haunts with thee, + Till the eating cares of earth should depart, + And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; + And I envy thy stream, as it glides along + Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. + + Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, + And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, + And mingle among the jostling crowd, + Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud-- + I often come to this quiet place, + To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, + And gaze upon thee in silent dream, + For in thy lonely and lovely stream + An image of that calm life appears + That won my heart in my greener years. + + + + +THE WEST WIND + + Beneath the forest's skirt I rest, + Whose branching pines rise dark and high, + And hear the breezes of the West + Among the thread-like foliage sigh. + + Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of woe? + Is not thy home among the flowers? + Do not the bright June roses blow, + To meet thy kiss at morning hours? + + And lo! thy glorious realm outspread-- + Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, + And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose head + The loose white clouds are borne away. + + And there the full broad river runs, + And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, + To cool thee when the mid-day suns + Have made thee faint beneath their heat. + + Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love; + Spirit of the new-wakened year! + The sun in his blue realm above + Smooths a bright path when thou art here. + + In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, + The wooing ring-dove in the shade; + On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird + Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. + + Ah! thou art like our wayward race;-- + When not a shade of pain or ill + Dims the bright smile of Nature's face, + Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still. + + + + +"I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG" + + I broke the spell that held me long, + The dear, dear witchery of song. + I said, the poet's idle lore + Shall waste my prime of years no more, + For Poetry, though heavenly born, + Consorts with poverty and scorn. + + I broke the spell--nor deemed its power + Could fetter me another hour. + Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget + Its causes were around me yet? + For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, + Was Nature's everlasting smile. + + Still came and lingered on my sight + Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, + And glory of the stars and sun;-- + And these and poetry are one. + They, ere the world had held me long, + Recalled me to the love of song. + + + + +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 influences + 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 green 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, neglect + 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 pride + Report not. No fantastic carvings show + The boast of our vain race to change the form + Of thy fair works. But thou art here--thou fill'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 barley 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 halt 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 + Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, + With scented breath and look so like a smile, + Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, + Au 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 himself + Upon the tyrant's throne--the sepulchre, + And of the triumphs 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 themselves + 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 tempest, set on fire + The heavens with falling thunderbolts, 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. + + + + +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, but the cold November rain + Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. + + The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, + And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; + But on the hills 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 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 forests 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 GLADNESS OF NATURE + + Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, + When our mother Nature laughs around; + When even the deep blue heavens look glad, + And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? + + There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, + And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; + The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, + And the wilding bee hums merrily by. + + The clouds are at play in the azure space + And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, + And here they stretch to the frolic chase, + And there they roll on the easy gale. + + There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, + There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, + There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, + And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. + + And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles + On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, + On the leaping waters and gay young isles; + Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. + + + + +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 unseen, + 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 frosts 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. + + + + +SONG OF MARION'S MEN + + 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. + + 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 tents 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 hollow wind. + + Then sweet the hour that brings release + From danger and from toil: + 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. + + 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 moonlight plain; + 'Tis life to feel the night-wind + That lifts the tossing mane. + A moment in the British camp-- + A moment--and away + Back to the pathless forest, + Before the peep of day. + + 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, + 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 CROWDED STREET + + Let me move slowly through the street, + Filled with an ever-shifting train, + Amid the sound of steps that beat + The murmuring walks like autumn rain. + + How fast the flitting figures come! + The mild, the fierce, the stony face; + Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some + + Where secret tears have left their trace. + + They pass--to toil, to strife, to rest; + To halls in which the feast is spread; + To chambers where the funeral guest + In silence sits beside the dead. + + And some to happy homes repair, + Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, + These struggling tides of life that seem + With mute caresses shall declare + The tenderness they cannot speak. + + And some, who walk in calmness here, + Shall shudder as they reach the door + Where one who made their dwelling dear, + Its flower, its light, is seen no more. + + Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, + And dreams of greatness in thine eye! + Go'st thou to build an early name, + Or early in the task to die? + + Keen son of trade, with eager brow! + Who is now fluttering in thy snare! + Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, + Or melt the glittering spires in air? + + Who of this crowd to-night shall tread + The dance till daylight gleam again? + Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? + Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? + + Some, famine-struck, shall think how long + The cold dark hours, how slow the light; + And some, who flaunt amid the throng, + Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. + + Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, + They pass, and heed each other not. + There is who heeds, who holds them all, + In His large love and boundless thought. + + These struggling tides of life that seem + In wayward, aimless course to tend, + Are eddies of the mighty stream + That rolls to its appointed end. + + + + +THE SNOW-SHOWER + + Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, + On the lake below thy gentle eyes; + The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, + And dark and silent the water lies; + And out of that frozen mist the snow + In wavering flakes begins to flow; + Flake after flake + They sink in the dark and silent lake. + + See how in a living swarm they come + From the chambers beyond that misty veil; + Some hover awhile in air, and some + Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. + All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, + West, and are still in the depths below; + Flake after flake + Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. + + Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, + Come floating downward in airy play, + Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd + That whiten by night the milky way; + There broader and burlier masses fall; + The sullen water buries them all-- + Flake after flake-- + All drowned in the dark and silent lake. + + And some, as on tender wings they glide + From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, + Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, + Come clinging along their unsteady way; + As friend with friend, or husband with wife, + Makes hand in hand the passage of life; + Each mated flake + Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. + + Lo! While we are gazing, in swifter haste + Stream down the snows, till the air is white, + As, myriads by myriads madly chased, + They fling themselves from their shadowy height. + The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, + What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; + Flake after flake + To lie in the dark and silent lake! + + I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; + They turn to me in sorrowful thought; + Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, + Who were for a time, and now are not; + Like those fair children and cloud and frost, + That glisten for a moment and then are lost, + Flake after flake + All lost in the dark and silent lake. + + Yet look again, for the clouds divide; + A gleam of blue on the water lies; + And far away, on the mountain-side, + A sunbeam falls from the opening skies, + But the hurrying host that flew between + The cloud and the water, no more is seen; + Flake after flake, + + At rest in the dark and silent lake. + + + + +ROBERT OF LINCOLN + + Merrily swinging on brier and weed, + Near to the nest of his little dame, + Over the mountain-side or mead, + Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Snug and safe is that nest of ours, + Hidden among the summer flowers, + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, + Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; + White are his shoulders and white his crest + Hear him call in his merry note: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Look, what a nice coat is mine. + Sure there was never a bird so fine. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, + Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, + Passing at home a patient life, + Broods in the grass while her husband sings + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Brood, kind creature; you need not fear + Thieves and robbers while I am here. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Modest and shy is she; + One weak chirp is her only note. + Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, + Pouring boasts from his little throat: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Never was I afraid of man; + Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! + Chee, chee, chee. + + Six white eggs on a bed of hay, + Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! + There as the mother sits all day, + Robert is singing with all his might: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Nice good wife, that never goes out, + Keeping house while I frolic about. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Soon as the little ones chip the shell, + Six wide mouths are open for food; + Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, + Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-linl, + Spink, spank, spink; + This new life is likely to be + Hard for a gay young fellow like me. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln at length is made + Sober with work, and silent with care; + Off is his holiday garment laid, + Half forgotten that merry air: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Nobody knows but my mate and I + Where our nest and out nestlings lie. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Summer wanes; the children are grown; + Fun and frolic no more he knows; + Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; + Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + When you can pipe that merry old strain, + Robert of Lincoln, come back again. + Chee, chee, chee. + + + + +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 within the general mind! + Deem not the framing of a deathless lay + The pastime of a drowsy summer day. + + But gather all thy powers, + And wreak them on the verse that thou dust 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 windless 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 rampart'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!" + + + + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + + Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, + Gentle and merciful and just! + Who, in the fear of God, didst bear + The sword of power, a nation's trust! + + In sorrow by thy bier we stand, + Amid the awe that hushes all, + And speak the anguish of a land + That shook with horror at thy fall. + + Thy task is done; the bond are free: + We bear thee to an honored grave + Whose proudest monument shall be + The broken fetters of the slave. + + Pure was thy life; its bloody close + Hath placed thee with the sons of light, + Among the noble host of those + Who perished in the cause of Right. + + + + +FRANCIS SCOTT KEY + +THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER + + O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, + What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? + Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous 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 star-spangled banner yet wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? + + On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, + Where the foes 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; + 'Tis 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 and the gloom of the grave; + And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave + 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 preserved us a nation. + Then conquer we must, for 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. + + + + +JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE + +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. + And 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 trumpings 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 'tis 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 of 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 + In 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? + + + + +THE CULPRIT FAY (Selection) + + 'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell: + The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; + He has counted them all with click and stroke, + Deep in the heart of the mountain oak, + And he has awakened the sentry elve + Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, + To bid him ring the hour of twelve, + And call the fays to their revelry; + Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell + ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell) + "Midnight comes, and all is well! + Hither, hither, wing your way! + 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day." + + They come from beds of lichen green, + They creep from the mullen's velvet screen; + Some on the backs of beetles fly + From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, + Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high, + And rocked about in the evening breeze; + Some from the hum-bird's downy nest-- + They had driven him out by elfin power, + And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, + Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; + Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, + With glittering ising-stars' inlaid; + And some had opened the four-o'clock, + And stole within its purple shade. + And now they throng the moonlight glade, + Above, below, on every side, + Their little minim forms arrayed + In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. + + They come not now to print the lea, + In freak and dance around the tree, + Or at the mushroom board to sup + And drink the dew from the buttercup. + A scene of sorrow waits them now, + For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow + He has loved an earthly maid, + And left for her his woodland shade; + He has lain upon her lip of dew, + And sunned him in her eye of blue, + Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, + Played in the ringlets of her hair, + And, nestling on her snowy breast, + Forgot the lily-king's behest. + For this the shadowy tribes of air + To the elfin court must haste away; + And now they stand expectant there, + To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. + + The throne was reared upon the grass, + Of spice-wood and of sassafras; + On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell + Hung the burnished canopy,-- + And over it gorgeous curtains fell + Of the tulip's crimson drapery. + 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 halt 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 bast 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 punishment + Tied to the hornet's shardy wings, + Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings, + Or seven long ages doomed to dwell + With the lazy worm in the walnut-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 murdered 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 shaft seek the beach of sand + Where the water bounds the elfin land; + Thou shaft watch the oozy brine + Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine; + 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." . . . + + The goblin marked his monarch well; + He spake not, but he bowed him low; + Then plucked a crimson colen-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 over 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 leaped 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 silkweed 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 the sea-silk beds in their coral caves; + 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 quad'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 howls 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. + + Soon he gathered the balsam dew + From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud; + Over each wound the balm he drew, + And with cobweb lint he stanched the blood. + The mild west wind was soft and low; + It cooled the heat of his burning brow, + And he felt new life in his sinews shoot + As he drank the juice of the calamus root. + And now he treads the fatal shore + As fresh and vigorous as before. + + Wrapped in musing stands the sprite + 'Tis the middle wane of night; + His task is hard, his way is far, + But he must do his errand right + Ere dawning mounts her beamy car, + And rolls her chariot wheels of light; + And vain are the spells of fairy-land, + He must work with a human hand. + + He cast a saddened look around; + But he felt new joy his bosom swell, + When glittering on the shadowed ground + He saw a purple mussel-shell; + Thither he ran, and he bent him low, + He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow, + And he pushed her over the yielding sand + Till he came; to the verge of the haunted land. + She was as lovely a pleasure-boat + As ever fairy had paddled in, + For she glowed with purple paint without, + And shone with silvery pearl within + A sculler's notch in the stern he made, + An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade; + Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap, + And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. + + The imps of the river yell and rave + They had no power above the wave, + But they heaved the billow before the prow, + And they dashed the surge against her side, + And they struck her keel with jerk and blow, + Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. + She wimpled about to the pale moonbeam, + Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed stream; + And momently athwart her track + The quad upreared his island back, + And the fluttering scallop behind would float, + And patter the water about the boat; + But he bailed her out with his colon-bell, + And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread, + While on every side like lightning fell + The heavy strokes of his Bootle-blade. + + Onward still he held his way, + Till he came where the column of moonshine lay, + And saw beneath the surface dim + The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim. + Around him were the goblin train; + But he sculled with all his might and main, + And followed wherever the sturgeon led, + Till he saw him upward point his head; + "Mien he dropped his paddle-blade, + And held his colen-goblet up + To catch the drop in its crimson cup. + + With sweeping tail and quivering fin + Through the wave the sturgeon flew, + And like the heaven-shot javelin + He sprung above the waters blue. + Instant as the star-fall light, + He plunged him in the deep again, + But left an arch of silver bright, + The rainbow of the moony main. + It was a strange and lovely sight + To see the puny goblin there: + He seemed an angel form of light, + With azure wing and sunny hair, + Throned on a cloud of purple fair, + Circled with blue and edged with white, + And sitting at the fall of even + Beneath the bow of summer heaven. + + A moment, and its lustre fell; + But ere it met the billow blue + He caught within his crimson bell + A droplet of its sparkling dew. + Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done; + Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won. + Cheerly ply thy dripping oar, + And haste away to the elfin shore! + + He turns, and to on either side + The ripples on his path divide; + And the track o'er which his boat must pass + Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass. + Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, + With snowy arms half swelling out, + While on the glossed and gleamy wave + Their sea-green ringlets loosely float: + They swim around with smile and song; + They press the bark with pearly hand, + And gently urge her course along, + Toward the beach of speckled sand; + And as he lightly leaped to land + They bade adieu with nod and bow, + Then gaily kissed each little hand, + And dropped in the crystal deep below. + + A moment stayed the fairy there: + He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer; + Then spread his wings of gilded blue, + And on to the elfin court he flew. + As ever ye saw a bubble rise, + And shine with a thousand changing dyes, + Till, lessening far, through ether driven, + It mingles with the hues of heaven; + As, at the glimpse of morning pale, + The lance-fly spreads his silken sail + And gleams with bleedings soft and bright + Till lost in the shades of fading night; + So rose from earth the lovely Fay, + So vanished far in heaven away! + + + + +FITZ-GREENE HALLECK + +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 Plataea'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 mountain-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-horn'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. + + 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 oer the Haytian seas. + + Bozzaris, with the storied brave + Greece nurtured in her glory's time, + Rest thee--there is no prouder gave. + 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 babes' first lisping tells; + For throe 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 went 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 throe, 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 I 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. + + + + +JOHN HOWARD PAYNE + +HOME, SWEET HOME + + Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; + A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, + Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; + O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! + The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,-- + Give me them,--and the peace of mind, dearer than all! + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, + And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile! + Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam, + But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home! + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; + The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; + No more from that, cottage again will I roam; + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. + Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + + + +EDGAR ALLAN POE + +TO HELEN + + Helen, thy beauty is to me + Like those Nicean barks of yore, + That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, + The weary, way-worn wanderer bore + To his own native shore. + + On desperate seas long wont to roam, + Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, + Thy Naiad airs have brought me home + To the glory that was Greece, + And the grandeur that was Rome. + + Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche + How statue-like I see thee stand, + The agate lamp within thy hand! + Ah, Psyche, from the regions which + Are Holy-Land! + + + + +ISRAFEL + + In Heaven a spirit doth dwell + "Whose heart-strings are a lute;" + None sing so wildly well + As the angel Israel, + And the giddy stars (so legends tell) + Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell + Of his voice, all mute. + + Tottering above + In her highest noon, + The enamoured moon + Blushes with love, + While, to listen, the red levin + (With the rapid Pleiads, even, + Which were seven,) + Pauses in Heaven. + + And they say (the starry choir + And the other listening things) + That Israeli's fire + Is owing to that lyre + By which he sits and sings-- + The trembling living wire + Of those unusual strings. + + But the skies that angel trod, + Where deep thoughts are a duty-- + Where Love's a grown-up God-- + Where the Houri glances are + Imbued with all the beauty + Which we worship in a star. + + Therefore, thou art not wrong, + Israfeli, who despisest + An unimpassioned song; + To thee the laurels belong, + Best bard, because the wisest! + Merrily live, and long! + + The ecstasies above + With thy burning measures suit-- + Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, + With the fervour of thy lute-- + Well may the stars be mute! + + Yes, Heaven is thin-e; but this + Is a world of sweets and sours; + Our flowers are merely--flowers, + And the shadow of thy perfect bliss + Is the sunshine of ours. + + If I could dwell + Where Israfel + Hath dwelt, and he where I, + He might not sing so wildly well + A mortal melody, + While a bolder note than this might swell + From my lyre within the sky. + + + + +LENORE + + Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! + Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; + And, Guy De Vere, halt thou no tear?--weep now or never more! + See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! + Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!-- + An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-- + A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. + + "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, + "And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died! + "How shall the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung + "By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue + "That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" + + Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song + Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! + The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, + Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride + For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, + The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes-- + The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes. + "Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-- + "From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-- + "From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of + Heaven." + Let no bell toll then!--lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth, + Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth! + And I!--to-night my heart is light! No dirge will I upraise, + But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days! + + + + +THE COLISEUM + + Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary + Of lofty contemplation left to Time + By bunted centuries of pomp and power! + At length--at length--after so many days + Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, + (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) + I kneel, an altered and an humble man, + Amid thy shadows, and so drink within + My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! + + Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! + Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! + I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength-- + O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king + Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! + O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee + Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! + + Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! + Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, + A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! + Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair + Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! + Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, + Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, + Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, + The swift and silent lizard of the stones! + + But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades-- + These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts-- + These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze-- + These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin-- + These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all-- + All of the famed, and the colossal left + By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? + + "Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all! + "Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever + "From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, + "As melody from Memnon to the Sun. + "We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule + "With a despotic sway all giant minds. + "We are not impotent--we pallid stones. + "Not all our power is gone--not all our fame-- + "Not all the magic of our high renown-- + "Not all the wonder that encircles us-- + "Not all the mysteries that in us lie-- + "Not all the memories that hang upon + "And cling around about us as a garment, + "Clothing us in a robe of more than glory." + + + + +THE HAUNTED PALACE + + In the greenest of our valleys + By good angels tenanted, + Once a fair and stately palace-- + Radiant palace--reared its head. + In the monarch Thought's dominion-- + It stood there! + Never seraph spread a pinion + Over fabric half so fair! + + Banners yellow, glorious, golden, + On its roof did float and flow, + (This--all this--was in the olden + Time long ago,) + And every gentle air that dallied; + In that sweet day, + Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, + A winged odor went away. + + Wanderers in that happy valley, + Through two luminous windows, saw + Spirits moving musically, + To a lute's well-tuned law, + Round about a throne where, sitting, + (Porphyrogene!) + In state his glory well befitting, + The ruler of the realm was seen. + + And all with pearl and ruby glowing + Was the fair palace door, + Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing + And sparkling evermore, + A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty + Was but to sing, + In voices of surpassing beauty, + The wit and wisdom of their king. + + But evil things, in robes of sorrow, + Assailed the monarch's high estate. + (Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow + Shall dawn upon him desolate!) + And round about his home the glory + That blushed and bloomed, + Is but a dim-remembered story + Of the old time entombed. + + And travellers, now, within that valley, + Through the red-litten windows see + Vast forms, that move fantastically + To a discordant melody, + While, like a ghastly rapid river, + Through the pale door + A hideous throng rush out forever + And laugh--but smile no more. + + + + +TO ONE IN PARADISE + + Thou wast all that to me, love, + For which my soul did pine-- + A green isle in the sea, love, + A fountain and a shrine + All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, + And all the flowers were mine. + + Ah, dream too bright to last! + Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise + But to be overcast! + A voice from out the Future cries, + "On! on!"--but o'er the Past + (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies + Mute, motionless, aghast! + + For, alas! alas! with me + The light of Life is o'er! + "No more--no more--no more--" + (Such language holds the solemn sea + To the sands upon the shore) + Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, + Or the stricken eagle soar! + + And all my days are trances, + And all my nightly dreams + Are where thy grey eye glances, + And where thy footstep gleams-- + In what ethereal dances, + By what eternal streams. + + + + +EULALIE. --A SONG + + I dwelt alone + In a world of moan, + And my soul was a stagnant tide, + Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-- + Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. + + Ah, less--less bright + The stars of the night + Than the eyes of the radiant girl! + And never a flake + That the vapor can make + With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, + Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-- + Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble + and careless curl. + + Now Doubt--now Pain + Come never again, + For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, + And all day long + Shines, bright and strong, + Astarte within the sky, + While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-- + While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. + + + + +THE RAVEN + + Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore + While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, + As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door + "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- + Only this and nothing more." + + Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; + And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor-- + Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow + From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- + For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- + Nameless here for evermore. + + And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain + Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; + So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating + + "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- + Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- + This it is and nothing more." + + Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, + "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; + But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping + And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, + That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;-- + Darkness there and nothing more. + + Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, + fearing, + Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; + But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, + And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" + This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!" + Merely this and nothing more. + + Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, + Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. + "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; + Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- + Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- + 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" + + Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter + In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. + Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; + But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- + Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-- + Perched, and sat, and nothing more. + + Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, + By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, + "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art + sure no craven, + Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- + Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, + Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; + For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being + Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- + Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, + With such name as "Nevermore." + + But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only + That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. + Nothing farther then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- + TillI scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before-- + On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." + Then the bird said "Nevermore." + + Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, + "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, + Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster + Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore + Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore-- + Of `Never--nevermore.'" + + But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, + Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and + door; + Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking + Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- + What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore + Meant in croaking "Nevermore." + + Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing + To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; + This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining + On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, + But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, + She shall press, ah, nevermore! + + Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer + Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. + "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath + sent thee + + Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; + Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!- + Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, + Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted + On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore-- + Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! + By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- + Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, + It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore: + Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, + upstarting-- + "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! + Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! + Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door! + Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my + door!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting + On the pallid bust of Pallas dust above my chamber door; + And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, + And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor + And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor + Shall be lifted--nevermore! + + + + +TO HELEN + + I saw thee once--once only--years ago + I must not say how many--but not many. + It was a July midnight; and from out + A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, + Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, + There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, + With quietude and sultriness and slumber, + Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand + Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, + Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-- + Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses + That gave out, in return for the love-light, + Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death-- + Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses + That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted + By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. + + Clad all in white, upon a violet bank + I saw thee half reclining; while the moon + Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, + And on throe own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow! + + Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-- + Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow), + That bade me pause before that garden-gate, + To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? + No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, + Save only thee and me. (Oh, heaven!--oh, God! + How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) + Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked-- + And in an instant all things disappeared. + (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) + The pearly lustre of the moon went out: + The mossy banks and the meandering paths, + The happy flowers and the repining trees, + Were seen no more: the very roses' odors + Died in the arms of the adoring airs. + All--all expired save thee -- save less than thou: + Save only the divine light in throe eyes-- + Save but the soul in throe uplifted eyes. + I saw but them--they were the world to me. + I saw but them--saw only them for hours-- + Saw only there until the moon went down. + What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten + + Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! + How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope! + How silently serene a sea of pride! + How daring an ambition! yet how deep-- + How fathomless a capacity for love! + + But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, + Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; + And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees + Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. + They would not go--they never yet have gone. + Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, + They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. + They follow me--they lead me through the years-- + They are my ministers--yet I their slave. + Their office is to illumine and enkindle-- + My duty, to be saved by their bright light, + And purified in their electric fire, + And sanctified in their elysian fire. + They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), + And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to + In the sad, silent watches of my night; + While even in the meridian glare of day + I see them still--two sweetly scintillant + Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! + + + + +ANNABEL LEE + + It was many and many a year ago, + In a kingdom by the sea + That a maiden there lived whom you may know + By the name of ANNABEL LEE; + And this maiden she lived with no other thought + Than to love and be loved by me. + + I was a child and she was a child, + In this kingdom by the sea, + But we loved with a love that was more than love-- + I and my ANNABEL LEE-- + With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven + Coveted her and me. + + And this was the reason that, long ago, + In this kingdom by the sea, + A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling + My beautiful ANNABEL LEE; + So that her highborn kinsmen came + And bore her away from me, + To shut her up in a sepulchre + In this kingdom by the sea. + + The angels, not half so happy in heaven, + Went envying her and me-- + Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know, + In this kingdom by the sea) + That the wind came out of the cloud by night, + Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE. + + But our love it was stronger by far than the love + Of those who were older than we-- + Of many far wiser than we-- + And neither the angels in heaven above, + Nor the demons down under the sea, + Can ever dissever my soul from the soul + Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE: + + For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams + Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; + And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes + Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE: + And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side + Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride + In the sepulchre there by the sea-- + In her tomb by the sounding sea. + + + + +THE BELLS + + Hear the sledges with the bells - + Silver bells! + What a world of merriment their melody foretells! + How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, + In the icy air of night! + While the stars that oversprinkle + All the heavens, seem to twinkle + With a crystalline delight + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells + From the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells-- + From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. + + Hear the mellow wedding bells, + Golden bells! + What a world of happiness their harmony foretell: + Through the balmy air of night + How they ring out their delight! + From the molten-golden notes, + And all in tune, + What a liquid ditty floats, + To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats + On the moon! + + Oh, from out the sounding cells, + What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! + How it swells! + How it dwells + On the Future!--how it tells + Of the rapture that impels + To the swinging and the ringing + Of the bells, bells, bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells-- + To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! + + Hear the loud alarum bells-- + Brazen bells! + What a tale of terror, now their turbulency tells! + In the startled ear of night + How they scream out their affright! + Too much horrified to speak, + They can only shriek, shriek, + Out of tune, + In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, + In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, + Leaping higher, higher, higher, + With a desperate desire, + And a resolute endeavor + Now--now to sit, or never, + By the side of the pale-faced moon. + Oh, the bells, bells, bells! + What a tale their terror tells + Of Despair! + How they clang, and clash, and roar! + What a horror they outpour + On the bosom of the palpitating air! + + Yet, the ear, it fully knows, + By the twanging, + And the clanging, + How the danger ebbs and flows; + Yet the ear distinctly tells, + In the jangling, + And the wrangling, + How the danger sinks and swells, + + By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells + Of the bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, belts, bells-- + In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! + + Hear the tolling of the bells-- + Iron bells + What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! + In the silence of the night, + How we shiver with affright + At the melancholy menace of their tone: + + For every sound that floats + From the rust within their throats + Is a groan. + And the people--ah, the people-- + They that dwell up in the steeple, + All alone, + And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, + In that muffled monotone, + Feel a glory in so rolling, + + On the human heart a stone-- + They are neither man or woman-- + They are neither brute nor human-- + They are Ghouls:-- + And their king it is who tolls:-- + And he rolls, rolls, rolls, + Rolls + A paean from the bells! + And his merry bosom swells + With the paean of the bells! + And he dances, and he yells; + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the paean of the bells:-- + Of the bells + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the throbbing of the bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells-- + To the sobbing of the bells:-- + Keeping time, time, time, + As he knells, knells, knells, + In a happy Runic rhyme, + To the rolling of the bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells:-- + To the tolling of the bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells + To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. + + + + +ELDORADO + + Gaily bedight, + A gallant knight, + In sunshine and in shadow, + Had journeyed long, + Singing a song, + In search of Eldorado. + + But he grew old-- + This knight so bold-- + And o'er his heart a shadow + Fell as he found + No spot of ground + That looked like Eldorado. + + And, as his strength + Failed him at length, + He met a pilgrim shadow-- + "Shadow," said he, + "Where can it be-- + This land of Eldorado?" + + "Over the Mountains + Of the Moon, + Down the Valley of the Shadow, + Ride, boldly ride," + The shade replied, + "If you seek for Eldorado." + + + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + +HYMN TO THE NIGHT + + I heard the trailing garments of the Night + Sweep through her marble halls! + I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light + From the celestial walls! + + I felt her presence, by its spell of might, + Stoop o'er me from above; + The calm, majestic presence of the Night, + As of the one I love. + + I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, + The manifold, soft chimes, + That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, + Like some old poet's rhymes. + + From the cool cisterns of the midnight air + My spirit drank repose; + The fountain of perpetual peace flows there-- + From those deep cisterns flows. + + O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear + What man has borne before! + Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, + And they complain no more. + + Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! + Descend with broad-winged flight, + The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, + The best-beloved Night! + + + + +A PSALM OF LIFE + +WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST + + Tell me not, in mournful numbers, + "Life is but an empty dream!" + For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + + Life is real! Life is earnest! + And the grave is not its goal; + "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," + Was not spoken of the soul. + + Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, + Is our destined end or way; + But to act, that each to-morrow + Find us farther than to-day. + + Art is long, and Time is fleeting, + And our hearts, though stout and brave, + Still, like muffled drums, are beating + Funeral marches to the grave. + + In the world's broad field of battle, + In the bivouac of Life, + Be not like dumb, driven cattle; + Be a hero in the strife! + + Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant + Let the dead Past bury its dead! + Act,--act in the living Present! + Heart within, and God o'erhead! + + Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime, + And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time; + + Footprints, that perhaps another, + Sailing o'er life's solemn main, + A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, + Seeing, shall take heart again. + + Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; + Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labor and to wait. + + + + +THE SKELETON IN ARMOR + + "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! + Who, with thy hollow breast + Still in rude armor drest, + Comest to daunt me! + + Wrapt not in Eastern balms, + But with thy fleshless palms + Stretched, as if asking alms, + Why dost thou haunt me?" + + Then, from those cavernous eyes + Pale flashes seemed to rise, + As when the Northern skies + Gleam in December; + And, like the water's flow + Under December's snow, + Came a dull voice of woe + From the heart's chamber. + + "I was a Viking old! + My deeds, though manifold, + No Skald in song has told, + No Saga taught thee! + Take heed, that in thy verse + Thou dost the tale rehearse, + Else dread a dead man's curse; + For this I sought thee. + + "Far in the Northern Land, + By the wild Baltic's strand, + I, with my childish hand, + Tamed the ger-falcon; + And, with my skates fast-bound, + Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, + That the poor whimpering hound + Trembled to walk on. + + "Oft to his frozen lair + Tracked I the grisly bear, + While from my path the hare + Fled like a shadow; + Oft through the forest dark + Followed the were-wolf's bark, + Until the soaring lark + Sang from the meadow. + + "But when I older grew, + Joining a corsair's crew, + O'er the dark sea I flew + With the marauders. + Wild was the life we led; + Many the souls that sped, + Many the hearts that bled, + By our stern orders. + + "Many a wassail-bout + Wore the long Winter out; + Often our midnight shout + Set the cocks crowing, + As we the Berserk's tale + Measured in cups of ale, + Draining the oaken pail, + Filled to o'erflowing. + + "Once as I told in glee + Tales of the stormy sea, + Soft eyes did gaze on me, + Burning yet tender; + And as the white stars shine + On the dark Norway pine, + On that dark heart of mine + Fell their soft splendor. + + "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, + Yielding, yet half afraid, + And in the forest's shade + Our vows were plighted. + Under its loosened vest + Fluttered her little breast, + Like birds within their nest + By the hawk frighted. + + "Bright in her father's hall + Shields gleamed upon the wall, + Loud sang the minstrels all, + Chaunting his glory; + When of old Hildebrand + I asked his daughter's hand, + Mute did the minstrels stand + To hear my story. + + "While the brown ale he quaffed, + Loud then the champion laughed, + And as the wind-gusts waft + The sea-foam brightly, + So the loud laugh of scorn, + Out of those lips unshorn, + From the deep drinking-horn + Blew the foam lightly. + + "She was a Prince's child, + I but a Viking wild, + And though she blushed and smiled, + I was discarded! + Should not the dove so white + Follow the sea-mew's flight, + Why did they leave that night + Her nest unguarded? + + "Scarce had I put to sea, + Bearing the maid with me,-- + Fairest of all was she + Among the Norsemen!-- + When on the white sea-strand, + Waving his armed hand, + Saw we old Hildebrand, + With twenty horsemen. + + "Then launched they to the blast, + Bent like a reed each mast, + Yet we were gaining fast, + When the wind failed us; + And with a sudden flaw + Come round the gusty Skaw, + So that our foe we saw + Laugh as he hailed us. + + "And as to catch the gale + Round veered the flapping sail, + Death! was the helmsman's hail + Death without quarter! + Mid-ships with iron keel + Struck we her ribs of steel; + Down her black hulk did reel + Through the black water! + + "As with his wings aslant, + Sails the fierce cormorant, + Seeking some rocky haunt, + With his prey laden, + So toward the open main, + Beating to sea again, + Through the wild hurricane, + Bore I the maiden. + + "Three weeks we westward bore, + And when the storm was o'er, + Cloud-like we saw the shore + Stretching to lee-ward; + There for my lady's bower + Built I the lofty tower, + Which to this very hour, + Stands looking sea-ward. + + "There lived we many years; + Time dried the maiden's tears; + She had forgot her fears, + She was a mother; + Death closed her mild blue eyes, + Under that tower she lies; + Ne'er shall the sun arise + On such another! + + "Still grew my bosom then, + Still as a stagnant fen! + Hateful to me were men, + The sun-light hateful. + In the vast forest here, + Clad in my warlike gear, + Fell I upon my spear, + O, death was grateful! + + "Thus, seamed with many scars + Bursting these prison bars, + Up to its native stars + My soul ascended! + There from the flowing bowl + Deep drinks the warrior's soul, + Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" + --Thus the tale ended. + + + + +THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS + + It was the schooner Hesperus, + That sailed the wintry sea: + And the skipper had taken his little daughter, + To bear him company. + + Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, + Her cheeks like the dawn of day, + And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, + That ope in the month of May. + + The skipper he stood beside the helm, + His pipe was in his mouth, + And he watched how the veering flaw did blow + The smoke now West, now South. + + Then up and spake an old Sailor, + Had sailed the Spanish Main, + "I pray thee, put into yonder port + For I fear a hurricane. + + "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, + And to-night no moon we see!" + The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, + And a scornful laugh laughed he. + + Colder and louder blew the wind, + A gale from the Northeast; + The snow fell hissing in the brine, + And the billows frothed like yeast. + + Down came the storm, and smote amain, + The vessel in its strength; + She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, + Then leaped her cable's length, + + "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, + And do not tremble so; + For I can weather the roughest gale, + That ever wind did blow." + + He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat + Against the stinging blast; + He cut a rope from a broken spar, + And bound her to the mast. + + "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, + O say, what may it be?" + "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" + And he steered for the open sea. + + "O father! I hear the sound of guns, + O say, what may it be?" + "Some ship in distress, that cannot live + In such an angry sea!" + + "O father! I see a gleaming light, + O say, what may it be?" + But the father answered never a word, + A frozen corpse was he. + + Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, + With his face turned to the skies, + The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + + Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That saved she might be; + And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, + On the Lake of Galilee. + + And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, + Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept + Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. + + And ever the fitful gusts between, + A sound came from the land; + It was the sound of the trampling surf, + On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. + + The breakers were right beneath her bows, + She drifted a dreary wreck, + And a whooping billow swept the crew + Like icicles from her deck. + + She struck where the white and fleecy waves + Looked soft as carded wool, + But the cruel rocks, they gored her side + Like the horns of an angry bull. + + Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, + With the masts went by the board; + Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, + Ho! ho! the breakers roared! + + At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, + A fisherman stood aghast, + To see the form of a maiden fair, + Lashed close to a drifting mast. + + The salt sea was frozen on her breast, + The salt tears in her eyes; + And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, + On the billows fall and rise. + + Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, + In the midnight and the snow! + Christ save us all from a death like this, + On the reef of Norman's Woe! + + + + +THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH + + Under a spreading chestnut tree + The village smithy stands; + The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands; + And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + + His hair is crisp, and black, and long, + His face is like the tan; + His brow is wet with honest sweat, + He earns whate'er he can, + And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + + Week in, week out, from morn till night, + You can hear his bellows blow; + You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, + Like a sexton ringing the village bell, + When the evening sun is low. + + And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door; + They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, + And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing-floor. + + He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys + He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter's voice, + Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + + It sounds to him like her mother's voice, + Singing in Paradise! + He needs must think of her once more, + How in the grave she lies; + And with his hard, rough hand he wipe + A tear out of his eyes. + + Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; + Each morning sees some task begin, + Each evening sees it close; + Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night's repose. + + Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, + For the lesson thou hast taught! + Thus at the flaming forge of life + Our fortunes must be wrought; + Thus on its sounding anvil shaped + Each burning deed and thought! + + + + +IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY + +NO HAY PAJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTANO + +Spanish Proverb, + + The sun is bright,--the air is clear, + The darting swallows soar and sing, + And from the stately elms I hear + The bluebird prophesying Spring. + + So blue yon winding river flows, + It seems an outlet from the sky, + Where, waiting till the west wind blows, + The freighted clouds at anchor lie. + + All things are new;--the buds, the leaves, + That gild the elm tree's nodding crest. + And even the nest beneath the eaves; + There are no birds in last year's nest! + + All things rejoice in youth and love, + The fulness of their first delight! + And learn from the soft heavens above + The melting tenderness of night. + + Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, + Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; + Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, + For O! it is not always May! + + Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, + To some good angel leave the rest; + For Time will teach thee soon the truth, + There are no birds in last year's nest! + + + +EXCELSIOR + + The shades of night were falling fast, + As through an Alpine village passed + A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, + A banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + + His brow was sad; his eye beneath, + Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, + And like a silver clarion rung + The accents of that unknown tongue, + Excelsior! + + In happy homes he saw the light + Of household fires gleam warm and bright; + Above, the spectral glaciers shone, + And from his lips escaped a groan, + Excelsior! + + "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; + "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, + The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" + And loud that clarion voice replied, + Excelsior! + + "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest + Thy weary head upon this breast!" + A tear stood in his bright blue eye, + But still he answered, with a sigh, + Excelsior! + + "Beware the pine tree's withered branch! + Beware the awful avalanche!" + This was the peasant's last Good-night, + A voice replied, far up the height, + Excelsior! + + At break of day, as heavenward + The pious monks of Saint Bernard + Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, + A voice cried through the startled air, + Excelsior! + + A traveller, by the faithful hound, + Half-buried in the snow was found, + Still grasping in his hand of ice + That banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + + There in the twilight cold and gray, + Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, + And from the sky, serene and far, + A voice fell, like a falling star, + Excelsior! + + + + +THE RAINY DAY + + The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; + It rains, and the wind is never weary; + The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, + But at every gust the dead leaves fall, + And the day is dark and dreary. + + My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; + It rains, and the wind is never weary; + My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, + But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, + And the days are dark and dreary. + + Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; + Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; + Thy fate is the common fate of all, + Into each life some rain must fall, + Some days must be dark and dreary. + + + + +THE ARROW AND THE SONG + + I shot an arrow into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For, so swiftly it flew, the sight + Could not follow it in its flight. + + I breathed a song into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For who has sight so keen and strong, + That it can follow the flight of song? + + Long, long afterward, in an oak + I found the arrow, still unbroke; + And the song, from beginning to end, + I found again in the heart of a friend. + + + + +THE DAY IS DONE + + The day is done, and the darkness + Falls from the wings of Night, + As a feather is wafted downward + From an eagle in his flight. + + I see the lights of the village + Gleam through the rain and the mist, + And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, + That my soul cannot resist: + + A feeling of sadness and longing, + That is not akin to pain, + And resembles sorrow only + As the mist resembles the rain. + + Come, read to me some poem, + Some simple and heartfelt lay, + That shall soothe this restless feeling, + And banish the thoughts of day. + + Not from the grand old masters, + Not from the bards sublime, + Whose distant footsteps echo + Through the corridors of Time. + + For, like strains of martial music, + Their mighty thoughts suggest + Life's endless toil and endeavor; + And to-night I long for rest. + + Read from some humbler poet, + Whose songs gushed from his heart, + As showers from the clouds of summer, + Or tears from the eyelids start; + + Who, through long days of labor, + And nights devoid of ease, + Still heard in his soul the music + Of wonderful melodies. + + Such songs have power to quiet + The restless pulse of care, + And come like the benediction + That follows after prayer. + + Then read from the treasured volume + The poem of thy choice, + And lend to the rhyme of the poet + The beauty of thy voice. + + And the night shall be filled with music, + And the cares, that infest the day, + Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, + And as silently steal away. + + + + +WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE + + VOGELWEID, the Minnesinger, + When he left this world of ours, + Laid his body in the cloister, + Under Wurtzburg's minster towers. + + And he gave the monks his treasures, + Gave them all with this behest + They should feed the birds at noontide + Daily on his place of rest; + + Saying, "From these wandering minstrels + I have learned the art of song; + Let me now repay the lessons + They have taught so well and long." + + Thus the bard of love departed; + And, fulfilling his desire, + On his tomb the birds were feasted + By the children of the choir. + + Day by day, o'er tower and turret, + In foul weather and in fair, + Day by day, in vaster numbers, + Flocked the poets of the air. + + On the tree whose heavy branches + Overshadowed all the place, + On the pavement, on the tombstone; + On the poet's sculptured face, + + On the cross-bars of each window, + On the lintel of each door, + They renewed the War of Wartburg, + Which the bard had fought before. + + There they sang their merry carols, + Sang their lauds on every side; + And the name their voices uttered + Was the name of Vogelweid. + + Till at length the portly abbot + Murmured, "Why this waste of food? + Be it changed to loaves henceforward + For our fasting brotherhood." + + Then in vain o'er tower and turret, + From the walls and woodland nests, + When the minster bells rang noontide, + Gathered the unwelcome guests. + + Then in vain, with cries discordant, + Clamorous round the Gothic spire, + Screamed the feathered Minnesingers + For the children of the choir. + + Time has long effaced the inscriptions + On the cloister's funeral stones, + And tradition only tells us + Where repose the poet's bones. + + But around the vast cathedral, + By sweet echoes multiplied, + Still the birds repeat the legend, + And the name of Vogelweid. + + + + +THE BUILDERS + + All are architects of Fate, + Working in these walls of Time; + Some with massive deeds and great, + Some with ornaments of rhyme. + + Nothing useless is, or low: + Each thing in its place is best; + And what seems but idle show + Strengthens and supports the rest. + + For the structure that we raise, + Time is with materials filled; + Our to-days and yesterdays + Are the blocks with which we build. + + Truly shape and fashion these; + Leave no yawning gaps between + Think not, because no man sees, + Such things will remain unseen. + + In the elder days of Art, + Builders wrought with greatest care + Each minute and unseen part! + For the Gods see everywhere. + + Let us do our work as well, + Both the unseen and the seen; + Make the house, where Gods may dwell, + Beautiful, entire, and clean. + + Else our lives are incomplete, + Standing in these walls of Time, + Broken stairways, where the feet + Stumble as they seek to climb. + + Build to-day, then, strong and sure, + With a firm and ample base + And ascending and secure + Shall to-morrow find its place. + + Thus alone can we attain + To those turrets, where the eye + Sees the world as one vast plain, + And one boundless reach of sky. + + + + +SANTA FILOMENA + + Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, + Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, + Our hearts, in glad surprise, + To higher levels rise. + + The tidal wave of deeper souls + Into our inmost being rolls, + And lifts us unawares + Out of all meaner cares. + + Honor to those whose words or deeds + Thus help us in our daily needs, + And by their overflow + Raise us from what is low! + + Thus thought I, as by night I read + Of the great army of the dead, + The trenches cold and damp, + The starved and frozen camp, + + The wounded from the battle-plain, + In dreary hospitals of pain, + The cheerless corridors, + The cold and stony floors. + + Lo! in that house of misery + A lady with a lamp I see + Pass through the glimmering gloom, + And flit from room to room. + + And slow, as in a dream of bliss, + The speechless sufferer turns to kiss + Her shadow, as it falls + Upon the darkening walls. + + As if a door in heaven should be + Opened and then closed suddenly, + The vision came and went, + The light shone and was spent. + + On England's annals, through the long + Hereafter of her speech and song, + That light its rays shall cast + From portals of the past. + + A Lady with a Lamp shall stand + In the great history of the land, + A noble type of good, + Heroic womanhood. + + Nor even shall be wanting here + The palm, the lily, and the spear, + The symbols that of yore + Saint Filomena bore. + + + + +THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE + +A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS + + Othere, the old sea-captain, + Who dwelt in Helgoland, + To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, + Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, + Which he held in his brown right hand. + + His figure was tall and stately, + Like a boy's his eye appeared; + His hair was yellow as hay, + But threads of a silvery gray + Gleamed in his tawny beard. + + Hearty and hale was Othere, + His cheek had the color of oak; + With a kind of laugh in his speech, + Like the sea-tide on a beach, + As unto the King he spoke. + + And Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Had a book upon his knees, + And wrote down the wondrous tale + Of him who was first to sail + Into the Arctic seas. + + "So far I live to the northward, + No man lives north of me; + To the east are wild mountain-chains, + And beyond them meres and plains; + To the westward all is sea. + + "So far I live to the northward, + From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, + If you only sailed by day, + With a fair wind all the way, + More than a month would you sail. + + "I own six hundred reindeer, + With sheep and swine beside; + I have tribute from the Finns, + Whalebone and reindeer-skins, + And ropes of walrus-hide. + + "I ploughed the land with horses, + But my heart was ill at ease, + For the old seafaring men + Came to me now and then, + With their sagas of the seas; + + "Of Iceland and of Greenland + And the stormy Hebrides, + And the undiscovered deep;-- + I could not eat nor sleep + For thinking of those seas. + + "To the northward stretched the desert, + How far I fain would know; + So at last I sallied forth, + And three days sailed due north, + As far as the whale-ships go. + + "To the west of me was the ocean, + To the right the desolate shore, + But I did not slacken sail + For the walrus or the whale, + Till after three days more, + + "The days grew longer and longer, + Till they became as one, + And southward through the haze + I saw the sullen blaze + Of the red midnight sun. + + "And then uprose before me, + Upon the water's edge, + The huge and haggard shape + Of that unknown North Cape, + Whose form is like a wedge. + + "The sea was rough and stormy, + The tempest howled and wailed, + And the sea-fog, like a ghost, + Haunted that dreary coast, + But onward still I sailed. + + "Four days I steered to eastward, + Four days without a night + Round in a fiery ring + Went the great sun, O King, + With red and lurid light." + + Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Ceased writing for a while; + And raised his eyes from his book, + With a strange and puzzled look, + And an incredulous smile. + + But Othere, the old sea-captain, + He neither paused nor stirred, + Till the King listened, and then + Once more took up his pen, + And wrote down every word. + + "And now the land," said Othere, + "Bent southward suddenly, + And I followed the curving shore + And ever southward bore + Into a nameless sea. + + "And there we hunted the walrus, + The narwhale, and the seal; + Ha! 't was a noble game! + And like the lightning's flame + Flew our harpoons of steel. + + "There were six of us all together, + Norsemen of Helgoland; + In two days and no more + We killed of them threescore, + And dragged them to the strand! + + Here Alfred the Truth-Teller + Suddenly closed his book, + And lifted his blue eyes, + with doubt and strange surmise + Depicted in their look. + + And Othere the old sea-captain + Stared at him wild and weird, + Then smiled, till his shining teeth + Gleamed white from underneath + His tawny, quivering beard. + + And to the King of the Saxons, + In witness of the truth, + Raising his noble head, + He stretched his brown hand, and said, + "Behold this walrus-tooth!" + + + + +SANDALPHON + + Have you read in the Talmud of old, + In the Legends the Rabbins have told + Of the limitless realms of the air,-- + Have you read it.--the marvellous story + Of Sandalphon, te Angel of Glory, + Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? + + How, erect, at the outermost gates + Of the City Celestial he waits, + With his feet on the ladder of light, + That, crowded with angels unnumbered, + By Jacob was seen as he slumbered + Alone in the desert at night? + + The Angels of Wind and of Fire, + Chant only one hymn, and expire + With the song's irresistible stress; + Expire in their rapture and wonder, + As harp-strings are broken asunder + By music they throb to express. + + But serene in the rapturous throng, + Unmoved by the rush of the song, + With eyes unimpassioned and slow, + Among the dead angels, the deathless + Sandalphon stands listening breathless + To sounds that ascend from below;-- + + From the spirits on earth that adore, + From the souls that entreat and implore + In the fervor and passion of prayer; + From the hearts that are broken with losses, + And weary with dragging the crosses + Too heavy for mortals to bear. + + And he gathers the prayers as he stands, + And they change into flowers in his hands, + Into garlands of purple and red; + And beneath the great arch of the portal, + Through the streets of the City Immortal + Is wafted the fragrance they shed. + + It is but a legend, I know,-- + A fable, a phantom, a show, + Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; + Yet the old mediaeval tradition, + The beautiful, strange superstition + But haunts me and holds me the more. + + When I look from my window at night, + And the welkin above is all white, + All throbbing and panting with stars, + Among them majestic is standing + Sandalphon the angel, expanding + His pinions in nebulous bars. + + And the legend, I feel, is a part + Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, + The frenzy and fire of the brain, + That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, + The golden pomegranates of Eden, + To quiet its fever and pain. + + + + +THE LANDLORD'S TALE + +PAUL REVERES RIDE + + Listen, my children, and you shall hear + Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, + On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; + Hardly a man is now alive + Who remembers that famous day and year. + + He said to his friend, "If the British march + By land or sea from the town to-night, + Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch + Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-- + One, if by land, and two, if by sea; + And I on the opposite shore will be, + Ready to ride and spread the alarm + Through every Middlesex village and farm, + For the country-folk to be up and to arm." + + Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar + Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, + Just as the moon rose over the bay, + Where swinging wide at her moorings lay + The Somerset, British man-of-war; + A phantom ship, with each mast and spar + Across the moon like a prison bar, + And a huge black hulk that was magnified + By its own reflection in the tide. + + Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, + Wanders and watches with eager ears, + Till in the silence around him he hears + The muster of men at the barrack door, + The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, + And the measured tread of the grenadiers, + Marching down to their boats on the shore. + + Then he climbed to the tower of the church, + Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, + To the belfry-chamber overhead, + And startled the pigeons from their perch + On the sombre rafters, that round him made + Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- + Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, + To the highest window in the wall, + Where he paused to listen and look down + A moment on the roofs of the town, + And the moonlight flowing over all. + Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, + In their night-encampment on the hill, + Wrapped in silence so deep and still + That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, + The watchful night-wind, as it went + Creeping along from tent to tent, + And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" + A moment only he feels the spell + Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread + Of the lonely belfry and the dead; + For suddenly all his thoughts are bent + On a shadowy something far away, + Where the river widens to meet the bay, + A line of black that bends and floats + On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. + + Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, + Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride + On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. + Now he patted his horse's side, + Now gazed at the landscape far and near, + Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, + And turned and tightened his saddlegirth; + But mostly he watched with eager search + The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, + As it rose above the graves on the hill, + Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. + And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height + A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! + He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, + But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight + A second lamp in the belfry burns! + + A hurry of hoofs in a village street, + A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, + And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark + Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; + That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, + The fate of a nation was riding that night; + And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, + Kindled the land into flame with its heat. + + He has left the village and mounted the steep, + And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, + Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; + And under the alders, that skirt its edge, + Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, + Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. + It was twelve by the village clock + When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. + He heard the crowing of the cock, + And the barking of the farmer's dog, + And felt the damp of the river fog, + That rises after the sun goes down. + + It was one by the village clock, + When he galloped into Lexington. + He saw the gilded weathercock + Swim in the moonlight as he passed, + And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, + Gaze at him with a spectral glare, + As if they already stood aghast + At the bloody work they would look upon. + + It was two by the village clock, + When he came to the bridge in Concord town. + He heard the bleating of the flock, + And the twitter of birds among the trees, + And felt the breath of the morning breeze + Blowing over the meadows brown. + And one was safe and asleep in his bed + Who at the bridge would be first to fall, + Who that day would be lying dead, + Pierced by a British musket-ball. + + You know the rest. + In the books you have read, + How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- + How the farmers gave them ball for ball, + From behind each fence and farmyard wall, + Chasing the red-coats down the lane, + Then crossing the fields to emerge again + Under the trees at the turn of the road, + And only pausing to fire and load. + + So through the night rode Paul Revere; + And so through the night went his cry of alarm + To every Middlesex village and farm, + A cry of defiance and not of fear, + A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, + And a word that shall echo forevermore! + For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, + Through all our history, to the last, + In the hour of darkness and peril and need, + The people will waken and listen to hear + The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, + And the midnight message of Paul Revere. + + + + +THE SICILIAN'S TALE + +KING ROBERT OF SICILY + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Apparelled in magnificent attire, + With retinue of many a knight and squire, + On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat + And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. + And as he listened, o'er and o'er again + Repeated, like a burden or refrain, + He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes + De sede, et exaltavit humiles;" + And slowly lifting up his kingly head + He to a learned clerk beside him said, + "What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet, + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree." + Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, + "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung + Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; + For unto priests and people be it known, + There is no power can push me from my throne!" + And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, + Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. + + When he awoke, it was already night; + The church was empty, and there was no light, + Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, + Lighted a little space before some saint. + He started from his seat and gazed around, + But saw no living thing and heard no sound. + He groped towards the door, but it was locked; + He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, + And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, + And imprecations upon men and saints. + The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls + As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls! + + At length the sexton, hearing from without + The tumult of the knocking and the shout, + And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, + Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?" + Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, + "Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?" + The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, + "This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!" + Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; + A man rushed by him at a single stride, + Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, + Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, + But leaped into the blackness of the night, + And vanished like a spectre from his sight. + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Despoiled of his magnificent attire, + Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, + With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, + Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; + Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage + To right and left each seneschal and page, + And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, + His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. + From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; + Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, + Until at last he reached the banquet--room, + Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. + + There on the dais sat another king, + Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, + King Robert's self in features, form, and height, + But all transfigured with angelic light! + It was an Angel; and his presence there + With a divine effulgence filled the air, + An exaltation, piercing the disguise, + Though none the hidden Angel recognize. + + A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, + The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, + Who met his looks of anger and surprise + With the divine compassion of his eves; + Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?" + To which King Robert answered with a sneer, + "I am the King, and come to claim my own + From an impostor, who usurps my throne!" + And suddenly, at these audacious words, + Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; + The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, + "Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou + Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, + And for thy counsellor shaft lead an ape; + Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, + And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!" + + Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, + They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; + A group of tittering pages ran before, + And as they opened wide the folding-door, + His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, + The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, + And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring + With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King! + + Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, + He said within himself, "It was a dream!" + But the straw rustled as he turned his head, + There were the cap and bells beside his bed, + Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, + Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, + And in the corner, a revolting shape, + Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. + It was no dream; the world he loved so much + Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! + + Days came and went; and now returned again + To Sicily the old Saturnian reign + Under the Angel's governance benign + The happy island danced with corn and wine, + And deep within the mountain's burning breast + Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. + + Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, + Sullen and silent and disconsolate. + Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, + With looks bewildered and a vacant stare, + Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, + By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, + His only friend the ape, his only food + What others left,--he still was unsubdued. + And when the Angel met him on his way, + And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, + Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel + The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, + "Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe + Burst from him in resistless overflow, + And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling + The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the King!" + + Almost three years were ended; when there came + Ambassadors of great repute and name + From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine. + Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane + By letter summoned them forthwith to come + On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. + The Angel with great joy received his guests, + And gave them presents of embroidered vests, + And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, + And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. + Then he departed with them o'er the sea + Into the lovely land of Italy, + Whose loveliness was more resplendent made + By the mere passing of that cavalcade, + With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir + Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. + And lo! among the menials, in mock state, + Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, + His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, + The solemn ape demurely perched behind, + King Robert rode, making huge merriment + In all the country towns through which they went. + + The Pope received them with great pomp and blare + Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, + Giving his benediction and embrace, + Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. + While with congratulations and with prayers + He entertained the Angel unawares, + Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, + Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, + "I am the King! Look, and behold in me + Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! + This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, + Is an impostor in a king's disguise. + + Do you not know me? does no voice within + Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" + The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, + Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene; + The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport + To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!" + And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace + Was hustled back among the populace. + + In solemn state the Holy Week went by, + And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; + The presence of the Angel, with its light, + Before the sun rose, made the city bright, + And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, + Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. + Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, + With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, + He felt within a power unfelt before, + And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, + He heard the rushing garments of the Lord + Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. + + And now the visit ending, and once more + Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, + Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again + The land was made resplendent with his train, + Flashing along the towns of Italy + Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. + And when once more within Palermo's wall, + And, seated on the throne in his great hall, + He heard the Angelus from convent towers, + As if the better world conversed with ours, + He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, + And with a gesture bade the rest retire; + And when they were alone, the Angel said, + "Art thou the King?" Then bowing down his head, + King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, + And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best! + My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, + And in some cloister's school of penitence, + Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, + Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!" + + The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face + A holy light illumined all the place, + And through the open window, loud and clear, + They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, + Above the stir and tumult of the street + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree!" + And through the chant a second melody + Rose like the throbbing of a single string + "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!" + + King Robert, who was standing near the throne, + Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! + But all apparelled as in days of old, + With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; + And when his courtiers came, they found him there + Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. + + + + +THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE + +THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL + + "HADST thou stayed, I must have fled!" + That is what the Vision said. + + In his chamber all alone, + Kneeling on the floor of stone, + Prayed the Monk in deep contrition + For his sins of indecision, + Prayed for greater self-denial + In temptation and in trial; + It was noonday by the dial, + And the Monk was all alone. + + Suddenly, as if it lightened, + An unwonted splendor brightened + All within him and without him + In that narrow cell of stone; + And he saw the Blessed Vision + Of our Lord, with light Elysian + Like a vesture wrapped about Him, + Like a garment round Him thrown. + + Not as crucified and slain, + Not in agonies of pain, + Not with bleeding hands and feet, + Did the Monk his Master see; + But as in the village street, + In the house or harvest-field, + Halt and lame and blind He healed, + When He walked in Galilee. + + In an attitude imploring, + Hands upon his bosom crossed, + Wondering, worshipping, adoring, + Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. + Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, + Who am I, that thus thou deignest + To reveal thyself to me? + Who am I, that from the centre + Of thy glory thou shouldst enter + This poor cell, my guest to be? + + Then amid his exaltation, + Loud the convent bell appalling, + From its belfry calling, calling, + Rang through court and corridor + With persistent iteration + He had never heard before. + It was now the appointed hour + When alike in shine or shower, + Winter's cold or summer's heat, + To the convent portals came + All the blind and halt and lame, + All the beggars of the street, + For their daily dole of food + Dealt them by the brotherhood; + And their almoner was he + Who upon his bended knee, + Rapt in silent ecstasy + Of divinest self-surrender, + Saw the Vision and the Splendor. + Deep distress and hesitation + Mingled with his adoration; + Should he go or should he stay? + Should he leave the poor to wait + Hungry at the convent gate, + Till the Vision passed away? + Should he slight his radiant guest, + Slight this visitant celestial, + For a crowd of ragged, bestial + Beggars at the convent gate? + Would the Vision there remain? + Would the Vision come again? + Then a voice within his breast + Whispered, audible and clear + As if to the outward ear + "Do thy duty; that is best; + Leave unto thy Lord the rest!" + + Straightway to his feet he started, + And with longing look intent + On the Blessed Vision bent, + Slowly from his cell departed, + Slowly on his errand went. + + At the gate the poor were waiting, + Looking through the iron grating, + With that terror in the eye + That is only seen in those + Who amid their wants and woes + Hear the sound of doors that close, + And of feet that pass them by; + Grown familiar with disfavor, + Grown familiar with the savor + Of the bread by which men die! + + But to-day, they know not why, + Like the gate of Paradise + Seemed the convent gate to rise, + Like a sacrament divine + Seemed to them the bread and wine. + In his heart the Monk was praying, + Thinking of the homeless poor, + What they suffer and endure; + What we see not, what we see; + And the inward voice was saying + "Whatsoever thing thou doest + To the least of mine and lowest, + That thou doest unto me!" + + Unto me! but had the Vision + Come to him in beggar's clothing, + Come a mendicant imploring. + Would he then have knelt adoring, + Or have listened with derision, + And have turned away with loathing? + + Thus his conscience put the question, + Full of troublesome suggestion, + As at length, with hurried pace, + Towards his cell he turned his face, + And beheld the convent bright + With a supernatural light, + Like a luminous cloud expanding + Over floor and wall and ceiling. + + But he paused with awe-struck feeling + At the threshold of his door, + For the Vision still was standing + As he left it there before, + When the convent bell appalling, + From its belfry calling, calling, + Summoned him to feed the poor. + Through the long hour intervening + It had waited his return, + And he felt his bosom burn, + Comprehending all the meaning, + When the Blessed Vision said, + "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" + + + + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + +PROEM +To EDITION of 1847 + + I love the old melodious lays + Which softly melt the ages through, + The songs of Spenser's golden days, + Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, + Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. + + Yet, vainly in my quiet hours + To breathe their marvellous notes I try; + I feel them, as the leaves and flowers + In silence feel the dewy showers, + And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky. + + The rigor of a frozen clime, + The harshness of an untaught ear, + The jarring words of one whose rhyme + Beat often Labor's hurried time, + Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. + + Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, + No rounded art the lack supplies; + Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, + Or softer shades of Nature's face, + I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. + + Nor mine the seer-like power to show + The secrets of the hear and mind; + To drop the plummet-line below + Our common world of joy and woe, + A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. + + Yet here at least an earnest sense + Of human right and weal is shown; + A hate of tyranny intense, + And hearty in its vehemence, + As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. + + O Freedom! if to me belong + Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, + Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, + Still with a love as deep and strong + As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine! + + + + +THE FROST SPIRIT + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! You + may trace his footsteps now + On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown + hill's withered brow. + He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their + pleasant green came forth, + And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken + them down to earth. + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--from + the frozen Labrador,-- + From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white + bear wanders o'er,-- + Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless + forms below + In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues + grow! + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--on the + rushing Northern blast, + And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful + breath went past. + With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires + of Hecla glow + On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below. + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--and + the quiet lake shall feel + The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the + skater's heel; + And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang + to the leaning grass, + Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful + silence pass. + + He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--let us + meet him as we may, + And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil + power away; + And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light + dances high, + And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding + wing goes by! + + + + +SONGS OF LABOR + +DEDICATION + + I would the gift I offer here + Might graces from thy favor take, + And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere, + On softened lines and coloring, wear + The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake. + + Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain + But what I have I give to thee,-- + The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain, + And paler flowers, the latter rain + Calls from the weltering slope of life's autumnal + + Above the fallen groves of green, + Where youth's enchanted forest stood, + Dry root and mossed trunk between, + A sober after-growth is seen, + As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple wood! + + Yet birds will sing, and breezes play + Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree, + And through the bleak and wintry day + It keeps its steady green alway,-- + So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee. + + Art's perfect forms no moral need, + And beauty is its own excuse; + But for the dull and flowerless weed + Some healing virtue still must plead, + And the rough ore must find its honors in its use. + + So haply these, my simple lays + Of homely toil, may serve to show + The orchard bloom and tasseled maize + That skirt and gladden duty's ways, + The unsung beauty hid life's common things below. + + Haply from them the toiler, bent + Above his forge or plough, may gain + A manlier spirit of content, + And feel that life is wisest spent + Where the strong working hand makes strong the working brain. + + The doom which to the guilty pair + Without the walls of Eden came, + Transforming sinless ease to care + And rugged toil, no more shall bear + The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. + + A blessing now,--a curse no more; + Since He whose name we breathe with awe. + The coarse mechanic vesture wore, + A poor man toiling with the poor, + In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law. + + + + +THE LUMBERMEN + + Wildly round our woodland quarters, + Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; + Thickly down these swelling waters + Float his fallen leaves. + Through the tall and naked timber, + Column-like and old, + Gleam the sunsets of November, + From their skies of gold. + + O'er us, to the southland heading, + Screams the gray wild-goose; + On the night-frost sounds the treading + Of the brindled moose. + Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, + Frost his task-work plies; + Soon, his icy bridges heaping, + Shall our log-piles rise. + + When, with sounds of smothered thunder, + On some night of rain, + Lake and river break asunder + Winter's weakened chain, + Down the wild March flood shall bear them + To the saw-mill's wheel, + Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them + With his teeth of steel. + + Be it starlight, be it moonlight, + In these vales below, + When the earliest beams of sunlight + Streak the mountain's snow, + Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early, + To our hurrying feet, + And the forest echoes clearly + All our blows repeat. + + Where the crystal Ambijejis + Stretches broad and clear, + And Millnoket's pine-black ridges + Hide the browsing deer: + Where, through lakes and wide morasses, + Or through rocky walls, + Swift and strong, Penobscot passes + White with foamy falls; + + Where, through clouds, are glimpses given + Of Katahdin's sides,-- + Rock and forest piled to heaven, + Torn and ploughed by slides! + Far below, the Indian trapping, + In the sunshine warm; + Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping + Half the peak in storm! + + Where are mossy carpets better + Than the Persian weaves, + And than Eastern perfumes sweeter + Seem the fading leaves; + And a music wild and solemn + From the pine-tree's height, + Rolls its vast and sea-like volumes + On the wind of night; + + Not for us the measured ringing + From the village spire, + Not for us the Sabbath singing + Of the sweet-voiced choir + Ours the old, majestic temple, + Where God's brightness shines + Down the dome so grand and ample, + Propped by lofty pines! + + Keep who will the city's alleys, + Take the smooth-shorn plain,-- + Give to us the cedar valleys, + Rocks and hills of Maine! + In our North-land, wild and woody, + Let us still have part: + Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, + Hold us to thy heart! + + O, our free hearts beat the warmer + For thy breath of snow; + And our tread is all the firmer + For thy rocks below. + Freedom, hand in hand with labor, + Walketh strong and brave; + On the forehead of his neighbor + No man writeth Slave! + + Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's + Pine-trees show its fires, + While from these dim forest gardens + Rise their blackened spires. + Up, my comrades! up and doing! + Manhood's rugged play + Still renewing, bravely hewing + Through the world our way! + + + + +BARCLAY OF URY + + Up the streets of Aberdeen, + By the kick and college green, + Rode the Laird of Ury; + Close behind him, close beside, + Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, + Pressed the mob in fury. + + Flouted him the drunken churl, + Jeered at him the serving-girl, + Prompt to please her master; + And the begging carlin, late + Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, + Cursed him as he passed her. + + Yet, with calm and stately mien, + Up the streets of Aberdeen + Came he slowly riding; + And, to all he saw and heard, + Answering not with bitter word, + Turning not for chiding. + + Came a troop with broadswords swinging, + Bits and bridles sharply ringing, + Loose and free and froward; + Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! + Push him! prick him! through the town + Drive the Quaker coward!" + + But from out the thickening crowd + Cried a sudden voice and loud + "Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!" + And the old man at his side + Saw a comrade, battle tried, + Scarred and sunburned darkly; + + Who with ready weapon bare, + Fronting to the troopers there, + Cried aloud: "God save us, + Call ye coward him who stood + Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood, + With the brave Gustavus?" + + "Nay, I do not need thy sword, + Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; + "Put it up, I pray thee: + Passive to His holy will, + Trust I in my Master still, + Even though He slay me. + + "Pledges of thy love and faith, + Proved on many a field of death, + Not, by me are needed." + Marvelled much that henchman bold, + That his laud, so stout of old, + Now so meekly pleaded. + + "Woe's the day!" he sadly said, + With a slowly shaking head, + And a look of pity; + "Ury's honest lord reviled, + Mock of knave and sport of child, + In his own good city! + + "Speak the word, and, master mine, + As we charged on Tilly's line, + And his Walloon lancers, + Smiting through their midst we'll teach + Civil look and decent speech + To these boyish prancers!" + + "Marvel not, mine ancient friend, + Like beginning, like the end:" + Quoth the Laird of Ury, + "Is the sinful servant more + Than his gracious Lord who bore + Bonds and stripes in Jewry? + + "Give me joy that in His name + I can bear, with patient frame, + All these vain ones offer; + While for them He suffereth long, + Shall I answer wrong with wrong, + Scoffing with the scoffer? + + "Happier I, with loss of all, + Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, + With few friends to greet me, + Than when reeve and squire were seen, + Riding out from Aberdeen, + With bared heads to meet me. + + "When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, + Blessed me as I passed her door; + And the snooded daughter, + Through her casement glancing down, + Smiled on him who bore renown + From red fields of slaughter. + + "Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, + Hard the old friend's falling off, + Hard to learn forgiving; + But the Lord His own rewards, + And His love with theirs accords, + Warm and fresh and living. + + "Through this dark and stormy night + Faith beholds a feeble light + Up the blackness streaking; + Knowing God's own time is best, + In a patient hope I rest + For the full day-breaking!" + + So the Laird of Ury said, + Turning slow his horse's head + Toward the Tolbooth prison, + Where, through iron grates, he heard + Poor disciples of the Word + Preach of Christ arisen! + + Plot in vain, Confessor old, + Unto us the tale is told + Of thy day of trial; + Every age on him who strays + From its broad and beaten ways + Pours its sevenfold vial. + + Happy he whose inward ear + Angel comfortings can hear, + O'er the rabble's laughter; + And, while Hatred's fagots burn, + Glimpses through the smoke discern + Of the good hereafter. + + Knowing this, that never yet + Share of Truth was vainly set + In the world's wide fallow; + After hands shall sow the seed, + After hands from hill and mead + Reap the harvest yellow. + + Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, + Must the moral pioneer + From the Future borrow; + Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, + And, on midnight's sky of rain, + Paint the golden morrow! + + + + +ALL'S WELL + + The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake + Our thirsty souls with rain; + The blow most dreaded falls to break + From off our limbs a chain; + And wrongs of man to man but make + The love of God more plain. + As through the shadowy lens of even + The eye looks farthest into heaven + On gleams of star and depths of blue + The glaring sunshine never knew! + + + + +RAPHAEL + + I shall not soon forget that sight: + The glow of autumn's westering day, + A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, + On Raphael's picture lay. + + It was a simple print I saw, + The fair face of a musing boy; + Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe + Seemed blending with my joy. + + A simple print:--the graceful flow + Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, + And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow + Unmarked and clear, were there. + + Yet through its sweet and calm repose + I saw the inward spirit shine; + It was as if before me rose + The white veil of a shrine. + + As if, as Gothland's sage has told, + The hidden life, the man within, + Dissevered from its frame and mould, + By mortal eye were seen. + + Was it the lifting of that eye, + The waving of that pictured hand? + Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, + I saw the walls expand. + + The narrow room had vanished,--space, + Broad, luminous, remained alone, + Through which all hues and shapes of grace + And beauty looked or shone. + + Around the mighty master came + The marvels which his pencil wrought, + Those miracles of power whose fame + Is wide as human thought. + + There drooped thy more than mortal face, + O Mother, beautiful and mild! + Enfolding in one dear embrace + Thy Saviour and thy Child! + + The rapt brow of the Desert John; + The awful glory of that day + When all the Father's brightness shone + Through manhood's veil of clay. + + And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild + Dark visions of the days of old, + How sweetly woman's beauty smiled + Through locks of brown and gold! + + There Fornarina's fair young face + Once more upon her lover shone, + Whose model of an angel's grace + He borrowed from her own. + + Slow passed that vision from my view, + But not the lesson which it taught; + The soft, calm shadows which it threw + Still rested on my thought + + The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, + Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, + Plant for their deathless heritage + The fruits and flowers of time. + + We shape ourselves the joy or fear + Of which the coming life is made, + And fill our Future's atmosphere + With sunshine or with shade. + + The tissue of the Life to be + We weave with colors all our own, + And in the field of Destiny + We reap as we have sown. + + Still shall the soul around it call + The shadows which it gathered here, + And, painted on the eternal wall, + The Past shall reappear. + + Think ye the notes of holy song + On Milton's tuneful ear have died? + Think ye that Raphael's angel throng + Has vanished from his side? + + O no!--We live our life again + Or warmly touched, or coldly dim, + The pictures of the Past remain,-- + Man's works shall follow him! + + + + +SEED-TIME AND HARVEST + + As o'er his furrowed fields which lie + Beneath a coldly-dropping sky, + Yet chill with winter's melted snow, + The husbandman goes forth to sow, + + Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast + The ventures of thy seed we cast, + And trust to warmer sun and rain + To swell the germ, and fill the grain. + + Who calls thy glorious service hard? + Who deems it not its own reward? + Who, for its trials, counts it less + A cause of praise and thankfulness? + + It may not be our lot to wield + The sickle in the ripened field; + Nor ours to hear, on summer eves, + The reaper's song among the sheaves. + + Yet where our duty's task is wrought + In unison with God's great thought, + The near and future blend in one, + And whatsoe'er is willed, is done! + + And ours the grateful service whence + Comes, day by day, the recompense; + The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed, + The fountain and the noonday shade. + + And were this life the utmost span, + The only end and aim of man, + Better the toil of fields like these + Than waking dream and slothful ease. + + But life, though falling like our grain, + Like that revives and springs again; + And, early called, how blest are they + Who wait in heaven their harvest-day! + + + + +THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL + +1697 + + Up and gown the village streets + Strange are the forms my fancy meets, + For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid, + And through the veil of a closed lid + The ancient worthies I see again: + I hear the tap of the elder's cane, + And his awful periwig I see, + And the silver buckles of shoe and knee. + Stately and slow, with thoughtful air, + His black cap hiding his whitened hair, + Walks the Judge of the great Assize, + Samuel Sewall the good and wise. + His face with lines of firmness wrought, + He wears the look of a man unbought, + Who swears to his hurt and changes not; + Yet, touched and softened nevertheless + With the grace of Christian gentleness, + The face that a child would climb to kiss! + True and tender and brave and just, + That man might honor and woman trust. + + Touching and sad, a tale is told, + Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist old, + Of the fast which the good man lifelong kept + With a haunting sorrow that never slept, + As the circling year brought round the time + Of an error that left the sting of crime, + When he sat on the bunch of the witchcraft courts, + With the laws of Moses and Hales Reports, + And spake, in the name of both, the word + That gave the witch's neck to the cord, + And piled the oaken planks that pressed + The feeble life from the warlock's breast! + All the day long, from dawn to dawn, + His door was bolted, his curtain drawn; + No foot on his silent threshold trod, + No eye looked on him save that of God, + As he baffled the ghosts of the dead with charms + Of penitent tears, and prayers, and psalms, + And, with precious proofs from the sacred word + Of the boundless pity and love of the Lord, + His faith confirmed and his trust renewed + That the sin of his ignorance, sorely rued, + Might be washed away in the mingled flood + Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear blood! + + Green forever the memory be + Of the Judge of the old Theocracy, + Whom even his errors glorified, + Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain-side + By the cloudy shadows which o'er it glide! + Honor and praise to the Puritan + Who the halting step of his age outran, + And, seeing the infinite worth of man + In the priceless gift the Father gave, + In the infinite love that stooped to save, + Dared not brand his brother a slave! + "Who doth such wrong," he was wont to say, + In his own quaint, picture-loving way, + "Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade + Which God shall cast down upon his head!" + + Widely as heaven and hell, contrast + That brave old jurist of the past + And the cunning trickster and knave of courts + Who the holy features of Truth distorts,-- + Ruling as right the will of the strong, + Poverty, crime, and weakness wrong; + Wide-eared to power, to the wronged and weak + Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek; + Scoffing aside at party's nod, + Order of nature and law of God; + For whose dabbled ermine respect were waste, + Reverence folly, and awe misplaced; + Justice of whom 't were vain to seek + As from Koordish robber or Syrian Sheik! + O, leave the wretch to his bribes and sins; + Let him rot in the web of lies he spins! + To the saintly soul of the early day, + To the Christian judge, let us turn and say + "Praise and thanks for an honest man!-- + Glory to God for the Puritan!" + + I see, far southward, this quiet day, + The hills of Newbury rolling away, + With the many tints of the season gay, + Dreamily blending in autumn mist + Crimson, and gold, and amethyst. + Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned, + Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, + A stone's toss over the narrow sound. + Inland, as far as the eye can go, + The hills curve round like a bonded bow; + A silver arrow from out them sprung, + I see the shine of the Quasycung; + And, round and round, over valley and hill, + Old roads winding, as old roads will, + Here to a ferry, and there to a mill; + And glimpses of chimneys and gabled eaves, + Through green elm arches and maple leaves,-- + Old homesteads sacred to all that can + Gladden or sadden the heart of man,-- + Over whose thresholds of oak and stone + Life and Death have come and gone! + There pictured tiles in the fireplace show, + Great beams sag from the ceiling low, + The dresser glitters with polished wares, + The long clock ticks on the foot-worn stairs, + And the low, broad chimney shows the crack + By the earthquake made a century back. + Lip from their midst springs the collage spire + With the crest of its cock in the sun afire; + Beyond are orchards and planting lands, + And great salt marshes and glimmering sands, + And, where north and south the coast-lines run, + The blink of the sea in breeze and sun! + + I see it all like a chart unrolled, + But my thoughts are full of the past and old, + I hear the tales of my boyhood told; + And the shadows and shapes of early days + Flit dimly by in the veiling haze, + With measured movement and rhythmic chime + Weaving like shuttles my web of rhyme. + I think of the old man wise and good + Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, + (A poet who never measured rhyme, + A seer unknown to his dull-eared time,) + And, propped on his staff of age, looked down, + With his boyhood's love, on his native town, + Where, written, as if on its hills and plains, + His burden of prophecy yet remains, + For the voices of wood, and wave, and wind + To read in the ear of the musing mind:-- + + "As long as Plum Island, to guard the coast + As God appointed, shall keep its post; + As long as a salmon shall haunt the deep + Of Merrimack River, or sturgeon leap; + As long as pickerel swift and slim, + Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim; + As long as the annual sea-fowl know + Their time to come and their time to go; + As long as cattle shall roam at will + The green, grass meadows by Turkey Hill; + As long as sheep shall look from the side + Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide, + And Parker River, and salt-sea tide; + As long as a wandering pigeon shall search + The fields below from his white-oak perch, + When the barley-harvest is ripe and shorn, + And the dry husks fall from the standing corn; + As long as Nature shall not grow old, + Nor drop her work from her doting hold, + And her care for the Indian corn forget, + And the yellow rows in pairs to set;-- + So long shall Christians here be born, + Grow up and ripen as God's sweet corn!-- + By the beak of bird, by the breath of frost + Shall never a holy ear be lost, + But husked by Death in the Planter's sight, + Be sown again m the fields of light!" + + The Island still is purple with plums, + Up the river the salmon comes, + The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl feeds + On hillside berries and marish seeds,-- + All the beautiful signs remain, + From spring-time sowing to autumn rain + The good man's vision returns again! + And let us hope, as well we can, + That the Silent Angel who garners man + May find some grain as of old he found + In the human cornfield ripe and sound, + And the Lord of the Harvest deign to own + The precious seed by the fathers sown! + + + + +SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE + + Of all the rides since the birth of time, + Told in story or sung in rhyme,-- + On Apuleius's Golden Ass, + Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, + Witch astride of a human back, + Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,-- + The strangest ride that ever was sped + Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Body of turkey, head of owl, + Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, + Feathered and ruffled in every part, + Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. + Scores of women, old and young, + Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, + Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, + Shouting and singing the shrill refrain + "Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, + Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, + Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase + Bacchus round some antique vase, + Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, + Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, + + With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang. + Over and over the Maenads sang: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Small pity for him!--He sailed away + From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,-- + Sailed away from a sinking wreck, + With his own town's-people on her deck! + "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. + Back he answered, "Sink or swim! + Brag of your catch of fish again!" + And off he sailed through the fog and rain! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur + That wreck shall lie forevermore. + Mother and sister, wife and maid, + Looked from the rocks of Marblehead + Over the moaning and rainy sea,-- + Looked for the coming that might not be! + What did the winds and the sea-birds say + Of the cruel captain who sailed away?-- + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Through the street, on either side, + Up flew windows, doors swung wide; + Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, + Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. + Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, + Hulks of old sailors run aground, + Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, + And cracked with curses the old refrain: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead! + + Sweetly along the Salem road + Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. + Little the wicked skipper knew + Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. + Riding there in his sorry trim, + Like an Indian idol glum and grim, + Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear + Of voices shouting, far and near: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,"-- + What to me is this noisy ride? + What is the shame that clothes the skin + To the nameless horror that lives within? + Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, + And hear a cry from a reeling deck! + Hate me and curse me,--I only dread + The hand of God and the face of the dead!" + Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea + Said, God has touched him! why should we?" + Said an old wife mourning her only son, + "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" + So with soft relentings and rude excuse, + Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, + And gave him a cloak to hide him in, + And left him alone with his shame and sin. + Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + + + +THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY + + Far away in the twilight time + Of every people, in every clime, + Dragons and griffins and monsters dire, + Born of water, and air, and fire, + Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud + And ooze of the old Deucalion flood, + Crawl and wriggle and foam with rage, + Through dusk tradition and ballad age. + So from the childhood of Newbury town + And its time of fable the tale comes down + Of a terror which haunted bush and brake, + The Amphisbaena, the Double Snake! + + Thou who makest the tale thy mirth, + Consider that strip of Christian earth + On the desolate shore of a sailless sea, + Full of terror and mystery, + Half-redeemed from the evil hold + Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old, + Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew + When Time was young, and the world was new, + And wove its shadows with sun and moon, + Ere the stones of Cheops were squared and hewn. + + Think of the sea's dread monotone, + Of the mournful wail from the pine-wood blown, + Of the strange, vast splendors that lit the North, + Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth, + And the dismal tales the Indian told, + Till the settler's heart at his hearth grew cold, + And he shrank from the tawny wizard's boasts, + And the hovering shadows seemed full of ghosts, + And above, below, and on every side, + The fear of his creed seemed verified;-- + And think, if his lot were now thine own, + To grope with terrors nor named nor known, + How laxer muscle and weaker nerve + And a feebler faith thy need might serve; + And own to thyself the wonder more + That the snake had two heads, and not a score! + + Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fen + Or the gray earth-flax of the Devil's Den, + Or swam in the wooded Artichoke, + Or coiled by the Northman's Written Rock, + Nothing on record is left to show; + Only the fact that he lived, we know, + And left the cast of a double head + in the scaly mask which he yearly shed. + For he earned a head where his tail should be, + And the two, of course, could never agree, + But wriggled about with main and might, + Now to the left and now to the right; + Pulling and twisting this way and that, + Neither knew what the other was at. + + A snake with two heads, lurking so near!-- + Judge of the wonder, guess at the fear! + Think what ancient gossips might say, + Shaking their heads in their dreary way, + Between the meetings on Sabbath-day! + How urchins, searching at day's decline + The Common Pasture for sheep or kine, + The terrible double-ganger heard + In the leafy rustle or whir of bird! + Think what a zest it gave to the sport, + In berry-time, of the younger sort, + As over pastures blackberry-twined, + Reuben and Dorothy lagged behind, + And closer and closer, for fear of harm, + The maiden clung to her lover's arm; + And how the spark, who was forced to stay, + By his sweetheart's fears, till the break of day, + Thanked the snake for the fond delay! + + Far and wide the tale was told, + Like a snowball growing while it rolled. + The nurse hushed with it the baby's cry; + And it served, in the worthy minister's eye, + To paint the primitive serpent by. + Cotton Mather came galloping down + All the way to Newbury town, + With his eyes agog and his ears set wide, + And his marvellous inkhorn at his side; + Stirring the while in the shallow pool + Of his brains for the lore he learned at school, + To garnish the story, with here a streak + Of Latin, and there another of Greek: + And the tales he heard and the notes he took, + Behold! are they not in his Wonder-Book? + + Stories, like dragons, are hard to kill. + If the snake does not, the tale runs still + In Byfield Meadows, on Pipestave Hill. + And still, whenever husband and wife + Publish the shame of their daily strife, + And, with mid cross-purpose, tug and strain + At either end of the marriage-chain, + The gossips say, with a knowing shake + Of their gray heads, "Look at the Double Snake! + One in body and two in will, + The Amphisbaena is living still!" + + + + +MAUD MULLER + + MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, + Raked the meadow sweet with hay. + + Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth + Of simple beauty and rustic health. + + Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee + The mock-bird echoed from his tree. + + But when she glanced to the far-off town, + White from its hill-slope looking down, + + The sweet song died, and a vague unrest + And a nameless longing filled her breast, + + A wish, that she hardly dared to own, + For something better than she had known. + + The Judge rode slowly down the lane, + Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. + + He drew his bridle in the shade + Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, + + And ask a draught from the spring that flowed + Through the meadow across the road. + + She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, + And filled for him her small tin cup, + + And blushed as she gave it, looking down + On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. + + "Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught + From a fairer hand was never quaffed." + + He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, + Of the singing birds and the humming bees; + + Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether + The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. + + And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, + And her graceful ankles bare and brown; + + And listened, while a pleased surprise + Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. + + At last, like one who for delay + Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. + + Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! + That I the Judge's bride might be! + + "He would dress me up in silks so fine, + And praise and toast me at his wine. + + "My father should wear a broadcloth coat; + My brother should sail a painted boat. + + "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, + And the baby should have a new toy each day. + + "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor + And all should bless me who left our door." + + The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, + And saw Maud Muller standing still. + + "A form more fair, a face more sweet + Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. + + "And her modest answer and graceful air + Show her wise and good as she is fair. + + "Would she were mine, and I to-day, + Like her, a harvester of hay + + "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, + Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, + + "But low of cattle and song of birds, + And health and quiet and loving words." + + But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, + And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. + + So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, + And Maud was left in the field alone. + + But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, + When he hummed in court an old love-tune; + + And the young girl mused beside the well, + Till the rain on the unraked clover, + + He wedded a wife of richest dower, + Who lived for fashion, as he for power. + + Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, + He watched a picture come and go; + + And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes + Looked out in their innocent surprise. + + Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, + He longed for the wayside well instead; + + And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms + To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. + + And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, + "Ah, that I were free again! + + "Free as when I rode that day, + Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." + + She wedded a man unlearned and poor, + And many children played round her door. + + But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, + Left their traces on heart and brain. + + And oft, when the summer sun shone hot + On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, + + And she heard the little spring brook fall + Over the roadside, through the wall; + + In the shade of the apple-tree again + She saw a rider draw his rein. + + And gazing down with timid grace + She felt his pleased eyes read her face. + + Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls + Stretched away into stately halls; + + The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, + The tallow candle an astral burned, + + And for him who sat by the chimney lug, + Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, + + A manly form at her side she saw, + And joy was duty and love was law. + + Then she took up her burden of life again, + Saying only, "it might have been." + + Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, + For rich repiner and household drudge! + + + God pity them both! and pity us all, + Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. + + For of all sad words of tongue or pen, + The saddest are these: "It might have been!" + + Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies + Deeply buried from human eyes; + + And, in the hereafter, angels may + Roll the stone from its grave away! + + + + +BURNS + +ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM + + No more these simple flowers belong + To Scottish maid and lover; + Sown in the common soil of song, + They bloom the wide world over. + + In smiles and tears, in sun and showers, + The minstrel and the heather, + The deathless singer and the flowers + He sang of five together. + + Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns! + The moorland flower and peasant! + How, at their mention, memory turns + Her pages old and pleasant! + + The gray sky wears again its gold + And purple of adorning, + And manhood's noonday shadows hold + The dews of boyhood's morning. + + The dews that washed the dust and soil + From off the wings of pleasure, + The sky, that flecked the ground of toil + With golden threads of leisure. + + I call to mind the summer day, + The early harvest mowing, + The sky with sun and clouds at play, + And flowers with breezes blowing. + + I hear the blackbird in the corn, + The locust in the haying; + And, like the fabled hunter's horn, + Old tunes my heart is playing. + + How oft that day, with fond delay, + I sought the maple's shadow, + And sang with Burns the hours away, + Forgetful of the meadow! + + Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead + I heard the squirrels leaping; + The good dog listened while I read, + And wagged his tail in keeping. + + I watched him while in sportive mood + I read "The Two Dogs" story, + And half believed he understood + The poet's allegory. + + Sweet day, sweet songs!--The golden hours + Grew brighter for that singing, + From brook and bird and meadow flowers + A dearer welcome bringing. + + New light on home-seen Nature beamed, + New glory over Woman; + And daily life and duty seemed + No longer poor and common. + + I woke to find the simple truth + Of fact and feeling better + Than all the dreams that held my youth + A still repining debtor: + + That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, + The themes of sweet discoursing; + The tender idyls of the heart + In every tongue rehearsing. + + Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, + Of loving knight and lady, + When farmer boy and barefoot girl + Were wandering there already? + + I saw through all familiar things + The romance underlying; + The joys and griefs that plume the wings + Of Fancy skyward flying. + + I saw the same blithe day return, + The same sweet fall of even, + That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, + And sank on crystal Devon. + + I matched with Scotland's heathery hills + The sweet-brier and the clover; + With Ayr and Doon, my native rills, + Their wood-hymns chanting over. + + O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, + I saw the Man uprising; + No longer common or unclean + The child of God's baptizing! + + With clearer eyes I saw the worth + Of life among the lowly; + The Bible at his Cotter's hearth + Had made my own more holy. + + And if at times an evil strain, + To lawless love appealing, + Broke in upon the sweet refrain + Of pure and healthful feeling, + + It died upon the eye and ear, + No inward answer gaining; + No heart had I to see or hear + The discord and the staining. + + Let those who never erred forget + His worth, in vain bewailings; + Sweet Soul of Song!--I own my debt + Uncancelled by his failings! + + Lament who will the ribald line + Which tells his lapse from duty, + How kissed the maddening lips of wine + Or wanton ones of beauty; + + But think, while falls that shade between + The erring one and Heaven, + That he who loved like Magdalen, + Like her may be forgiven. + + Not his the song whose thunderous chime + Eternal echoes render,-- + The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, + And Milton's starry splendor! + + But who his human heart has laid + To Nature's bosom nearer? + Who sweetened toil like him, or paid + To love a tribute dearer? + + Through all his tuneful art, how strong + The human feeling gushes! + The very moonlight of his song + Is warm with smiles and blushes! + + Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, + So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry; + Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, + But spare his Highland Mary + + + + +THE HERO + + "O Fox a knight like Bayard, + Without reproach or fear; + My light glove on his casque of steel, + My love-knot on his spear! + + "O for the white plume floating + Sad Zutphen's field above, + The lion heart in battle, + The woman's heart in love! + + "O that man once more were manly, + Woman's pride, and not her scorn + That once more the pale young mother + Dared to boast `a man is born'! + + "But, now life's slumberous current + No sun-bowed cascade wakes; + No tall, heroic manhood + The level dulness breaks. + + "O for a knight like Bayard, + Without reproach or fear! + My light glove on his casque of steel + My love-knot on his spear!" + + Then I said, my own heart throbbing + To the time her proud pulse beat, + "Life hath its regal natures yet,-- + True, tender, brave, and sweet! + + "Smile not, fair unbeliever! + One man, at least, I know, + Who might wear the crest of Bayard + Or Sydney's plume of snow. + + "Once, when over purple mountains + Died away the Grecian sun, + And the far Cyllenian ranges + Paled and darkened, one by one,-- + + "Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder, + Cleaving all the quiet sky, + And against his sharp steel lightnings + Stood the Suliote but to die. + + "Woe for the weak and halting! + The crescent blazed behind + A curving line of sabres + Like fire before the wind! + + "Last to fly, and first to rally, + Rode he of whom I speak, + When, groaning in his bridle path, + Sank down like a wounded Greek. + + "With the rich Albanian costume + Wet with many a ghastly stain, + Gazing on earth and sky as one + Who might not gaze again! + + "He looked forward to the mountains, + Back on foes that never spare, + Then flung him from his saddle, + And place the stranger there. + + "'Allah! hu!' Through flashing sabres, + Through a stormy hail of lead, + The good Thessalian charger + Up the slopes of olives sped. + + "Hot spurred the turbaned riders; + He almost felt their breath, + Where a mountain stream rolled darkly down + Between the hills and death. + + "One brave and manful struggle,-- + He gained the solid land, + And the cover of the mountains, + And the carbines of his band!" + + "It was very great and noble," + Said the moist-eyed listener then, + "But one brave deed makes no hero; + Tell me what he since hath been!" + + "Still a brave and generous manhood, + Still and honor without stain, + In the prison of the Kaiser, + By the barricades of Seine. + + "But dream not helm and harness + The sign of valor true; + Peace bath higher tests of manhood + Than battle ever knew. + + "Wouldst know him now? Behold him, + The Cadmus of the blind, + Giving the dumb lip language, + The idiot clay a mind. + + "Walking his round of duty + Serenely day by day, + With the strong man's hand of labor + And childhood's heart of play. + + "True as the knights of story, + Sir Lancelot and his peers, + Brave in his calm endurance + As they in tilt of spears. + + "As waves in stillest waters, + As stars in noonday skies, + All that wakes to noble action + In his noon of calmness lies. + + "Wherever outraged Nature + Asks word or action brave, + Wherever struggles labor, + Wherever groans a slave,-- + + "Wherever rise the peoples, + Wherever sinks a throne, + The throbbing heart of Freedom finds + An answer in his own. + + "Knight of a better era, + Without reproach or fear! + Said I not well that Bayards + And Sidneys still are here? + + + + +THE ETERNAL GOODNESS + + + + O friends! with whom my feet have trod + The quiet aisles of prayer, + Glad witness to your zeal for God + And love of man I bear. + + I trace your lines of argument; + Your logic linked and strong + I weigh as one who dreads dissent, + And fears a doubt as wrong. + + But still my human hands are weak + To hold your iron creeds; + Against the words ye bid me speak + My heart within me pleads. + + Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? + Who talks of scheme and plan? + The Lord is God! He needeth not + The poor device of man. + + I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground + Ye tread with boldness shod: + I dare not fix with mete and bound + The love and power of God. + + Ye praise His justice; even such + His pitying love I deem + Ye seek a king; I fain would touch + The robe that hath no seam. + + Ye see the curse which overbroods + A world of pain and loss; + I hear our Lord's beatitudes + And prayer upon the cross. + + The wrong that pains my soul below + I dare not throne above: + I know not of His hate,--I know + His goodness and His love. + + I dimly guess from blessings known + Of greater out of sight, + And, with the chastened Psalmist, own + His judgments too are right. + + I long for household voices gone, + For vanished smiles I long, + But God bath led my dear ones on, + And He can do no wrong. + + I know not what the future hath + Of marvel or surprise, + Assured alone that life and death + His mercy underlies. + + And if my heart and flesh are weak + To bear an untried pain, + The bruised reed He will not break, + But strengthen and sustain. + + No offering of my own I have, + Nor works my faith to prove; + I can but give the gifts He gave, + And plead His love for love. + + And so beside the Silent Sea + I wait the muffled oar; + No harm from Him can come to me + On ocean or on shore. + + I know not where His islands lift + Their fronded palms in air; + I only know I cannot drift + Beyond His love and care. + + O brothers! if my faith is vain, + If hopes like these betray, + Pray for me that my feet may gain + The sure and safer way. + + And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen + Thy creatures as they be, + Forgive me if too close I lean + My human heart on Thee! + + + + +THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW + + + Pipes of the misty moorlands + Voice of the glens and hills; + The droning of the torrents, + The treble of the rills! + Not the braes of broom and heather, + Nor the mountains dark with rain, + Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, + Have heard your sweetest strain! + + Dear to the Lowland reaper, + And plaided mountaineer,-- + To the cottage and the castle + The Scottish pipes are dear;-- + Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch + O'er mountain, loch, and glade; + But the sweetest of all music + The Pipes at Lucknow played. + + Day by day the Indian tiger + Louder yelled, and nearer crept; + Round and round the jungle-serpent + Near and nearer circles swept. + "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- + Pray to-day!" the soldier said; + "To-morrow, death's between us + And the wrong and shame we dread." + + O, they listened, looked, and waited, + Till their hope became despair; + And the sobs of low bewailing + Filled the pauses of their prayer. + Then up spake a Scottish maiden, + With her ear unto the ground + "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it? + The pipes o' Havelock sound!" + + Hushed the wounded man his groaning; + Hushed the wife her little ones; + Alone they heard the drum-roll + And the roar of Sepoy guns. + But to sounds of home and childhood + The Highland ear was true; + As her mother's cradle-crooning + The mountain pipes she knew. + + Like the march of soundless music + Through the vision of the seer, + More of feeling than of hearing, + Of the heart than of the ear, + She knew the droning pibroch, + She knew the Campbell's call + "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,-- + The grandest o' them all!" + + O, they listened, dumb and breathless, + And they caught the sound at last; + Faint and far beyond the Goomtee + Rose and fell the piper's blast! + Then a burst of wild thanksgiving + Mingled woman's voice and man's + "God be praised!--the March of Havelock! + The piping of the clans!" + + Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, + Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, + Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, + Stinging all the air to life. + But when the far-off dust-cloud + To plaided legions grew, + Full tenderly and blithesomely + The pipes of rescue blew! + + Round the silver domes of Lucknow, + Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, + Breathed the air to Britons dearest, + The air of Auld Lang Syne. + O'er the cruel roll of war-drums + Rose that sweet and homelike strain; + And the tartan clove the turban, + As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. + + Dear to the corn-land reaper + And plaided mountaineer,-- + To the cottage and the castle + The piper's song is dear. + Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch + O'er mountain, glen, and glade, + But the sweetest of all music + The Pipes at Lucknow played! + + + + +COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION + + The beaver cut his timber + With patient teeth that day, + The minks were fish-wards, and the crows + Surveyors of high way,-- + + When Keezar sat on the hillside + Upon his cobbler's form, + With a pan of coals on either hand + To keep his waxed-ends warm. + + And there, in the golden weather, + He stitched and hammered and sung; + In the brook he moistened his leather, + In the pewter mug his tongue. + + Well knew the tough old Teuton + Who brewed the stoutest ale, + And he paid the good-wife's reckoning + In the coin of song and tale. + + The songs they still are singing + Who dress the hills of vine, + The tales that haunt the Brocken + And whisper down the Rhine. + + Woodsy and wild and lonesome, + The swift stream wound away, + Through birches and scarlet maples + Flashing in foam and spray,-- + + Down on the sharp-horned ledges + Plunging in steep cascade, + Tossing its white-maned waters + Against the hemlock's shade. + + Woodsy and wild and lonesome, + East and west and north and south; + Only the village of fishers + Down at the river's mouth; + + Only here and there a clearing, + With its farm-house rude and new, + And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, + Where the scanty harvest grew. + + No shout of home-bound reapers, + No vintage-song he heard, + And on the green no dancing feet + The merry violin stirred. + + "Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, + "When Nature herself is glad, + And the painted woods are laughing + At the faces so sour and sad?" + + Small heed had the careless cobbler + What sorrow of heart was theirs + Who travailed in pain with the births of God + And planted a state with prayers,-- + + Hunting of witches and warlocks, + Smiting the heathen horde,-- + One hand on the mason's trowel + And one on the soldier's sword! + + But give him his ale and cider, + Give him his pipe and song, + Little he cared for Church or State, + Or the balance of right and wrong. + + "'Tis work, work, work," he muttered-- + "And for rest a snuffle of psalms!" + He smote on his leathern apron + With his brown and waxen palms. + + "O for the purple harvests + Of the days when I was young! + For the merry grape-stained maidens, + And the pleasant songs they sung + + "O for the breath of vineyards, + Of apples and nuts and wine! + For an oar to row and a breeze to blow + Down the grand old river Rhine!" + + A tear in his blue eye glistened + And dropped on his beard so gray. + "Old, old am I," said Keezar, + "And the Rhine flows far away!" + + But a cunning man was the cobbler; + He could call the birds from the trees, + Charm the black snake out of the ledges, + And bring back the swarming bees. + + All the virtues of herbs and metals, + All the lore of the woods, he knew, + And the arts of the Old World mingled + With the marvels of the New. + + Well he knew the tricks of magic, + And the lapstone on his knee + Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles + Or the stone of Doctor Dee. + + For the mighty master Agrippa + Wrought it with spell and rhyme + From a fragment of mystic moonstone + In the tower of Nettesheim. + + To a cobbler Minnesinger + The marvellous stone gave he, + And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, + Who brought it over the sea. + + He held up that mystic lapstone, + He held it up like a lens, + And he counted the long years coming, + By twenties and by tens. + + "One hundred years," quoth Keezar. + "And fifty have I told + Now open the new before me, + And shut me out the old!" + + Like a cloud of mist, the blackness + Rolled from the magic stone, + And a marvellous picture mingled + The unknown and the known. + + Still ran the stream to the river, + And river and ocean joined; + And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line. + And cold north hills behind. + + But the mighty forest was broken + By many a steepled town, + By many a white-walled farm-house, + And many a garner brown. + + Turning a score of mill-wheels, + The stream no more ran free; + White sails on the winding river, + White sails on the far-off sea. + + Below in the noisy village + The flags were floating gay, + And shone on a thousand faces + The light of a holiday. + + Swiftly the rival ploughmen + Turned the brown earth from their shares; + Here were the farmer's treasures, + There were the craftsman's wares. + + Golden the good-wife's butter, + Ruby her currant-wine; + Grand were the strutting turkeys, + Fat were the beeves and swine. + + Yellow and red were the apples, + And the ripe pears russet-brown, + And the peaches had stolen blushes + From the girls who shook them down. + + And with blooms of hill and wildwood, + That shame the toil of art, + Mingled the gorgeous blossoms + Of the garden's tropic heart. + + "What is it I see?" said Keezar: + "Am I here or am I there? + Is it a fete at Bingen? + Do I look on Frankfort fair? + + "But where are the clowns and puppets, + And imps with horns and tail? + And where are the Rhenish flagons? + And where is the foaming ale? + + "Strange things, I know, will happen,-- + Strange things the Lord permits; + But that droughty folk should be dolly + Puzzles my poor old wits. + + "Here are smiling manly faces, + And the maiden's step is gay; + Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, + Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. + + "Here's pleasure without regretting, + And good without abuse, + The holiday and the bridal + Of beauty and of use. + + "Here's a priest and there is a Quaker, + Do the cat and the dog agree? + Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood? + Have they cut down the gallows-tree? + + "Would the old folk know their children? + Would they own the graceless town, + With never a ranter to worry + And never a witch to drown?" + + Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, + Laughed like a school-boy gay; + Tossing his arms above him, + The lapstone rolled away. + + It rolled down the rugged hillside, + It spun like a wheel bewitched, + It plunged through the leaning willows, + And into the river pitched. + + There, in the deep, dark water, + The magic stone lies still, + Under the leaning willows + In the shadow of the hill. + + But oft the idle fisher + Sits on the shadowy bank, + And his dreams make marvellous pictures + Where the wizard's lapstone sank. + + And still, in the summer twilights. + When the river seems to run + Out from the inner glory, + Warm with the melted sun, + + + The weary mill-girl lingers + Beside the charmed stream, + And the sky and the golden water + Shape and color her dream. + + Fair wave the sunset gardens, + The rosy signals fly; + Her homestead beckons from the cloud, + And love goes sailing by! + + + + +THE MAYFLOWERS + + Sad Mayflower! watched by winter stars, + And nursed by winter gales, + With petals of the sleeted spars, + And leaves of frozen sails + + What had she in those dreary hours, + Within her ice-rimmed bay, + In common with the wild-wood flowers, + The first sweet smiles of May? + + Yet, "God be praised!" the Pilgrim said, + Who saw the blossoms peer + Above the brown leaves, dry anal dead + "Behold our Mayflower here!" + + "God wills it: here our rest shall be + Our years of wandering o'er; + For us the Mayflower of the sea, + Shall spread her sails no more." + + O sacred flowers of faith and hope, + As sweetly now as then + Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, + In many a pine-dark glen. + + Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, + Unchanged, your, leaves unfold + Like love behind the manly strength + Of the brave hearts of old. + + So live the fathers in their sons, + Their sturdy faith be ours, + And ours the love that overruns + Its rocky strength with flowers. + + The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day + Its shadow round us draws; + The Mayflower of his stormy bay, + Our Freedom's struggling cause. + + But warmer suns erelong shall bring + To life the frozen sod; + And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring + Afresh the flowers of Cod! + + + + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + +GOOD-BYE + + Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home + Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. + Long through thy weary crowds I roam; + A river-ark on the ocean brine, + Long I've been tossed like the driven foam; + But now, proud world! I'm going home. + + Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; + To Grandeur with his wise grimace; + To upstart Wealth's averted eye; + To supple Office, low and high; + To crowded halls, to court and street; + To frozen hearts and hasting feet; + To those who go, and those who come; + Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home. + + I am going to my own hearth-stone, + Bosomed in yon green hills alone,-- + A secret nook in a pleasant land, + Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; + Where arches green, the livelong day, + Echo the blackbird's roundelay, + And vulgar feet have never trod + A spot that is sacred to thought and Cod. + + O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, + I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; + And when I am stretched beneath the pines, + Where the evening star so holy shines, + I laugh at the lore and the pride of man + At the sophist schools and the learned clan; + For what are they all, in their high conceit, + Where man in the bush with God may meet? + + + + +EACH AND ALL + + Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown + Of thee from the hill-top looking down; + The heifer that lows in the upland faun, + Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; + The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, + Deems not that great Napoleon + Stops his horse, and lists with delight, + Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; + Nor knowest thou what argument + Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. + All are needed by each one; + Nothing is fair or good alone. + I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, + Singing at dawn on the alder bough; + I brought him home, in his nest, at even; + He sings the song, but it cheers not now, + For I did not bring home the river and sky;-- + He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye. + The delicate shells lay on the shore; + The bubbles of the latest wave + Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, + And the bellowing of the savage sea + Greeted their safe escape to me. + I wiped away the weeds and foam, + I fetched my sea-born treasures home, + But the poor, unsightly, noisome things + Had left their beauty on the shore + With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. + The lover watched his graceful maid, + As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, + Nor knew her beauty's best attire + Was woven still by the snow-white choir. + At last she came to his hermitage, + Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;-- + The gay enchantment was undone, + A gentle wife, but fairy none. + Then I said, "I covet truth; + Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; + I leave it behind with the games of youth:-- + As I spoke, beneath my feet + The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, + Running over the club-moss burrs; + I inhaled the violet's breath; + Around me stood the oaks and firs; + Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; + Over me soared the eternal sky, + Full of light and of deity; + Again I saw, again I heard, + The rolling river, the morning bird;-- + Beauty through my senses stole; + I yielded myself to the perfect whole. + + + + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + +THE PROBLEM + + I like a church; I like a cowl; + I love a prophet of the soul; + And on my heart monastic aisles + Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; + Yet not for all his faith can see + Would I that cowled churchman be. + + Why should the vest on him allure, + Which I could not on me endure? + + Not from a vain or shallow thought + His awful Jove young Phidias brought; + Never from lips of cunning fell + The thrilling Delphic oracle; + Out from the heart of nature rolled + The burdens of the Bible old; + The litanies of nations came, + Like the volcano's tongue of flame, + Up from the burning core below,-- + The canticles of love and woe + The hand that rounded Peter's dome + And groined the aisles of Christian Rome; + Wrought in a sad sincerity; + Himself from God he could not free; + He budded better than he knew; - + The conscious stone to beauty grew. + + Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest + Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? + + Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, + Painting with morn each annual cell? + Or how the sacred pine-tree adds + To her old leaves new myriads? + Such and so grew these holy piles, + Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. + Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, + As the best gem upon her zone, + And Morning opes with haste her lids + To gaze upon the Pyramids; + O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, + As on its friends, with kindred eye; + For out of Thought's interior sphere + These wonders rose to upper air; + And Nature gladly gave them place, + Adopted them into her race, + And granted them an equal date + With Andes and With Ararat. + + These temples grew as grows the grass;4s + Art might obey, but not surpass. + The passive Master lent his hand + To the vast soul that o'er him planned; + And the same power that reared the shrine + Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. + Ever the fiery Pentecost + Girds with one flame the countless host, + Trances the heart through chanting choirs, + And through the priest the mind inspires. + The word unto the prophet spoken + Was writ on tables yet unbroken; + + The word by seers or sibyls told, + In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, + Still floats upon the morning wind, + Still whispers to the willing mind. + One accent of the Holy Ghost + The heedless world hath never lost. + I know what say the fathers wise, + The book itself before me lies, + Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, + And he who blent both in his line, + The younger Golden Lips or mines, + Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines. + His words are music in my ear, + I see his cowled portrait dear; + And yet, for all his faith could see, + I would not the good bishop be. + + + + +THE RHODORA + +ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? + + In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, + I found the fresh Rhodora in the Woods, + Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, + To please the desert and the sluggish brook, + The purple petals, fallen in the pool, + Made the black water with their beauty gay; + Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, + And court the flower that cheapens his array. + Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why + This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, + Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, + Then Beauty is its own excuse for being + Why thou went there, O rival of the rose! + I never thought to ask, I never knew: + But, in my simple ignorance, suppose + The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. + + + + +THE HUMBLE--BEE + + Burly, dozing humble-bee, + Where thou art is clime for me. + Let them sail for Porto Rique, + Far-off heats through seas to seek; + I will follow thee alone, + Thou animated torrid-zone! + Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, + Let me chase thy waving lines; + Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, + Singing over shrubs and vines. + + Insect lover of the sun, + Joy of thy dominion + Sailor of the atmosphere; + Swimmer through the waves of air; + Voyager of light and noon; + Epicurean of June; + Wait, I prithee, till I come + Within earshot of thy hum,-- + All without is martyrdom. + + When the south wind, in May days, + With a net of shining haze + Silvers the horizon wall, + And with softness touching all, + Tints the human countenance + With a color of romance, + And infusing subtle heats, + Turns the sod to violets, + Thou, in sunny solitudes, + Rover of the underwoods, + The green silence dolt displace + With thy mellow, breezy bass. + + Hot midsummer's petted crone, + Sweet to me thy drowsy tone + Tells of countless sunny hours, + Long days, and solid banks of flowers; + Of gulfs of sweetness without bound + In Indian wildernesses found; + Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, + Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. + + Aught unsavory or unclean + Hath my insect never seen; + But violets and bilberry bells, + Maple-sap and daffodels, + Grass with green flag half-mast high, + Succory to match the sky, + Columbine with horn of honey, + Scented fern, and agrimony, + Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue + And brier-roses, dwelt among; + All beside was unknown waste, + All was picture as he passed. + + Wiser far than human seer, + Yellow-breeched philosopher + Seeing only what is fair, + Sipping only what is sweet, + Thou dost mock at fate and care, + Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. + When the fierce northwestern blast, + Cools sea and land so far and fast, + Thou already slumberest deep; + Woe and want thou canst outsleep; + Want and woe, which torture us, + Thy sleep makes ridiculous. + + + + +THE SNOW-STORM + + Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, + Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, + Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air + Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, + And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. + The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet + Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit + Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed + In a tumultuous privacy of storm. + + Come and see the north wind's masonry. + Out of an unseen quarry evermore + Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer + Curves his white bastions with projected roof + Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. + Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work + So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he + For number or proportion. Mockingly, + On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; + A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; + Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, + Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate + A tapering turret overtops the work. + And when his hours are numbered, and the world + Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, + Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art + To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, + Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, + The frolic architecture of the snow. + + + + +FABLE + + The mountain and the squirrel + Had a quarrel, + And the former called the latter "Little Prig"; + Bun replied, + "You are doubtless very big; + But all sorts of things and weather + Must be taken in together, + To make up a year + And a sphere. + And I think it no disgrace + To occupy my place. + If I'm not so large as you, + You are not so small as I, + And not half so spry. + I'll snot deny you make + A very pretty squirrel track; + Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; + If I cannot carry forests on my back, + Neither can you crack a nut." + + + + +FORBEARANCE + + Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? + Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? + At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? + Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? + And loved so well a high behavior, + In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, + Nobility more nobly to repay? + O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! + + + + +CONCORD HYMN + +SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, + +APRIL 19, 1836 + + By the rude bridge that arched the flood, + Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, + Here once the embattled farmers stood + And fired the shot heard round the world. + + The foe long since in silence slept; + Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; + And Time the ruined bridge has swept + Down the dark stream which seaward creep. + + On this green bank, by this soft stream, + We set to-day a votive stone; + That memory may their deed redeem, + When, like our sires, our sons are gone. + + Spirit, that made those heroes dare + To die, and leave their children free, + Time and Nature gently spare + The shaft we raise to them and thee. + + + + +BOSTON HYMN + + The word of the Lord by night + To the watching Pilgrims came, + As they sat beside the seaside, + And filled their hearts with flame. + + Cod said, I am tired of kings, + I suffer them no more; + Up to my ear the morning brings + The outrage of the poor. + + Think ve I made this ball + A field of havoc and war, + Where tyrants great and tyrants small + Might harry the weak and poor? + + My angel,--his name is Freedom, + Choose him to be your king; + He shall cut pathways east and west + And fend you with his wing. + + Lo! I uncover the land + Which I hid of old time in the West, + As the sculptor uncovers the statue + When he has wrought his best; + + I show Columbia, of the rocks + Which dip their foot in the seas + And soar to the air-borne flocks + Of clouds and the boreal fleece. + + I will divide my goods; + Call in the wretch and slave + None shall rule but the humble, + And none but Toil shall have. + + I will have never a noble, + No lineage counted great; + Fishers and choppers and ploughmen + Shall constitute a state. + + Go, cut down trees in the forest + And trim the straightest boughs; + Cut down trees in the forest + And build me a wooden house. + + Call the people together, + The young men and the sires, + The digger in the harvest-field, + Hireling and him that hires; + + And here in a pine state-house + They shall choose men to rule + In every needful faculty, + In church and state and school. + + Lo, now! if these poor men + Can govern the land and the sea + And make just laws below the sun, + As planets faithful be. + + And ye shall succor men; + 'Tis nobleness to serve; + Help them who cannot help again + Beware from right to swerve. + + I break your bonds and masterships, + And I unchain the slave + Free be his heart and hand henceforth + As wind and wandering wave. + + I cause from every creature + His proper good to flow + As much as he is and doeth, + So much he shall bestow. + + But, laying hands on another + To coin his labor and sweat, + He goes in pawn to his victim + For eternal years in debt. + + To-day unbind the captive, + So only are ye unbound; + Lift up a people from the dust, + Trump of their rescue, sound! + + Pay ransom to the owner + And fill the bag to the brim. + Who is the owner? The slave is owner, + And ever was. Pay him. + + O North! give him beauty for rags, + And honor, O South! for his shame; + Nevada! coin thy golden crags + With Freedom's image and name. + + Up! and the dusky race + That sat in darkness long,-- + Be swift their feet as antelopes, + And as behemoth strong. + + Come, East and West and North, + By races, as snow-flakes, + And carry my purpose forth, + Which neither halts nor shakes. + + My will fulfilled shall be, + For, in daylight or in dark, + My thunderbolt has eyes to see + His way home to the mark. + + + + +THE TITMOUSE + + You shall not be overbold + When you deal with arctic cold, + As late I found my lukewarm blood + Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. + + How should I fight? my foeman fine + Has million arms to one of mine + East, west, for aid I looked in vain, + East, west, north, south, are his domain, + Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home; + Must borrow his winds who there would come. + Up and away for life! be fleet!-- + The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, + Sings in my ears, my hands are stones + Curdles the blood to the marble bones, + Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense, + And hems in life with narrowing fence. + Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,-- + The punctual stars will vigil keep,-- + Embalmed by purifying cold; + The winds shall sing their dead-march old, + The snow is no ignoble shroud, + The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. + + Softly--but this way fate was pointing, + 'Twas coming fast to such anointing, + When piped a tiny voice hard by, + Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, + Chic-chic-a-dee-dee! saucy note + Out of sound heart and merry throat, + As if it said, "Good day, good sir! + Fine afternoon, old passenger! + Happy to meet you in these places + Where January brings few faces." + + This poet, though he lived apart, + Moved by his hospitable heart, + Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, + To do the honors of his court, + As fits a feathered lord of land; + Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, + Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, + Prints his small impress on the snow, + Shows feats of his gymnastic play, + Head downward, clinging to the spray. + + Here was this atom in full breath, + Hurling defiance at vast death; + This scrap of valor just for play + Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, + As if to shame my weak behavior; + I greeted loud my little savior, + "You pet! what dost here? and what for? + In these woods, thy small Labrador, + At this pinch, wee San Salvador! + What fire burns in that little chest + So frolic, stout and self-possest? + Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine; + Ashes and jet all hues outshine. + Why are not diamonds black and gray, + To ape thy dare-devil array? + And I affirm, the spacious North + Exists to draw thy virtue forth. + I think no virtue goes with size; + The reason of all cowardice + Is, that men are overgrown, + And, to be valiant, must come down + To the titmouse dimension." + + 'Tis good will makes intelligence, + And I began to catch the sense + Of my bird's song: "Live out of doors + In the great woods, on prairie floors. + I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea, + I too have a hole in a hollow tree; + And I like less when Summer beats + With stifling beams on these retreats, + Than noontide twilights which snow makes + With tempest of the blinding flakes. + For well the soul, if stout within, + Can arm impregnably the skin; + And polar frost my frame defied, + Made of the air that blows outside." + + With glad remembrance of my debt, + I homeward turn; farewell, my pet! + When here again thy pilgrim comes, + He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs, + Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, + Thou first and foremost shah be fed; + The Providence that is most large + Takes hearts like throe in special charge, + Helps who for their own need are strong, + And the sky dotes on cheerful song. + Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant + O'er all that mass and minster vaunt; + For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, + As 'twould accost some frivolous wing, + Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be! + And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee! + I think old Caesar must have heard + In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, + And, echoed in some frosty wold, + Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. + And I will write our annals new, + And thank thee for a better clew, + I, who dreamed not when I came her + To find the antidote of fear, + Now hear thee say in Roman key. + Paean! Veni, vidi, vici. + + + + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + +HAKON'S LAY + + Then Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate, + Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, + And said: "O Skald, sing now an olden song, + Such as our fathers heard who led great lives; + And, as the bravest on a shield is borne + Along the waving host that shouts him king, + So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas!" + + Then the old man arose; white-haired he stood, + White-bearded with eyes that looked afar + From their still region of perpetual snow, + Over the little smokes and stirs of men: + His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years, + As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, + But something triumphed in his brow and eye, + Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch: + Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, + Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle + Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods, + 5o wheeled his soul into the air of song + High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang: + + "The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out + Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; + And, from a quiver full of such as these, + The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, + Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. + Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate? + What archer of his arrows is so choice, + Or hits the white so surely? They are men, + The chosen of her quiver; nor for her + Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick + At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked: + Such answer household ends; but she will have + Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound + Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips + All needless stuff, all sapwood; hardens them; + From circumstance untoward feathers plucks + Crumpled and cheap; and barbs with iron will: + The hour that passes is her quiver-boy; + When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, + Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings, + For sun and wind have plighted faith to her + Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold, + In the butt's heart her trembling messenger! + + "The song is old and simple that I sing; + Good were the days of yore, when men were tried + By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold; + But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men, + And the free ocean, still the days are good; + Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity + And knocks at every door of but or hall, + Until she finds the brave soul that she wants." + + He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide + Of interrupted wassail roared along; + But Leif, the son of Eric, sat apart + Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, + Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen; + lint then with that resolve his heart was bent, + Which, like a humming shaft, through many a stripe + Of day and night across the unventured seas, + Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands + The first rune in the Saga of the West. + + + + +FLOWERS + + O poet! above all men blest, + Take heed that thus thou store them; + Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest, + Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!) + Watchfully brooding o'er them. + And from those flowers of Paradise + Scatter thou many a blessed seed, + Wherefrom an offspring may arise + To cheer the hearts and light the eyes + Of after-voyagers in their need. + They shall not fall on stony ground, + But, yielding all their hundred-fold, + Shall shed a peacefulness around, + Whose strengthening joy may not be told! + So shall thy name be blest of all, + And thy remembrance never die; + For of that seed shall surely fall + In the fair garden of Eternity, + Exult then m the nobleness + Of this thy work so holy, + Yet be not thou one jot the less + Humble and meek and lowly, + But let throe exultation be + The reverence of a bended knee; + And by thy life a poem write, + Built strongly day by day-- + on the rock of Truth and Right + Its deep foundations lay. + + + + +IMPARTIALITY + + I cannot say a scene is fair + Because it is beloved of thee + But I shall love to linger there, + For sake of thy dear memory; + I would not be so coldly just + As to love only what I must. + + I cannot say a thought is good + Because thou foundest joy in it; + Each soul must choose its proper food + Which Nature hath decreed most fit; + But I shall ever deem it so + Because it made thy heart o'erflow. + + I love thee for that thou art fair; + And that thy spirit joys in aught + Createth a new beauty there, + With throe own dearest image fraught; + And love, for others' sake that springs, + Gives half their charm to lovely things. + + + + +MY LOVE + + I not as all other women are + Is she that to my soul is dear; + Her glorious fancies come from far, + Beneath the silver evening-star, + And yet her heart is ever near. + + Great feelings has she of her own, + Which lesser souls may never know; + God giveth them to her alone, + And sweet they are as any tone + Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. + + Yet in herself she dwelleth not, + Although no home were half so fair; + No simplest duty is forgot, + Life hath no dim and lowly spot + That doth not in her sunshine share. + + She doeth little kindnesses, + Which most leave undone, or despise; + For naught that sets one heart at ease, + And giveth happiness or peace, + Is low-esteemed m her eyes. + + She hath no scorn of common things, + And, though she seem of other birth, + Round us her heart entwines and clings, + And patiently she folds her wings + To tread the humble paths of earth. + + Blessing she is: God made her so, + And deeds of week-day holiness + Fall from her noiseless as the snow, + Nor hath she ever chanced to know + That aught were easier than to bless. + + She is most fair, and thereunto + Her life loth rightly harmonize; + Feeling or thought that was not true + Ne'er made less beautiful the blue + Unclouded heaven of her eyes. + + She is a woman: one in whom + The spring-time of her childish years + Hath never lost its fresh perfume, + Though knowing well that life bath room + For many blights and many tears. + + I love her with a love as still + As a broad river's peaceful might, + Which, by high tower and lowly mill, + Goes wandering at its own will, + And yet doth ever flow aright. + + And, on its full, deep breast serene, + Like quiet isles my duties lie; + It flows around them and between, + And makes them fresh and fair and green, + Sweet homes wherein to live and die. + + + + +THE FOUNTAIN + + Into the sunshine, + Full of the light, + Leaping and flashing + From morn till night! + + Into the moonlight, + Whiter than snow, + Waving so flower-like + When the winds blow! + + Into the starlight, + Rushing in spray, + Happy at midnight, + Happy by day! + + Ever in motion, + Blithesome and cheery. + Still climbing heavenward, + Never aweary + + Glad of all weathers, + Still seeming best, + Upward or downward, + Motion thy rest;-- + + Full of a nature + Nothing can tame, + Changed every moment, + Ever the same;-- + + Ceaseless aspiring, + Ceaseless content, + Darkness or sunshine + Thy element;-- + + Glorious fountain! + Let my heart be + Fresh, changeful, constant, + Upward, like thee! + + + + +THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS + + There came a youth upon the earth, + Some thousand years ago, + Whose slender hands were nothing worth, + Whether to plow, to reap, or sow. + + Upon an empty tortoise-shell + He stretched some chords, and drew + Music that made men's bosoms swell + Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. + + Then King Admetus, one who had + Pure taste by right divine, + Decreed his singing not too bad + To hear between the cups of wine + + And so, well-pleased with being soothed + Into a sweet half-sleep, + Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, + And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. + + His words were simple words enough, + And yet he used them so, + That what in other mouths was rough + In his seemed musical and low. + + Men called him but a shiftless youth, + In whom no good they saw; + And yet, unwittingly, in truth, + They made his careless words their law. + + They knew not how he learned at all, + For idly, hour by hour, + He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, + Or mused upon a common flower. + + It seemed the loveliness of things + Did teach him all their use, + For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, + He found a healing power profuse. + + Men granted that his speech was wise, + But, when a glance they caught + Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, + They laughed, and called him good-for-naught. + + Yet after he was dead and gone, + And e'en his memory dim, + Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, + More full of love, because of him. + + And day by day more holy grew + Each spot where he had trod, + Till after--poets only knew + Their first-born brother as a god. + + + + +ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION +July 21, 1865 + +(Selection) + + Weak-Winged is Song, + Nor aims at that clear-ethered height + Whither the brave deed climbs for light + We seem to do them wrong, + Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse + Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse. + Our trivial song to honor those who come + With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum. + And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire + Live battle-odes whose lines mere steel and fire: + Yet sometimes feathered words are strong, + A gracious memory to buoy up and save + From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave + Of the unventurous throng. + + Many loved Truth, and lavished Life's best oil + Amid the dust of books to find her, + Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, + With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. + Many in sad faith sought for her, + Many with crossed hands sighed for her; + But these, our brothers, fought for her, + At life's dear peril wrought for her, + So loved her that they died for her, + Tasting the raptured fleetness + Of her divine completeness + Their higher instinct knew + Those love her best who to themselves are true, + And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; + They followed her and found her + Where all may hope to find, + Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, + But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her. + Where faith made whole with deed + Breathes its awakening breath + Into the lifeless creed, + They saw her plumed and mailed, + With sweet, stern face unveiled, + And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. + + Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides + Into the silent hollow of the past; + What is there that abides + To make the next age better for the last? + Is earth too poor to give us + Something to live for here that shall outlive us? + Some more substantial boon + Than such as flows and ebbs with + Fortune's fickle moon? + The little that we sec: + From doubt is never free; + The little that we do + Is but half-nobly true; + With our laborious hiving + What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, + Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, + Only secure in every one's conniving, + A long account of nothings paid with loss, + Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires, + After our little hour of strut and rave, + With all our pasteboard passions and desires, + Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires, + Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave. + But stay! no age was e'er degenerate, + Unless men held it at too cheap a rate, + For in our likeness still we shape our fate. + + Whither leads the path + To ampler fates that leads? + Not down through flowery meads, + To reap an aftermath + Of youth's vainglorious weeds, + But up the steep, amid the wrath + And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, + Where the world's best hope and stay + By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way, + And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds. + Peace hath her not ignoble wreath, + Ere yet the sharp, decisive word + Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword + Dreams in its easeful sheath; + But some day the live coal behind the thought, + Whether from Baal's stone obscene, + Or from the shrine serene + Of God's pure altar brought, + Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen + Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught, + And, helpless in the fiery passion caught, + Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men + Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed + Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, + And trips reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise, + And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; + I claim of thee the promise of thy youth; + Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, + The victim of thy genius, not its mate!" + Life may be given in many ways, + And loyalty to Truth be sealed + As bravely in the closet as the field, + So bountiful is Fate; + But then to stand beside her, + When craven churls deride her, + To front a lie in arms and not to yield, + This shows, methinks, God's plan + And measure of a stalwart man, + Limbed like the old heroic breeds, + Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth, + Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, + Fed from within with all the strength he needs. + + Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, + Whom late the Nation he had led, + With ashes on her head, + wept with the passion of an angry grief. + Forgive me, if from present things I turn + To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, + And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. + Nature, they say, doth dote, + And cannot make a man + Save on some worn-out plan, + Repeating us by rote + For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw, + And, choosing sweet clay from the breast + Of the unexhausted West, + With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, + Vise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. + How beautiful to see + Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, + Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; + One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, + Not lured by any cheat of birth, + But by his clear-grained human worth, + And brave old wisdom of sincerity! + They knew that outward grace is dust; + They could not choose but trust + In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, + And supple-tempered will + That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. + His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, + Thrusting to thin air o er our cloudy bars, + A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; + Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, + Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, + Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. + Nothing of Europe here, + Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, + Ere any names of Serf and Peer + Could Nature's equal scheme deface + And thwart her genial will; + Here was a type of the true elder race, + And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. + I praise him not; it were too late; + And some innative weakness there must be + In him who condescends to victory + Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, + Safe in himself as in a fate. + So always firmly he + He knew to bide his time, + And can his fame abide, + Still patient in his simple faith sublime, + Till the wise years decide. + Great captains, with their guns and drums, + Disturb our judgment for the hour, + But at last silence comes; + These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, + Our children shall behold his fame, + The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, + Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, + New birth of our new soil, the first American. + + + + +THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL + +PRELUDE TO PART FIRST + + Over his keys the musing organist, + Beginning doubtfully and far away, + First lets his fingers wander as they list, + And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: + Then, as the touch of his loved instrument + Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme + First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent + Along the wavering vista of his dream. + + Not only around our infancy + Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; + Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, + We Sinais climb and know it not. + + Over our manhood bend the skies; + Against our fallen and traitor lives + The great winds utter prophecies; + With our faint hearts the mountain strives; + Its arms outstretched, the druid wood + Waits with its benedicite; + And to our age's drowsy blood + Mill shouts the inspiring sea. + + Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; + The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, + The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, + We bargain for the graves we lie in; + At the devil's booth are all things sold, + Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; + For a cap and bells our lives we pay, + Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking + 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, + 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; + No price is set on the lavish summer; + June may be had by the poorest comer. + + And what is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days; + Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, + And over it softly her warm ear lays + Whether we look, or whether we listen, + We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; + Every, clod feels a stir of might, + An instinct within it that reaches and towers, + And, groping blindly above it for light, + Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; + The flush of life may well be seen + Thrilling back over hills and valleys; + The cowslip startles in meadows green, + The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, + And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean + To be some happy creature's palace; + The little bird sits at his door in the sun, + Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, + And lets his illumined being o'errun + With the deluge of summer it receives; + His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, + And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sink + He pings to the wide world, and she to her nest, + In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? + + Now is the high-tide of the year, + And whatever of life bath ebbed away + Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, + Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; + Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, + We are happy now because God wills it; + No matter how barren the past may have been, + 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; + We sit in the warm shade and feel right well + How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; + We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing + That skies are clear and grass is growing; + The breeze comes whispering in our ear, + That dandelions are blossoming near, + That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, + That the river is bluer than the sky, + That the robin is plastering his house hard by; + And if the breeze kept the good news back, + For other couriers we should not lack; + We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, + And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, + Warmed with the new wine of the year, + Tells all in his lusty crowing! + + Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; + Everything is happy now, + Everything is upward striving; + 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true + As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-- + Tis the natural way of living + Who knows whither the clouds have fled? + In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; + And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, + The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; + The soul partakes the season's youth, + And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe + Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, + Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. + What wonder if Sir Launfal now + Remembered the keeping of his vow? + + + + +BIGLOW PAPERS + +I. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS + + Guvener B. is a sensible man; + He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; + He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, + An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;-- + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. + + My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? + We can't never choose him o' course,--thet's flat; + Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) + An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; + Fer John P. + Robinson he + Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener + + Gincral C. is a dreffle smart man: + He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; + But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-- + He's been true to one party--an' thet is himself;-- + So John P. + Robinson he + Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. + + Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; + He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud; + Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, + But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? + So John P. + Robinson he + Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. + + We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, + With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint + We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, + An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint, + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. + + The side of our country must oilers be took, + An' Presidunt Polk' you know he is our country. + An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book + Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry + An' John P. + Robinson he + Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. + + Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; + Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum: + An' thet all this big talk of our destinies + Is half on it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum, + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez it aint no seek thing; an', of course, so must we. + + Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life + Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, + An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, + To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes, + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez they didn't know everthin' down in Judee. + + Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us + The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, + I vow, God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers + To start the world's team wen it gits in a Slough; + Fer John P. + Robinson he + Sez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! + + + + +II. THE COURTIN' + + God makes sech nights, all white an' still + Fur 'z you can look or listen, + Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, + All silence an' all glisten. + + Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown + An' peeked in thru' the winder, + An' there sot Huldy all alone, + 'Ith no one nigh to hender. + + A fireplace filled the room's one side + With half a cord o' wood in-- + There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) + To bake ye to a puddin'. + + The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out + Towards the pootiest, bless her, + An' leetle flames danced all about + The chiny on the dresser. + + Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, + An' in amongst 'em rusted + The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young + Fetched back from Concord busted. + + The very room, coz she was in, + Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', + An' she looked full ez rosy agin + Ez the apples she was peelin'. + + 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look + On seek a blessed cretur, + A dogrose blushin' to a brook + Ain't modester nor sweeter. + + He was six foot o' man, A 1, + Clean grit an' human natur'; + None couldn't quicker pitch a ton + Nor dror a furrer straighter. + + He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, + He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, + Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- + All is, he couldn't love 'em. + + But long o' her his veins 'ould run + All crinkly like curled maple, + The side she breshed felt full o' sun + Ez a south slope in Ap'il. + + She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing + Ez hisn in the choir; + My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, + She knowed the Lord was nigher. + + An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, + When her new meetin'-bunnet + Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair + O' blue eyes sot upun it. + + Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! + She seemed to 've gut a new soul, + For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, + Down to her very shoe-sole. + + She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu; + A-raspin' on the scraper,-- + All ways to once her feelin's flew + Like sparks in burnt-up paper. + + He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, + Some doubtfle o' the sekle, + His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, + But hern went pity Zekle. + + An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk + Ez though she wished him furder, + An' on her apples kep' to work, + Parin' away like murder. + + "you want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" + "Wal...no...I come dasignin'"-- + "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es + Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." + + To say why gals acts so or so, + Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; + Mebby to mean yes an' say no + Comes nateral to women. + + He stood a spell on one foot fust, + Then stood a spell on t'other, + An' on which one he felt the wust + He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. + + Says he, "I'd better call agin;" + Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" + Thet last word pricked him like a pin, + An'... Wal, he up an' kist her. + + When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, + Huldy sot pale ez ashes, + All kin' o' smily roun' the lips + An' teary roun' the lashes. + + For she was jes' the quiet kind + Whose naturs never vary, + Like streams that keep a summer mind + Snowhid in Jenooary. + + The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued + Too tight for all expressin', + Tell mother see how metters stood, + And gin 'em both her blessin'. + + Then her red come back like the tide + Down to the Bay o' Fundy, + An' all I know is they was cried + In meetin' come nex' Sunday. + + + + +III. SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE + + Once git a smell o' musk into a draw, + An' it clings hold like precerdents in law; + Your gra'ma'am put it there,--when, goodness knows,-- + To jes this--worldify her Sunday-clo'es; + But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife, + (For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?) + An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread + O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed, + Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides + To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides; + But better days stick fast in heart an' husk, + An' all you keep in't gits a scent o' musk. + Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly read + Git,s kind o' worked into their heart-an' head, + So 's 't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers + With furrin countries or played-out ideers, + Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smack + O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back. + This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things, + Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,-- + (Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink + Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,) + This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May, + Which 't ain't, for all the almanicks can say. + O little city-gals, don't never go it + Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet! + They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looks + Up in the country, ez it dons in books + They're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives, + Or printed sarmons be to holy lives. + I, with my trouses perched on cow-hide boots, + Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots, + Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse + Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's, + Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose, + An' dance your throats sore m morocker shoes + I've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would, + Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood. + Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch, + Ez though 'twuz sunthin' paid for by the inch; + But yit we du contrive to worry thru, + Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du, + An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out, + Ez stidchly ez though 'twaz a redoubt. + I, country-born an' bred, know where to find + Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind, + An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's notes,-- + Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, + Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl, + Each on 'em 's cradle to a baby-pearl,-- + But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin, + The rebble frosts'll try to drive 'em in; + For half our May's so awfully like Mayn't, + 'Twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint; + Though I own up I like our back'ard springs + Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, + An' when you most give up, 'ithout more words + Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds + Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt, + But when it doos git stirred, ther' 's no gin-out! + + Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, + An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,-- + Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned + Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind. + 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief, + The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, + Then saffern swarms swing off from' all the willers + So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, + Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfold + Softer'n a baby's be at three days old + Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knows + Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom-snows + So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse, + He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. + Then seems to come a hitch,--things lag behind, + Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind, + An' ez, when snow-swelled avers cresh their dams + Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, + A leak comes spirtin thru some pin-hole cleft, + Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, + Then all the waters bow themselves an' come + Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, + Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune + An gives one leap from April into June + Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think, + Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink + The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud; + The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; + Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, + An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; + The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade + An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade; + In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings + An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings; + All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers + The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, + Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try + With pins--they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby! + But I don't love your cat'logue style,--do you?- - + Ez ef to sell off Natur' b y vendoo; + One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two: + 'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year, + Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; + Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, + Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, + Or, givin' way to't in a mock despair, + Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. + I ollus feels the sap start in my veins + In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly pains, + Thet drive me, when I git a chance, to walk + Off by myself to hev a privit talk + With a queer critter thet can't seem to 'gree + Along o' me like most folks,--Mister Me. + Ther' 's times when I'm unsoshle ez a stone + An' sort o' suffocate to be alone,-- + I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh, + An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky; + Now the wind's full ez shifty in the mind + Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind, + An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather, + My innard vane pints east for weeks together, + My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sins + Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins: + Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' sight + An' take it out in a fair stan'-up fight + With the one cuss I can't lay on the shelf, + The crook'dest stick in all the heap,--Myself. + + 'Twuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'-time: + F'indin' my feelin's wouldn't noways rhyme + With nobody's, but off the hendle flew + An' took things from an east-wind pint o' view, + I started off to lose me in the hills + Where the pines be, up back o' Siah's Mills: + Pines, ef you're blue, are the best friends I know, + They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so,-- + They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I swan, + You half-forgit you've gut a body on. + "Ther' 's a small school'us' there where four road, meet, + The door-steps hollered out by little feet, + An side-posts carved with names whose owners grew + To gret men, some on 'em an' deacons, tu; + 'Tain't used no longer, coz the town hez gut + A high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut: + Three-story larnin' 's poplar now: I guess + We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories less, + For it strikes me ther' 's sech a thing ez sinnin' + By overloadin' children's underpinnin: + Wal, here it wuz I larned my A B C, + An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with me. + We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute + Thet ever fits us easy while we're in it; + Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twouId be perfect bliss,-- + Soon ez it's past, thet time's wuth ten o' this + An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told + Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold. + A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan + An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man; + Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I enjoy + Like dreamin' back along into a boy: + So the ole school'us' is a place I choose + Afore all others, ef I want to muse; + I set down where I used to set, an' git + Diy boyhood back, an' better things with it,-- + Faith, Hope, an' sunthin' ef it isn't Cherrity, + It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret a rerrity. + Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath arternoon + Thet I sot out to tramp myself in tune, + I found me in the school'us' on my seat, + Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet. + Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say, + Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way: + It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew, + Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue. + + From this to thet I let my worryin' creep + Till finally I must ha' fell asleep. + + Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide + Twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each side, + Where both shores' shadders kind o' mix an' mingle + In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either single; + An' when you cast off moorin's from To-day, + An' down towards To-morrer drift away, + The imiges thet tengle on the stream + Make a new upside-down'ard world o' dream: + Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warnin's + O' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's, + An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite, + Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't gone right. + I'm gret on dreams: an' often, when I wake, + I've lived so much it makes my mem'ry ache, + An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer + 'Thout hevin' 'em, some good, some bad, all queer. + + Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed, + An' ain't sure yit whether I rally dreamed, + Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep', + When I hearn some un stompin' up the step, + An' lookirz' round, ef two an' two make four, + I see a Pilgrim Father in the door. + + He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' spurs + With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut-burrs, + An' his gret sword behind him sloped away + Long'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say.-- + "Ef your name's Biglow, an' your given-name + Hosee," sez he, "it's arter you I came; + I'm your gret-gran they multiplied by three." + "My wut?" sez I.--your gret-gret-gret," sez he: + "You wouldn't ha' never ben here but for me. + Two hundred an' three year ago this May, + The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay; + I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,-- + But wut on girth hev ,you gut up one for? + Coz we du things in England, 'tain't for you + To git a notion you can du 'em tu: + I'm told you write in public prints: ef true, + It's nateral you should know a thing or two."-- + "Thet air's an argymunt I can't endorse,-- + 'Twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a horse: + + But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go, + How in all Natur' did you come to know + 'Bout our affairs," sez I "in Kingdom-Come?"-- + "Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some, + An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone, + In hopes o' larnin wut wuz goin' on," + Sez he, "but mejums lie so like all-split + Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit. + But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin', + You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'."-- + "Gran'ther," sez I, "a vane warn't never known + Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own; + An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints, + It's safe to trust its say on certin pints + It knows the wind's opinions to a T, + An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be." + "I never thought a scion of our stock + Could grow the wood to make a weathercock; + When I wuz younger'n you, skurce more'n a shaver, + No airthly wind," sez he, "could make me waver!" + (Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead, + Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.) + "Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I, "I swow, + When I wuz younger'n wut you see me now,-- + Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet, + Thet I warm't full-cocked with my jedgment on it; + But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find + It's a sight harder to make up my mind,-- + Nor I don't often try tu, when events + Will du it for me free of all expense. + The moral question's ollus plain enough,-- + It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough; + Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,-- + The pinch comes in decidin' wut to du; + Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease, + Coz there the men ain't nothin' more'n idees,-- + But come to make it, ez we must to-day, + Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way + It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,-- + They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with nigers; + But come to try your the'ry on,--why, then + Your facts an' figgers change to ign'ant men + Actin' ez ugly--"--"Smite 'em hip an' thigh!" + Sez gran'ther, "and let every man-child die! + Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord! + Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword! + "Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee, + But you forgit how long it's hen A.D.; + You think thet's ellerkence--I call it shoddy, + A thing," sez I, "wun't cover soul nor body; + I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense, + Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence. + You took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned. + An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second; + Now, wut I want's to hev all we gain stick, + An' not to start Millennium too quick; + We hain't to punish only, but to keep, + An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep" + "Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue," + Sez he, "an' so you'll find before you're thru; + + "Strike soon," sez he, "or you'll be deadly ailin'-- + Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; + God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe + He'll settle things they run away an' leave!" + He brought his foot down fercely, ez he spoke, + An' give me sech a startle thet I woke. + + + + +AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE + + What visionary tints the year puts on, + When failing leaves falter through motionless air + Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! + How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, + As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills + The bowl between me and those distant hills, + And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair! + + No more the landscape holds its wealth apart. + Making me poorer in my poverty, + But mingles with my senses and my heart; + My own projected spirit seems to me + In her own reverie the world to steep; + 'Tis she that waves to sympathetic sleep, + Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill, and tree. + + How fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees, + Clasped by the faint horizon's languid arms, + Each into each, the hazy distances! + The softened season all the landscape charms; + Those hills, my native village that embay, + In waves of dreamier purple roll away, + And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms. + + Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee + Close at my side; far distant sound the leaves; + The fields seem fields of dream, where Memory + Wanders like gleaning Ruth; and as the sheaves + Of wheat and barley wavered in the eye + Of Boaz as the maiden's glow went by, + So tremble and seem remote all things the sense receives. + + The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn, + Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates, + Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne, + Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's Straits; + Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails; + Silently overhead the henhawk sails, + With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits. + + The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, + Leeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer; + The squirrel on the shingly shagbark's bough, + Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear, + Then drops his nut, and, with a chipping bound, + Whisks to his winding fastness underground; + The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere. + + O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows + Drowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman's call + Creeps, faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows; + The single crow a single caw lets fall + And all around me every bush and tree + Says Autumn's here, and Winter soon will + Who snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all. + + The birch, most shy and lady-like of trees, + Her poverty, as best she may, retrieves, + And hints at her foregone gentilities + With some saved relics of her wealth of leaves + The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on, + Glares red as blood across the sinking sun, + As one who proudlier to a falling fortune cleaves + + He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt, + Who, mid some council of the sad-garbed whites, + Erect and stern, in his own memories lapt, + With distant eye broods over other sights, + Sees the hushed wood the city's flare replace, + The wounded turf heal o'er the railway's trace, + And roams the savage Past of his undwindled rights. + + The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost, + And, with his crumpled foliage stiff and dry, + After the first betrayal of the frost, + Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky; + The chestnuts, lavish of their long-hid gold, + To the faint Summer, beggared now and old, + Pour back the sunshine hoarded 'neath her favoring eye. + + The ash her purple drops forgivingly + And sadly, breaking not the general hush; + The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea, + Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush; + All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze; + Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days, + Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush. + + O'er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone, + Where vines, and weeds, and scrub-oaks intertwine + Safe from the plough, whose rough, discordant stone + Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine, + The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves + A prickly network of ensanguined leaves; + Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine. + + Pillaring with flame this crumbling boundary, + Whose loose blocks topple 'neath the ploughboy's foot, + Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye, + Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot, + The woodbine up the elm's straight stem aspires. + Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal fires; + In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute. + + Below, the Charles--a stripe of nether sky, + Now hid by rounded apple-trees between, + Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by, + Now flickering golden through a woodland screen, + Then spreading out at his next turn beyond, + A silver circle like an inland pond-- + Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green. + + Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sight + Who cannot in their various incomes share, + From every season drawn, of shade and light, + Who sees in them but levels brown and bare; + Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free + On them its largesse of variety, + For nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare. + + In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green, + O'er which the light winds run with glimmering feet; + Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen + here, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet; + And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, + As if the silent shadow of a cloud + Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet. + + All round, upon the river's slippery edge, + Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide, + Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling sedge; + Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide, + Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun, + And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run + Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide. + + In Summer 'tis a blithesome sight to see, + As step by step, with measured swing, they pass, + The wide-ranked mowers evading to the knee, + Their sharp scythes panting through the thick-set grass + Then, stretched beneath a rick's shade in a ring, + Their nooning take, while one begins to sing + A stave that droops and dies 'neath the close sky of brass. + + Meanwhile the devil-may-care, the bobolink, + Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops + Just ere he sweeps O'er rapture's tremulous brink, + And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops, + A decorous bird of business, who provides + For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, + And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops. + + Another change subdues them in the Fall, + But saddens not, they still show merrier tints, + Though sober russet seems to cover all; + When the first sunshine through their dew-drops glints, + Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across, + Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss, + As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints. + + Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest, + Lean o'er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill, + While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west, + Glow opposite; the marshes drink their fill + And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade + Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade, + Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond's darkening hill. + + Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts, + Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates, + And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts, + While the firmer ice the eager boy awaits, + Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire, + And until bedtime- plays with his desire, + Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates;-- + + Then, every morn, the river's banks shine bright + With smooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail, + By the frost's clinking hammers forged at night, + "Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail, + Giving a pretty emblem of the day + When guitar arms in light shall melt away, + And states shall move free limbed, loosed from war's cramping + mail. + + And now those waterfalls the ebbing river + Twice everyday creates on either side + Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiver + In grass-arched channels to the sun denied; + High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow, + The silvered flats gleam frostily below, + Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide. + + But, crowned in turn by vying seasons three, + Their winter halo hath a fuller ring; + This glory seems to rest immovably,-- + The others were too fleet and vanishing; + When the hid tide is at its highest flow, + O'er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snow + With brooding fulness awes and hushes everything. + + The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind, + As pale as formal candles lit by day; + Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind; + The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play, + Show pearly breakers combing o'er their lee, + White crests as of some just enchanted sea, + Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised midway. + + But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant, + From mid-sea's prairies green and rolling plains + Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt, + And the roused Charles remembers in his veins + Old Ocean's blood and snaps his gyves of frost, + That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost + In dreary wreck, and crumbling desolation reigns. + + Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like device, + With leaden pools between or gullies bare, + The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stonehenge of ice; + No life, no sound, to break the grim despair, + Save sullen plunge, as through the sedges stiff + Down crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff, + Or ashen the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there. + + But let me turn from fancy-pictured scenes + To that whose pastoral calm before me lies: + Here nothing harsh or rugged intervenes; + The early evening with her misty dyes + Smooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh, + Relieves the distant with her cooler sky, + And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes + + There gleams my native village, dear to me, + Though higher change's waves each day are seen, + Whelming fields famed in boyhood's history, + Sanding with houses the diminished green; + There, in red brick, which softening time defies, + Stand square and stiff the Muses' factories; + How with my life knit up is every well-known scene! + + Flow on, dear river! not alone you flow + To outward sight, and through your marshes wind; + Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago, + Your twin flows silent through my world of mind + Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening's gray! + Before my inner sight ye stretch away, + And will forever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind. + + + + +A FABLE FOR CRITICS + +(Selections) + +I. Emerson. + + "There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, + Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on, + Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows, + Is some of it pr -- No, 'tis not even prose; + I'm speaking of metres; some poems have welled + From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been excelled; + They're not epics, but that doesn't matter a pin, + In creating, the only hard thing's to begin; + A grass-blade's no easier to make than an oak, + If you've once found the way you've achieved the grand stroke; + In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter, + But thrown in a heap with a crash and a clatter + Now it is not one thing nor another alone + Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, + The something pervading, uniting, the whole, + The before unconceived, unconceivable soul, + So that just in removing this trifle or that, you + Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue; + Roots, wood, bark, and leaves, singly perfect may be, + But, clapt bodge-podge together, they don't make a tree. + + "But, to come back to Emerson, (whom by the way, + I believe we left waiting,)--his is, we may say, + A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range + Has Olympus for one pole, for t' other the Exchange; + Life, nature, lore, God, and affairs of that sort, + He looks at as merely ideas; in short, + As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet, + Of such vast extent that our earth's a mere dab in it; + Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, + Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure lecturer; + You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration, + Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion, + With the quiet precision of science he'll sort em, + But you can't help suspecting the whole a post mortem. + + +II. Bryant. + + "There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified, + As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified, + Save when by reflection 'tis kindled o' nights, + With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Nights. + He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation, + + (There's no doubt that he stands in supreme iceolation,) + Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, + But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on-- + He's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on: + Unqualified merits, I'll grant, if you choose, he has em, + But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm; + If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, + Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. + + "He is very nice reading in summer, but inter + Nos, we don't want extra freezing in winter; + Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is, + When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. + But, deduct all you can, there's enough that's right good in + him, + He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him; + And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is, + Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities, + To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet? + No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their lime stone and + granite. + + +III. Whinier. + + "There is Whinier, whose swelling and vehement heart + Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, + And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect, + Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect; + There was ne'er a man born who had more of the swing + Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing; + And his failures arise, (though perhaps he don't know it,) + From the very same cause that has made him a poet,-- + A fervor of mind which knows no separation + 'Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration, + As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from not knowing + If 'twere I or mere wind through her tripod was blowing; + Let his mind once get head in its favorite direction + And the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflection, + While, borne with the rush of the metre along, + The poet may chance to go right or go wrong, + Content with the whirl and delirium of song; + Then his grammar's not always correct, nor his rhymes, + And he's prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes, + Not his best, though, for those are struck off at white-heats + When the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer beats + And can ne'er be repeated again any more + Than they could have been carefully plotted before + "All honor and praise to the right-hearted bard + Who was true to The Voice when such service was hard, + Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave + When to look but a protest in silence was brave; + + +IV. Hawthorne. + + 'There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare + That you hardly at first see the strength that is there; + A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet, + So earnest, so graceful, so solid, so fleet, + Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet; + 'Tis as if a rough oak that for ages had stood, + With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood + Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe, + With a single anemone trembly and rathe; + His strength is so tender; his wildness so meek, + That a suitable parallel sets one to seek-- + He's a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puritan Tieck; + When nature was shaping him, clay was not granted + For making so full-sized a man as she wanted, + So, to fill out her model, a little she spared + From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared. + And she could not have hit a more excellent plan + For making him fully and perfectly man. + The success of her scheme gave her so much delight, + That she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight, + Only, while she was kneading and shaping the clay, + She sang to her work in her sweet childish way, + And found, when she'd put the last touch to his soul, + That the music had somehow got mixed with the whole. + + +V. Cooper. + + "Here's Cooper, who's written six volumes to show + He's as good as a lord: well, let's grant that he's so; + If a person prefer that description of praise, + Why, a coronet's certainly cheaper than bays; + But he need take no pains to convince us he's not + (As his enemies say) the American Scott. + Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud + That one of his novels of which he's most proud, + And I'd lay any bet that, without ever quitting + Their box, they'd be all, to a man, for acquitting. + He has drawn you he's character, though, that is new, + One wildflower he's plucked that is wet with the dew + Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince, + He has done naught but copy it ill ever since; + His Indians, with proper respect be it said, + Are just Natty Bumpo daubed over with red, + And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, + Rigged up in duck pants and a sou'-wester hat, + (Though once in a Coffin, a good chance was found + To have slipt the old fellow away underground.) + All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks + The derniere chemise of a man in a fix, + (As a captain besieged, when his garrison's small, + bets up caps upon poles to be seen o'er the wall;) + And the women he draws from one model don't vary, + All sappy as maples and flat as a prairie. + When a character's wanted, he goes to the task + As a cooper would do in composing a cask; + He picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful, + Just hoops them together as tight as is needful, + And, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he + Has made at the most something wooden and empty. + + "Don't suppose I would underrate Cooper's abilities + If I thought you'd do that, I should feel very ill at ease; + The men who have given to one character life + And objective existence, are not very rife, + You may number them all, both prose-writers and singers, + Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers, + And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker + Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar. + + "There is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that is + That on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis, + Not precisely so either, because, for a rarity, + He is paid for his tickets in unpopularity. + Now he may overcharge his American pictures, + But you'll grant there's a good deal of truth in his + strictures; + And I honor the man who is willing to sink + Half his present repute for the freedom to think, + And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, + Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak, + Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store, + Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower. + + +VI. Poe and Longfellow. + + "There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, + Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge, + Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, + In a way to make people of common-sense damn metres, + Who has written some things quite the best of their kind, + But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind, + Who--but hey-day! What's this? Messieurs Mathews and Poe, + You mustn't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so, + Does it make a man worse that his character's such + As to make his friends love him (as you thin) too much? + Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive + More willing than he that his fellows should thrive, + While you are abusing him thus, even now + He would help either one of you out of a dough; + You may say that he's smooth and all that till you're hoarse + But remember that elegance also is force; + After polishing granite as much as you will, + The heart keeps its tough old persistency still; + Deduct all you can that still keeps you at bay, + Why, he'll live till men weary of Collins and Gray. + + 'Tis truth that I speak + Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, + I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change a line + In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline. + That's not ancient nor modern, its place is apart + Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art, + 'Tis a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife + As quiet and chaste as the author's own life. + + +VII. Irving. + + "What! Irving? thrice welcome, warm heart and fine brain, + You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, + And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there + Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair; + Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching,-- + I shan't run directly against my own preaching, + And, having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, + Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; + But allow me to speak what I honestly feel,-- + To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, + Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, + With the whole of that partnership's stock and good will, + Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell, + The fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well, + Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain + That only the finest and clearest remain, + Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives + From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, + And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving + A name either English or Yankee,--just Irving. + + +VIII. Holmes. + + "There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; + A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit + The electrical tingles of hit after hit; + In long poems 'tis painful sometimes, and invites + A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, + Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully + As if you got more than you'd title to rightfully, + And you find yourself hoping its wild father Lightning + Would flame in for a second and give you fright'ning. + He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre, + But many admire it, the English pentameter, + And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, + With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse, + Nor e'er achieved aught in 't so worthy of praise + As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise. + You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon; + Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on, + Heaping verses on verses and tames upon tomes, + He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Holmes. + His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric + Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satyric + In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes + That are trodden upon are your own or your foes'. + + +IX. Lowell. + + "There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb + With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, + He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, + But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders + The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching + Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching; + His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, + But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell + And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, + At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem. + + +X. Spirit of Ancient Poetry. + + "My friends, in the happier days of the muse, + We were luckily free from such things as reviews, + Then naught came between with its fog to make clearer + The heart of the poet to that of his hearer; + Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they + Felt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay; + Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul + Pre-created the future, both parts of one whole; + Then for him there was nothing too great or too small. + For one natural deity sanctified all; + Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods + Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods + O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods + He asked not earth's verdict, forgetting the clods, + His soul soared and sang to an audience of gods. + 'Twas for them that he measured the thought and the line, + And shaped for their vision the perfect design, + With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true, + As swung out the worlds in the infinite blue; + Then a glory and greatness invested man's heart + The universal, which now stands estranged and apart, + In the free individual moulded, was Art; + Then the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with desire + For something as yet unattained, fuller, higher, + As once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening, + And her whole upward soul in her countenance glistening, + Eurydice stood--like a beacon unfired, + Which, once touched with flame, will leap heav'nward inspired-- + And waited with answering kindle to mark + The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark. + Then painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve + the need that men feel to create and believe, + And as, in all beauty, who listens with love + Hears these words oft repeated--`beyond and above.' + So these seemed to be but the visible sign + Of the grasp of the soul after things more divine; + They were ladders the Artist erected to climb + O'er the narrow horizon of space and of time, + And we see there the footsteps by which men had gained + To the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained, + As shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod + The last spurning print of a sky-cleaving god. + + + + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + +OLD IRONSIDES + + Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! + Long has it waved on high, + And many an eye has danced to see + That banner in the sky; + Beneath it rung the battle shout, + And burst the cannon's roar;-- + The meteor of the ocean air + Shall sweep the clouds no more! + + Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, + Where knelt the vanquished foe, + When winds were hurrying o'er the floods + And waves were white below, + No more shall feel the victor's tread, + Or know the conquered knee;-- + The harpies of the shore shall pluck + The eagle of the sea! + + O better that her shattered hulk + Should sink beneath the wave; + Her thunders shook the mighty deep, + And there should be her grave; + Nail to the mast her holy flag, + Set every threadbare sail, + And give her to the god of storms, + The lightning and the gale! + + + + +THE LAST LEAF + + I saw him once before, + As he passed by the door, + And again + The pavement stones resound, + As he totters o'er the ground + With his cane. + + They say that in his prime, + Ere the pruning-knife of Time + Cut him down, + Not a better man was found, + By the Crier on his round + Through the town. + + But now he walks the streets, + And he looks at all he meets + Sad and wan, + And he shakes his feeble head, + That it seems as if he said, + "They are gone." + + The mossy marbles rest + On the lips that he has prest + In their bloom, + And the names he loved to hear + Have been carved for many a year + On the tomb. + + My grandmamma has said-- + Poor old lady, she is dead + Long ago-- + That he had a Roman nose, + And his cheek was like a rose + In the snow. + + But now his nose is thin, + And it rests upon his chin + Like a staff, + And a crock is in his back, + And a melancholy crack + In his laugh. + + I know it is a sin + For me to sit and grin + At him here; + But the old three-cornered hat, + And the breeches, and all that, + Are so queer! + + And if I should live to be + The last leaf upon the tree + In the spring, + Let them smile, as I do now, + At the old forsaken bough + Where I cling. + + + + +MY AUNT + + My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! + Long years have o'er her flown; + Yet still she strains the aching clasp + That binds her virgin zone; + I know it hurts her,--though she looks + As cheerful as she can; + Her waist is ampler than her life, + For life is but a span. + + My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! + Her hair is almost gray; + Why will she train that winter curl + In such a spring-like way? + How can she lay her glasses down, + And say she reads as well, + When through a double convex lens, + She just makes out to spell? + + Her father--grandpapa! forgive + This erring lip its smiles - + Vowed she should make the finest girl + Within a hundred miles; + He sent her to a stylish school; + 'Twas in her thirteenth June; + And with her, as the rules required, + "Two towels and a spoon." + + They braced my aunt against a board, + To make her straight and tall; + They laced her up, they starved her down, + To make her light and small; + They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, + They screwed it up with pins;-- + O never mortal suffered more + In penance for her sins. + + So, when my precious aunt was done, + My grandsire brought her back; + (By daylight, lest some rabid youth + Might follow on the track;) + "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook + Some powder in his pan, + "What could this lovely creature do + Against a desperate man!" + + Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, + Nor bandit cavalcade, + Tore from the trembling father's arms + His all-accomplished maid. + For her how happy had it been! + And Heaven had spared to me + To see one sad, ungathered rose + On my ancestral tree. + + + + +THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS + + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, + Sails the unshadowed main,-- + The venturous bark that flings + On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings + In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, + And coral reefs lie bare, + Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. + + Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; + Wrecked is the ship of pearl! + And every chambered cell, + Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, + As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, + Before thee lies revealed,-- + Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! + + Year after year beheld the silent toil + That spread his lustrous coil; + Mill, as the spiral grew, + He left the past year's dwelling for the new, + Stole with soft step its shining archway through, + Built up its idle door, + Stretched m his last-found home, and knew the old no more. + + Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, + Child of the wandering sea, + Cast from her lap, forlorn! + From thy dead lips a clearer note is born + Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! + While on mine ear it rings, + Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- + + Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll! + Leave thy low-vaulted past! + Let each new temple, nobler than the last, + Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, + Till thou at length art free, + Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! + + + + +CONTENTMENT + + "Man wants but little here below." + Little I ask; my wants are few; + I only wish a hut of stone, + (A very plain, brown stone' will do,) + That I may call my own; + And close at hand is such a one, + In yonder street that fronts the sun. + + Plain food is quite enough for me; + Three courses are as good as ten; + If Nature can subsist on three, + Thank Heaven for three. Amen! + I always thought cold victual nice;-- + My choice would be vanilla-ice. + + I care not much for gold or land; + Give me a mortgage here and there, + Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, + Or trifling railroad share,-- + I only ask that Fortune send + A little more than I shall spend. + + Honors are silly toys, I know, + And titles are but empty names; + I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,-- + But only near St. James; + I'm very sure I should not care + To fill our Gubernator's chair. + + Jewels are bawbles; 'tis a sin + To care for such unfruitful things; + One good-sized diamond in a pin,-- + Some, not so large, in rings,-- + A ruby, and a pearl, or so, + Will do for me;--I laugh at show. + + My dame should dress in cheap attire; + (Good, heavy silks are never dear;) + I own perhaps I might desire + Some shawls of true Cashmere,-- + Some marrowy crapes of China silk, + Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. + + I would not have the horse I drive + So fast that folks must stop and stare; + An easy gait--two, forty-five-- + Suits me; I do not care; + Perhaps, for just a single spurt, + Some seconds less would do no hurt. + + Of pictures, I should like to own + Titians and Raphaels three or four, + I love so much their style and tone,-- + One Turner, and no more, + (A landscape,--foreground golden dirt,-- + The sunshine painted with a 'squirt.) + + Of books but few,--some fifty score + For daily use, and bound for wear; + The rest upon an upper floor;-- + Some little luxury there + Of red morocco's gilded gleam, + And vellum rich as country cream. + + Busts, cameos, gems,--such things as these, + Which others often show for pride, + I value for their power to please, + And selfish churls deride;-- + One Stradivarius, I confess, + Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess. + + Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn + Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; + Shall not carved tables serve my turn, + But all must be of buhl? + Give grasping pomp its double share,-- + I ask but one recumbent chair. + + Thus humble let me live and die, + Nor long for Midas' golden touch; + If Heaven more generous gifts deny, + I shall not miss them much,-- + Too grateful for the blessing lent + Of simple tastes and mind content! + + + + +THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; +or +THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY" + + A LOGICAL STORY + + Have you heard of the wonderful one-horse shay, + That was built in such a logical way + It ran a hundred years to a day, + And then, of a sudden, it--ah but stay, + I'll tell you what happened without delay, + Scaring the parson into fits, + Frightening people out of their wits, + Have you ever heard of that, I say? + + Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, + Georgius Secundus was then alive, + Snuffy old drone from the German hive. + That was the year when Lisbon-town + Saw the earth open and gulp her down + And Braddock's army was done so brown, + Left without a scalp to its crown. + It was on the terrible Earthquake-day + That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. + + Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, + There is always somewhere a weakest spot, - + In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, + In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, + In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still, + Find it somewhere you must and will,-- + Above or below, or within or without,-- + And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, + That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. + + But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, + With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") + He would build one shay to beat the taown + 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; + It should be so built that it couldn' break daown, + "Fur," said the Deacon, "It's mighty plain + Thut the weakes' place mus' Stan' the strain; + 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, + Is only jest + T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." + + So the Deacon inquired of the village folk + Where he could find the strongest oak, + That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, + That was for spokes and floor and sills; + He sent for lancewood to make the thins; + The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees. + The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, + But lasts like iron for things like these; + The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- + + Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, + Never an axe had seen their chips, + And the wedges flew from between their lips, + Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; + Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, + Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, + Steel of the finest, bright and blue; + Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; + Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide + Found in the pit when the tanner died. + That was the way he "put her through." + "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" + + Do! I tell you, I rather guess + She was a wonder, and nothing less! + Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, + Deacon and deaconess dropped away, + Children and grandchildren--where were they? + But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay + As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day + + EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; -it came and found + The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. + Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- + "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. + Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- + Running as usual; much the same. + Thirty and forty at last arrive, + And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. + + Little of all we value here + Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year + Without both feeling and looking queer. + In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, + So far as I know but a tree and truth. + (This is a moral that runs at large; + Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.) + + FIRST of NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day-- + There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, + A general flavor of mild decay, + But nothing local, as one may say. + There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art + Had made it so like in every part + That there wasn't a chance for one to start. + For the wheels were just as strong as the thins, + And the floor was just as strong as the sills, + And the panels just as strong as the floors + And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, + And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, + And spring and axle and hub encore. + And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt + In another hour it will be worn out! + + First of November, 'Fifty-five! + This morning the parson takes a drive. + Now, small boys, get out of the way! + Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, + Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. + "Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they. + The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- + Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed + At what the--Moses--was coming next. + + All at once the horse stood still, + Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. + First a shiver, and then a thrill, + Then something decidedly like a spill,-- + And the parson was sitting upon a rock, + At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock-- + Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! + + What do you think the parson found, + When he got up and stared around? + The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, + As if it had been to the mill and ground! + You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, + How it went to pieces all at once, + All at once, and nothing first, + Just as bubbles do when they burst. + + End of the wonderful one-boss shay. + Logic is logic. That's all I say. + + + + +THOMAS BUCHANAN READ + +STORM ON ST. BERNARD + + Oh, Heaven, it is a fearful thing + Beneath the tempest's beating wing + To struggle, like a stricken hare + When swoops the monarch bird of air; + To breast the loud winds' fitful spasms, + To brave the cloud and shun the chasms, + Tossed like a fretted shallop-sail + Between the ocean and the gale. + + Along the valley, loud and fleet, + The rising tempest leapt and roared, + And scaled the Alp, till from his seat + The throned Eternity of Snow + His frequent avalanches poured + In thunder to the storm below. + + And now, to crown their fears, a roar + Like ocean battling with the shore, + Or like that sound which night and day + Breaks through Niagara's veil of spray, + From some great height within the cloud, + + To some unmeasured valley driven, + Swept down, and with a voice so loud + It seemed as it would shatter heaven! + The bravest quailed; it swept so near, + It made the ruddiest cheek to blanch, + While look replied to look in fear, + "The avalanche! The avalanche!" + It forced the foremost to recoil, + Before its sideward billows thrown,-- + Who cried, "O God! Here ends our toil! + The path is overswept and gone!" + + The night came down. The ghostly dark, + Made ghostlier by its sheet of snow, + Wailed round them its tempestuous wo, + Like Death's announcing courier! "Hark + There, heard you not the alp-hound's bark? + And there again! and there! Ah, no, + 'Tis but the blast that mocks us so!" + + Then through the thick and blackening mist + Death glared on them, and breathed so near, + Some felt his breath grow almost warm, + The while he whispered in their ear + Of sleep that should out-dream the storm. + Then lower drooped their lids,--when, "List! + Now, heard you not the storm-bell ring? + And there again, and twice and thrice! + Ah, no, 'tis but the thundering + Of tempests on a crag of ice!" + + Death smiled on them, and it seemed good + On such a mellow bed to lie + The storm was like a lullaby, + And drowsy pleasure soothed their blood. + But still the sturdy, practised guide + His unremitting labour plied; + Now this one shook until he woke, + And closer wrapt the other's cloak,-- + Still shouting with his utmost breath, + To startle back the hand of Death, + Brave words of cheer! "But, hark again,-- + Between the blasts the sound is plain; + The storm, inhaling, lulls,--and hark! + It is--it is! the alp-dog's bark + And on the tempest's passing swell-- + The voice of cheer so long debarred-- + There swings the Convent's guiding-bell, + The sacred bell of Saint Bernard!" + + + + +DRIFTING + + + My soul to-day + Is far away, + Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; + My winged boat + A bird afloat, + Swings round the purple peaks remote:-- + + Round purple peaks + It sails, and seeks + Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, + Where high rocks throw, + Through deeps below, + A duplicated golden glow. + + Far, vague, and dim, + The mountains swim; + While an Vesuvius' misty brim, + With outstretched hands, + The gray smoke stands + O'erlooking the volcanic lands. + + Here Ischia smiles + O'er liquid miles; + And yonder, bluest of the isles, + Calm Capri waits, + Her sapphire gates + Beguiling to her bright estates. + + I heed not, if + My rippling skiff + Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Under the walls of Paradise. + + Under the walls + Where swells and falls + The Bay's deep breast at intervals + At peace I lie, + Blown softly by, + A cloud upon this liquid sky. + + The day, so mild, + Is Heaven's own child, + With Earth and Ocean reconciled; + The airs I feel + Around me steal + Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. + + Over the rail + My hand I trail + Within the shadow of the sail, + A joy intense, + The cooling sense + Glides down my drowsy indolence. + + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Where Summer sings and never dies, + O'erveiled with vines + She glows and shines + Among her future oil and wines. + + Her children, hid + The cliffs amid, + Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; + Or down the walls, + With tipsy calls, + Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. + + The fisher's child, + With tresses wild, + Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, + With glowing lips + Sings as she skips, + Or gazes at the far-off ships. + + Yon deep bark goes + Where traffic blows, + From lands of sun to lands of snows; + This happier one,-- + Its course is run + From lands of snow to lands of sun. + + O happy ship, + To rise and dip, + With the blue crystal at your lip! + O happy crew, + My heart with you + Sails, and sails, and sings anew! + + No more, no more + The worldly shore + Upbraids me with its loud uproar + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Under the walls of Paradise! + + + + +WALT WHITMAN + +PIONEERS! O PIONEERS! + +(Selection) + + Come, my tan-faced children, + Follow well in order, get your weapons ready; + Have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes? + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + For we cannot tarry here; + We must march, my darlings, we must bear the brunt of + danger, + We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, + Pioneers! O pioneers + + O you youths, Western youths, + So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and + friendship, + Plain I see you, Western youths, see you tramping with the + foremost, + Pioneers! O pioneers + + Have the elder races halted? + Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there + beyond the seas? + We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the + lesson, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + All the past we leave behind, + We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world; + Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and + the march, + Pioneers! O pioneers + + We detachments steady throwing, + Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains + steep, + Conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the + unknown ways, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + We primeval forests felling, + We the rivers stemming, vexing and piercing deep the mines + within, + We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil + upheaving, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Colorado men are we; + From the peaks gigantic, from the great Sierras and the + high plateaus, + From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail, + we come, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + From Nebraska, from Arkansas, + Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the + continental blood intervein'd; + All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all + the Northern, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + O resistless restless race! + O beloved race in all! O my-breast aches with tender love + for all! + O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Raise the mighty mother mistress, + Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry + mistress (bend your heads all), + Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, + weapon'd mistress, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + See, my children, resolute children, + By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or + falter, + Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us + urging, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + On and on the compact ranks, + With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead + quickly fill'd, + Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never + stopping, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Minstrels latent on the prairies + (Shrouded bards of other lands, you may rest, you have + done your work), + Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp + amid us, + Pioneers! 0 pioneers! + + Not for delectations sweet, + Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful, and the + studious, + Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame + enjoyment, + Pioneers! O Pioneers! + + Do the feasters gluttonous feast? + Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and + bolted doors? + Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the + ground, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + Has the night descended? + Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged + nodding on our way? + Yet a passing hour I yield you in your tracks to pause + oblivious, + Pioneers! 0 pioneers + + Till with sound of trumpet, + Far, far off the daybreak call--hark! how loud and clear I + hear it wind! + Swift! to the head of the army!--swift! Spring to your + places, + Pioneers! O pioneers! + + + + +WALT WHITMAN + +O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! + + O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done + The ship has weather'd every rack; the prize we sought is won; + The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, + While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring. + But O heart! heart! heart! + O the bleeding drops of red, + Where on the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; + Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills-- + For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding + For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning. + Here, Captain! dear father! + This arm beneath your head! + It is some dream that on the deck + You've fallen cold and dead. + + My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; + My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. + The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; + From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won. + Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! + But I with mournful tread + Walk the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + + + + + + NOTES + +ANNE DUDLEY BRADSTREET + +"One wishes she were more winning: yet there is no gainsaying that she +was clever; wonderfully well instructed for those days; a keen and close +observer; often dexterous in her verse--catching betimes upon epithets +that are very picturesque: But--the Tenth Muse is too rash." + + --DONALD G. MITCHELL. + +Born in England, she married at sixteen and came to Boston, where she +always considered herself an exile. In 1644 her husband moved deeper +into the wilderness and there "the first professional poet of New +England" wrote her poems and brought up a family of eight children. +Her English publisher called her the "Tenth Muse, lately sprung up +in America." + + +CONTEMPLATION + +2. Phoebus: Apollo, the Greek sun god, hence in poetry the sun. +7. delectable giving pleasure. +13. Dight: adorned. + + + + +MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH (1631-1705) + +"He was, himself, in nearly all respects, the embodiment of what was +great earnest, and sad, in Colonial New England.... In spite, however, +of all offences, of all defects, there are in his poetry an irresistible +sincerity, a reality, a vividness, reminding one of similar qualities in +the prose of John Bunyan." + + M. C. TYLER. + +Born in England, he was brought to America at the age of seven. He +graduated from Harvard College and then became a preacher. He later +added the profession of medicine and practiced both professions. + + +THE DAY of DOOM + +There seems to be no doubt that this poem was the most popular piece of +literature, aside from the Bible, in the New England Puritan colonies. +Children memorized it, and its considerable length made it sufficient for +many Sunday afternoons. Notice the double attempt at rhyme; the first, +third, fifth, and seventh lines rhyme within themselves; the second line +rhymes with the fourth, the sixth with the eighth. The pronunciation in +such lines as 35, 77, 79, 93, 99, 105, and 107 requires adaptation to +rhyme, as does the grammar in line 81, for example. + +3. carnal: belonging merely to this world as opposed to spiritual. + +11-15. See Matthew 25: 1-13. + +40. wonted steads: customary places + + + + +PHILIP FRENEAU (1752-1832) + +"The greatest poet born in America before the Revolutionary War.... His +best poems are a few short lyrics, remarkable for their simplicity, +sincerity, and love of nature." + + -REUBEN P. HALLECK. + +Born in New York, he graduated from Princeton at the age of nineteen and +became school teacher, sea captain, interpreter, editor, and poet. He +lost his way in a severe storm and was found dead the next day. + + +TO A HONEY BEE + +29-30. Pharaoh: King of Egypt in the time of Joseph, who perished in the +Red Sea. See Exodus, Chapter xiv. + +34. epitaph: an inscription in memory of the dead. + +36. Charon: the Greek mythical boatman on the River Styx. + + +EUTAW SPRINGS + +Eutaw Springs. Sept. 8th 1781, the Americans under General Greene fought +a battle which was successful for the Americans, since Georgia and the +Carolinas were freed from English invasion. + +21. Greene: Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island was one of the men who +became a leader early in the war and who in spite of opposition and +failure stood by the American cause through all the hard days of the war. + +25. Parthian: the soldiers of Parthia were celebrated as horse-archers. +Their mail-clad horseman spread like a cloud round the hostile army and +poured in a shower of darts. Then they evaded any closer conflict by a +rapid flight, during which they still shot their arrows backwards upon +the enemy. See Smith, Classical Dictionary. + + + + +FRANCIS HOPKINSON (1737-1791) + +He was "a mathematician, a chemist, a physicist, a mechanician, an +inventor, a musician and a composer of music, a man of literary knowledge +and practice, a writer of airy and dainty songs, a clever artist with +pencil and brush, and a humorist of unmistakable power." + + --MOSES COLT TYLER. + +Born in Philadelphia, he graduated from the College of Philadelphia and +began the practice of law. He signed the Declaration of Independence and +held various offices under the federal government. "The Battle of the +Kegs" is his best-known production. + + +THE BATTLE of THE KEGS + +59. Stomach: courage. + + + + +JOSEPH HOPKINSON (1770-1842) + +"His legal essays and decisions were long accepted as authoritative; but +he will be longest remembered for his national song, `Hail Columbia,' +written in 1798, which attained immediate popularity and did much to +fortify wavering patriotism." + + --NEW INTERNATIONAL ENCYCLOPEDIA + +THE BALLAD of NATHAN HALE + +For the story of Nathan Hale see any good history of the American +Revolution. He is honored by the students of Yale as one of its noblest +graduates, and the building in which he lived has been remodeled and +marked with a memorial tablet, while a bronze statue stands before it. +This is the last of Yale's old buildings and will now remain for many +years. + +31. minions: servile favorites. + +48. presage: foretell. + + + + +TIMOTHY DWIGHT (1752-1817) + +"He was in many ways the first of the great modern college presidents; if +his was the day of small things, he nevertheless did so many of them and +did them so well that he deserves admiration." + -WILLIAM P. TRENT. + +Born in Northampton, Mass., he graduated from Yale and was then made a +tutor there. He became an army chaplain in 1777, but his father's death +made his return home necessary. He became a preacher later and finally +president of Yale. His hymn, "Love to the Church," is the one thing we +most want to keep of all his several volumes. + + + + +SAMUEL WOODWORTH (1785-1842) + +"Our best patriotic ballads and popular lyrics are, of course, based upon +sentiment, aptly expressed by the poet and instinctively felt by the +reader. Hence just is the fame and true is the love bestowed upon the +choicest songs of our 'single-poem poets': upon Samuel Woodworth's `Old +OakenBucket,' etc." + --CHARLES F. RICHARDSON. + +Born at Scituate, Mass., he had very little education. His father +apprenticed him to a Boston printer while he was a young boy. He +remained in the newspaper business all his life, and wrote numerous +poems, and several operas which were produced. + + + + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (1794-1878) + +"A moralist, dealing chiefly with death and the more sombre phases of +life, a lover and interpreter of nature, a champion of democracy and +human freedom, in each of these capacities he was destined to do +effective service for his countrymen, and this work was, as it were, cut +out for him in his youth, when he was laboring in the fields, attending +corn-huskings and cabin-raisings, or musing beside forest streams." + + -W. P. TRENT. + +Born in a mill-town village in western Massachusetts, he passed his +boyhood on the farm. Unable to complete his college course, he practiced +law until 1824, when he became editor of the New York Review. He +continued all his life to be a man of letters. + +The poems by Bryant are used by permission of D. Appleton and Company, +authorized publishers of his works. + + +THANATOPSIS + +34. patriarchs of the infant world: the leaders of the Hebrews before +the days of history. + +61. Barcan wilderness: waste of North Africa. + +54. Why does Bryant suggest "the wings of the morning" to begin such a +survey of the world? Would he choose the Oregon now? + +28. ape: mimic. + +This poem is very simple in its form and is typical of Bryant's nature +poems. First, is his observation of the waterfowl's flight and his +question about it. Secondly, the answer is given. Thirdly, the +application is made to human nature. Do you find such a comparison of +nature and human nature in any other poems by Bryant? + +9. plashy: swampy. + +l5. illimitable: boundless. + + +GREEN RIVER + +Green River, flows near Great Barrington where Bryant practised law. + +33. simpler: a collector of herbs for medicinal use. + +58. This reference to Bryant's profession is noteworthy. His ambition +for a thorough literary training was abandoned on account of poverty. He +then took up the study of law and practiced it in Great Barrington, +Mass., for nine years. His dislike of this profession is here very +plainly shown. He abandoned it entirely in 1824 and gave himself to +literature. "I Broke the Spell That Held Me Long" also throws a light on +his choice of a life work. + + +THE WEST WIND + +With this may be compared with profit Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" +and Kingsley's "Ode to the Northeast Wind." State the contrast between +the ideas of the west wind held by Shelley and by Bryant. + + +A FOREST HYMN + +2. architrave: the beam resting on the top of the column and supporting +the frieze. + +5. From these details can you form a picture of this temple in its +exterior and interior? Is it like a modern church? + +darkling: dimly seen; a poetic word. Do you find any other adjectives in +this poem which are poetic words? + +23. Why is the poem divided here? Is the thought divided? Connected? +Can you account in the same way for the divisions at lines 68 and 89? + +34. vaults: arched ceilings. + +44. instinct: alive, animated by. + +66. emanation: that which proceeds from a source, as fragrance is an +emanation from flowers. + +89. This idea that death is the source of other life everywhere in +nature is a favorite one with Bryant. It is the fundamental thought in +his first poem, "Thanatopsis" (A View of Death), which may be read in +connection with "The Forest Hymn." + +96. Emerson discusses this question in "The Problem," See selections +from Emerson. + + +THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS + +26. Bryant's favorite sister, Mrs. Sarah Bryant 8ha•v, died shortly +after her marriage, of tuberculosis. This poem alludes to her and is in +its early lines the saddest poem Bryant ever wrote. Notice the change of +tone near the end. + +29. unmeet: unsuitable. + + +THE GLADNESS OF NATURE + +b. hang-bird: the American oriole, which hangs its nest from a branch. + +8. wilding: the wild bee which belongs to no hive. + + +To THE FRINGED GENTIAN + +No description of this flower can give an adequate idea of its beauty. +The following account, from Reed's " Flower Guide, East of the Rockies," +expresses the charm of the flower well: "Fringed Gentian because of its +exquisite beauty and comparative rarity is one of the most highly prized +of our wild flowers." "During September and October we may find these +blossoms fully expanded, delicate, vase-shaped creations with four +spreading deeply fringed lobes bearing no resemblance in shape or form to +any other American species. The color is a violet-blue, the color that +is most attractive to bumblebees, and it is to these insects that the +flower is indebted for the setting of its seed.... The flowers are wide +open only during sunshine, furling in their peculiar twisted manner on +cloudy days and at night. In moist woods from Maine to Minnesota and +southwards." + +This guide gives a good colored picture of the flower as do Matthews' +"Field Guide to American Wildflowers" and many other flower books. + +8. ground-bird: the vesper sparrow, so called because of its habit of +singing in the late evening. Its nest is made of grass and placed in a +depression on the ground. + +11. portend: indicate by a sign that some event, usually evil, is about +to happen. + +16. cerulean: deep, clear blue. + + +SONG of MARION'S MEN + +4. Marion, Francis (1732-1795), in 1750 took command of the militia of +South Carolina and carried on a vigorous partisan warfare against the +English. Colonel Tarleton failed o find "the old swamp fox," as he named +him, because the swamp paths of South Carolina were well known to him. +See McCrady, "South Carolina in the Revolution," for full particulars of +his life. + +21. deem: expect. + +30. up: over, as in the current expression, "the time is up." + +41. barb: a horse of the breed introduced by the Moors From Barbary into +Spain and noted for speed and endurance. + +49. Santee: a river in South Carolina. + +32. throes: agony. + +44. Compare this final thought with the solution in "To a "Waterfowl." + + +THE CROWDED STREET + +32. throes: agony + +44. Compare this final thought with the solution in "To a Waterfowl." + + +THE SNOW-SHOWER + +All the New England poets felt the charm of falling snow, and several +have written on the theme. In connection with this poem read Emerson's +"Snow-Storm" and Whittier's "The Frost Spirit." The best known of all is +Whittier's "Snow-Bound "; the first hundred and fifty lines may well be +read here. + +9. living swarm: like a swarm of bees from the hidden chambers of the +hive. + +12. prone: straight down. + +17. snow-stars: what are the shapes of snowflakes + +20. Milky way: the white path which seems to lead acre. the sky at +night and which is composed of millions of stars. + +21. burlier: larger and stronger. + +35. myriads: vast, indefinite number. + +37. middle: as the cloud seems to be between us and the blue sky, so the +snowflakes before they fell occupied a middle position. + + +ROBERT of LINCOLN + +"Robert of Lincoln" is the happiest, merriest poem written by Bryant. It +is characteristic of the man that it should deal with a nature topic. In +what ways does he secure the merriment? + +Analyze each stanza as to structure. Does the punctuation help to +indicate the speaker? + +Look up the Bobolink in the Bird Guide or some similar book. How much +actual information did Bryant have about the bird? Compare the amount of +bird-lore given here with that of Shelley's or Wordsworth's "To a +Skylark." Which is more poetic? Which interests you more? + + +THE POET + +5. deem: consider. Compare with the use in the "Song of Marion's Men," +1.21. + +8. wreak: carry them out in your verse. The word usually has an angry +idea associated with it. The suggestion may be here of the frenzy of a +poet. + +26. unaptly: not suitable to the occasion. + +30. Only in a moment of great emotion (rapture) should the poet revise a +poem which was penned when his heart was on fire with the idea of the +poem. + +38. limn: describe vividly. + +54. By this test where would you place Bryant himself? Did he do what +he here advises? In what poems do you see evidences of such a method? +Compare your idea of him with Lowell's estimate in "A Fable for Critics," +ll. 35-56. + + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + +In connection with this poem the following stanza from "The Battle-Field" +seems very appropriate: + + "Truth, crushed to Earth, shill rise again; + The eternal years of God are hers; + But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, + And dies among his worshippers." + +The American people certainly felt that Truth was Brushed to Earth with +Lincoln's death, but believed that it would triumph. + + + + +FRANCIS SCOTT KEY (1780-1843) + +Born in Maryland, he graduated from St. John's College, Md., and +practiced law in Frederick City, Md. He was district attorney for the +District of Columbia during the War of 1812 and while imprisoned by the +British on board the ship Minden, Sept. 13, 1814, he witnessed the +British attack on Fort McHenry and wrote this national anthem. + + +THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER + +30. Why is this mentioned as our motto? + + + + +JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE (1795-1820) + +The "Culprit Fay" is so much better than American poetry had previously +been that one is at first disposed to speak of it enthusiastically. An +obvious comparison puts it in true perspective. Drake's life happened +nearly to coincide with that of Keats.... Amid the full fervor of +European experience Keats produced immortal work; Drake, whose whole life +was passed amid the national inexperience of New York, produced only +pretty fancies." + + -BARRETT WENDELL. + +Born in New York, he practiced medicine there. He died of tuberculosis +at the age of twenty-five, and left behind him manuscript verses which +were later published by his daughter. "The Culprit Fay," from which +selections are here given, is generally considered one of the best +productions of early American literature. + + +THE AMERICAN FLAG + +6. milky baldric: the white band supposed by the ancients to circle the +earth and called the zodiac. He may here mean the Milky Way as part of +this band. + +46. careering: rushing swiftly. + +47. bellied: rounded, filled out by the gale. + +56. welkin: sky. + + +THE CULPRIT FAY + +25. ising-stars: particles of mica. + +30. minim: smallest. What objection may be made to this word? + +37. Ouphe: elf or goblin. + +45. behest: command. + +78. shandy: resembling a shell or a scale. + +94. oozy: muddy. + +107. colen-bell: coined by Drake, probably the columbine. + +114. nightshade: a flower also called henbane or belladonna. dern: +drear. + +119. thrids: threads, makes his way through. + +160. prong: probably a prawn; used in this sense only in this one +passage. + +165. quarl: jelly fish. + +178. wake-line: showing by a line of foam the course over which he has +passed. + +193. amain: at full speed. + +210. banned: cursed as by a supernatural power. + +216. henbane: see note on line 114. + +223. fatal: destined to determine his fate. + +245. sculler's notch: depression in which the oar rested. + +255. wimpled: undulated. + +257. athwart: across. + +306. glossed: having gloss, or brightness. + +329. This is only the first of the exploits of the Culprit Fay. +The second quest is described by the monarch as follows + + "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-illume 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 feint spark of its burning train + Shall light the elfin lamp again." + + + + +FITZ-GREENE HALLECK (1790-1867) + +"The poems of Halleck are written with great care and finish, and +manifest the possession of a fine sense of harmony and of genial and +elevated sentiments." + + -ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA. + +Born in Guilford, Conn., he was the closest friend of Drake, at whose +death he wrote his best poem, which is given in this collection. "Marco +Bozzaris" aroused great enthusiasm, which has now waned in favor of his +simple lines, "On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake." + + +MARCO BOZZAARIS + +Marco Bozzaris (c. 1790-1823) was a prominent leader in the struggle for +Greek liberty and won many victories from the Turks. During the night of +August 20, 1823, the Greeks won a complete victory which was saddened by +the loss of Bozzaris, who fell while leading his men to the final attack. + +13. Suliote: a tribe of Turkish subjects of mixed Greek and Albanian +blood, who steadily opposed Turkish rule and won for themselves a +reputation for bravery. They fought for Grecian independence under Marco +Bozzaris. + +16-22. These lines refer to the military history of Greece. See +Encyclopedia Britannica--article on Greece (Persian Wars subtitle) for +account of the Persian invasion and battle of Plataea. + +79. What land did Columbus see first? Where did he from? Why then is +he called a Genoese? + +107. pilgrim-circled: visited by pilgrims as are shrines. + + + + +JOHN HOWARD PAYNE (1791--1802) + +Born in New York, he graduated from Union College and later went on the +stage. He was appointed U.S. Consul to Tunis, where he died. He is now +best remembered by "home Sweet Home" from one of his operas. + + + + +EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849) + +"Small as the quantity of his true verse is, it more sustains his +peculiar genius in American eyes than does his prose; and this is because +it is so unique. He stands absolutely alone as a poet, with none like +him." + -GEORGE E. WOODBURY + +Born in Boston, he spent most of his literary years in New York. His +parents, both actors, died when he was still a little child, and he was +adopted by Mr. Allan, who educated him in Europe. He served as literary +editor and hack writer for several journals and finally died in poverty. + + +TO HELEN + +"To Helen" is said to have been written in 1823, when Poe was only +fourteen years old. It refers to Mrs. Jane Stith Stanard, the mother of +one of his school friends, whose death was a terrible blow to the +sensitive lad. This loss was the cause of numerous poems of sorrow for +death and permanently influenced his work. + +2. Nicean: Nicaea, the modern Iznik in Turkey, was anciently a Greek +province. + +2. Nicean barks: the Greek ships that bore the wanderer, Ulysses, from +Phaeacia to his home. Read "The Wanderings of Ulysses" in Gayley's +Classic Myths, Chapter XXVII. + +7. hyacinth: like Hyacinthus, the fabled favorite of Apollo; hence +lovely, beautiful. + +8. Naiad: a nymph presiding over fountains, lakes, brooks, and wells. + +14. Psyche, a beautiful maiden beloved of Cupid, whose adventure with +the lamp is told in all classical mythologies. + + +ISRAFEL + +Israfel, according to the Koran, is the angel with the sweetest voice +among God's creatures. He will blow the trump on the day of +resurrection. + +2. The idea that Israfel's lute was more than human is taken from +Moore's "Lalla Rookh," although these very words do not occur there. The +reference will be found in the last hundred lines of the poem. + +12. levin: lightning. + +26. Houri: one of the beautiful girls who, according to the Moslem +faith, are to be companions of the faithful in paradise. + + +LENORE + +13. Peccavimus: we have sinned. + +20. Avaunt: Begone! Away! + +26. Paean: song of joy or triumph. + + +THE COLISEUM + +10. Eld: antiquity. + +14. See Matthew 26: 36-56. + +16. The Chaldxans were the world's greatest astrologers. + +26-29. Poe here uses technical architectural terms with success. + +plinth: the block upon which a column or a statue rests. + +shafts: the main part of a column between the base and the capital. + +entablatures: the part of a building borne by the columns. + +frieze: an ornamented horizontal band in the entablature. + +cornices: the horizontal molded top of the entablatures. + +32. corrosive: worn away by degrees; used figuratively of time. + +36. At Thebes there is a statue which is supposed to be Memnon, the +mythical king of Ethiopia, and which at daybreak was said to emit the +music of the lyre. + + +EULALIE.--A SONG + +19. Astarte: the Phoenician goddess of love. + + +THE RAVEN + +41. Pallas: Greek goddess of wisdom. + +46-47. Night's Plutonian shore: Pluto ruled over the powers of the lower +world and over the dead. Darkness and gloom are constantly associated +with him; the cypress tree was sacred to him and black victims were +sacrificed to him. Why does the coming of the raven suggest this realm +to the poet? + +50. relevancy: appropriateness. + +80. Seraphim: one of the highest orders of angels + +82. respite and nepenthe: period of peace and forgetting. + +89. balm in Gilead. See Jeremiah 8: 22; 46: 11 and Genesis 37: 25. + +93. Aideen, fanciful spelling of Eden. + +106. This line has been often criticized on the ground that a lamp could +not cause any shadow on the floor if the bird sat above the door. Poe +answered this charge by saying: "My conception was that of the bracket +candelabrum affixed against the wall, high up above the door and bust, as +is often seen in English palaces, and even in some of the better houses +of New York." + +What effect does this poem have upon you? Work out the rhyme scheme in +the first and second stanzas. Are they alike? Does this rhyme scheme +help to produce the effect of the poem? Have you noticed a similar use +of "more" in any other poem? Point out striking examples of repetition, +of alliteration. Are there many figures of speech here? + + +TO HELEN + +This Helen is Mrs. Whitman. + +15. parterre: a flower garden whose beds are arranged in a pattern and +separated by walks. + +48. Dian: Roman goddess representing the moon. + +60. elysian: supremely happy. + +65. scintillant: sending forth flashes of light. + +66. Venuses: morning stars. + + +THE BELLS + +"The Bells" originally consisted of eighteen lines, and was gradually +enlarged to its present form. + +10. Runic: secret, mysterious. + +11. Why does Poe use this peculiar word? Compare its use with that of +"euphony," 1. 26, "jangling," 1. 62, "moLotone" 1. 8'3. + +26. euphony: the quality of having a pleasant sound. + +72. monody: a musical composition in which some one voice-part +predominates. + +88. Ghouls: imaginary evil beings of the East who rob graves. + + +ELDORADO + +6. Eldorado: any region where wealth may be obtained is abundance; +hence, figuratively, the source of any abundance, as here. + +21. "Valley of the Shadow" suggests death and is a fitting close to +Poe's poetic work. + + + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) + + "His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; + Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings + Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, + Are mingling with the tender songs he sings. + Nor shall he cease to sing--in every lay + Of Nature's voice he sings--and will alway." + + -JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. + +Born in Portland, Maine, he graduated from Bowdoin College in 1825 and +went abroad to prepare himself to teach the modern languages. He taught +until 1854, when he became a professional author. During the remaining +years of his fife he lived quietly at Craigie House in Cambridge and +there he died. + +The poems by Longfellow are used by permission of, and by special +arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his +works. + + +HYMN To THE NIGHT + +"Night, thrice welcome." +"Night, undesired by Troy, but to the Greeks +Thrice welcome for its interposing gloom." + +-COWPER, TRANS. OF ILIAD VIII, 488. + +21. Orestes-like. Orestes, the son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, +avenged the death of his father by killing his mother. The Furies chased +him for many years through the world until at last he found pardon and +peace. The story is told in several Greek plays, but perhaps best in +AEschylus' "Libation Pourers" and "Furies" + + +A PSALM of LIFE + +"I kept it," he said, "some time in manuscript, unwilling to show it to +any one, it being a voice from my inmost heart." + +7. "Dust thou art": quoted from Genesis 3:19, "Dust thou art, and unto +dust shalt thou return." + +10. Pope in Epistle IV of his "Essay on Man" says: "0 happiness! our +being's end and aim." How does Longfellow differ with him? + + +THE SKELETON IN ARMOR + +The Skeleton in Armor. "The following Ballad was suggested to me while +riding on the seashore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had +been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armor; and the +idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, +generally known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the +Danes as a work of their early ancestors." + +19. Skald: a Scandinavian minstrel who composed and sang or recited +verses in celebration of famous deeds, heroes, and events. + + "And there, in many a stormy vale, + The Scald had told his wondrous tale." + + -SCOTT, Lay of the Last Minstrel, can. 6, St. 22. + +20. Saga: myth or heroic story. + +28. ger-falcon: large falcon, much used in northern Europe in falconry. + +38. were-wolf: a person who had taken the form of a wolf and had become +a cannibal. The superstition was that those who had voluntarily become +wolves could become men again at will. + +42. corsair: pirate. Originally "corsair" was applied to privateers off +the Barbary Coast who preyed upon Christian shipping under the authority +of their governments. + +49. "wassail-bout": festivity at which healths are drunk. + +53. Berserk. Berserker was a legendary Scandinavian hero who never wore +a shirt of mail. In general, a warrior who could assume the form and +ferocity of wild beasts, and whom fire and iron could not harm. + +94. Sea-mew: a kind of European gull. + +110. Skaw: a cape on the coast of Denmark. + +159. Skoal!: Hail! a toast or friendly greeting used by the Norse +especially in poetry. + + +THE WRECK of THE HESPERUS + +On Dec. 17, 1839, Longfellow wrote in his journal: "News of shipwrecks +horrible, on the coast. Forty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one +lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe, +where many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus." + +On Dec. 30 he added: "Sat till one o'clock by the fire, smoking, when +suddenly it came into my head to write the Ballad of the schooner +Hesperus, which I accordingly did. Then went o bed, but could not sleep. +New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them to the +ballad. It was three by the clock."... "I feel pleased with the ballad. +it hardly cost mean effort. It did not come into my mind by lines but by +stanzas." + +In a letter to Mr. Charles Lanman on Nov. 24, 1871, Mr. Longfellow said: +"I had quite forgotten about its first publication; but I find a letter +from Park Benjamin, dated Jan. 7, 1840, beginning...as follows:-- + +"`Your ballad, The Wreck of the Hesperus, is grand. Enclosed are twenty- +five dollars (the sum you mentioned) for it, paid by the proprietors of +The New World, in which glorious paper it will resplendently coruscate on +Saturday next.'" + +11. flaw: a sudden puff of wind. + +14. Spanish Main: a term applied to that portion of the Caribbean Sea +near the northeast coast of South America, including the route followed +by Spanish merchant ships traveling between Europe and America. + +37-48. This little dialogue reminds us of the "Erlkonig," a ballad by +Goethe. + +66. See Luke 8: 22-25. + +60. Norman's Woe: a reef in", W. Glouster harbor, Mass. + +70. carded wool. The process of carding wool, cotton, flax, etc. +removes by a wire-toothed brush foreign matter and dirt, and leaves it +combed out and cleansed. + + +THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH + +7. Crisp, and black, and long. Mr. Longfellow says that before this +poem was published, he read it to his barber. The man objected that +crisp black hair was never long, and as a result the author delayed +publication until be was convinced in his own mind that no other +adjectives would give a truer picture of the blacksmith as he saw him. + +39-42. Mr. Longfellow's friends agree that these lines depict his own +industry and temperament better than any others can. + + +IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY + +No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. Translated in lines 12 and 24. + +8. freighted: heavily laden. + + +EXCELSIOR + +Mr. Longfellow explained fully the allegory of this poem in a letter to +Mr. Henry T. Tuckerman. He said: "This (his intention) was no more than +to display, in a series of pictures, the life of a man of genius, +resisting all temptations, laying aside all fears, heedless of all +warnings, and pressing right on to accomplish his purpose. His motto is +Excelsior, `higher.' He passes through the Alpine village,--through the +rough, cold paths of the world--where the peasants cannot understand him, +and where his watchword is `an unknown tongue.' He disregards the +happiness of domestic peace, and sees the glaciers--his fate--before him. +He disregards the warnings of the old man's wisdom.... He answers to +all, `Higher yet'! The monks of St. Bernard are the representatives of +religious forms and ceremonies, and with their oft-repeated prayer +mingles the sound of his voice, telling them there is something higher +than forms and ceremonies. Filled with these aspirations he perishes +without having reached the perfection he longed for; and the voice heard +in the air is the promise of immortality and progress ever upward." + +Compare with this Tennyson's " Merlin and The Gleam," in which he tells +his own experience. + +7. falchion: a sword with a broad and slightly curved blade, used in the +Middle Ages; hence, poetically, any type of sword. + + +THE DAY IS DOUR + +26. In this stanza and the two following Longfellow describes what his +poems have come to mean to us and the place they hold in American life. +Compare with Whittier's "Dedication" to "Songs of Labor," Il. 26-36. + + + + +WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE + +Walter von der Vogelweide: the most celebrated of medieval German lyric +poets, who lived about the year 1200. He belonged to the lower order of +"nobility of service." He livedin Tyrol, then the home of famous +minnesingers from whom he learned his art. + +4. Walter von der Vogelweide is buried in the cloisters adjoining the +Neumiinster church in Wiirtzburg, which dates from the eleventh century. + +10. The debt of the poet to the birds has been dwelt upon in many poems, +the best known of which are Shelley's " Skylark" and Wordsworth's "To the +Cuckoo." + +27. War of Wartburg. In 1207 there occurred in this German castle, the +Wartburg, a contest of the minstrels of the time. Wagner has +immortalized this contest in "Tannhauser," in which he describes the +victory of Walter von der Vogelweide over all the other singers. + +42. Gothic spire. See note on "The Builders" 11. 17-19. + + +THE BUILDERS + +17-19. The perfection of detail in the structure and sculpture of Gothic +cathedrals may be seen in the cathedrals of Chartres and Amiens. +Numerous beautiful illustrations may be found in Marriage, "The +Sculptures of Chartres Cathedral," and in Ruskin, "The Bible of Amiens." + + +SANTA FILOMENA + +Santa Filomena stands for Miss Florence Nightingale, who did remarkable +work among the soldiers wounded in the Crimean War (1854-56). This poem +was published in 1857 while the story of her aid was fresh in the minds +of the world. + +42. The palm, the lily, and the spear: St. Filomena is represented in +many Catholic churches and usually with these three emblems to signify +her victory, purity, and martyrdom. Sometimes an anchor replaces the +palm. + + +THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE + +King Alfred's Orosius. Orosius, a Spaniard of the fifth century A.D., +wrote at the request of the church a history of the world down to 414 +A.D. King Alfred (849-901) translated this work and added at least one +important story, that of the voyages of Ohthere and Wulfstan. The part +of the story used by Longfellow may be found in Cook and Tinkers's +Translations from Old English Prose, in Bosworth's, and in Sweet's +editions. + +2. Helgoland: an island in the North Sea, belonging to Prussia. + +42. Hebrides: islands west of Scotland. + +90. a nameless sea. They sailed along the coast of Lapland and into the +White Sea. + +96-100. Alfred reports simply, "He says he was one of a party of six who +killed sixty of these in two days." + +116. The original says: "He made this voyage, in addition to his purpose +of seeing the country, chiefly for walruses, for they have very good bone +in their teeth--they brought some of these teeth to the king--and their +hides are very good for ship-ropes." + + +SANDALPHON + +Sandalphon: one of the oldest angel figures in the Jewish system. In the +second century a Jewish writing described him as follows: "He is an angel +who stands on the earth.. ; he is taller than his fellows by the length +of a journey of 500 years; he binds crowns for his Creator." These +crowns are symbols of praise, and with them he brings before the Deity +the prayers of men. See the Jewish Encyclopaedia for further +particulars. + +1. Talmud: the work which embodies the Jewish law of church and state. +It consists of texts, and many commentaries and illustrations. + +12. Refers to Genesis 28: 10-21. + +39. Rabbinical: pertaining to Jewish rabbis or teachers of law. + +44. welkin: poetical term for the sky. + +48. nebulous: indistinct. + + +THE LANDLORD'S TALE + +The "Tales of a Wayside Inn" were series of stories told on three +separate days by the travelers at the Inn at Sudbury, Mass. It is the +same device used by writers since the days of Chaucer, but cleverly +handled furnishes an interesting setting for a variety of tales. Some of +Longfellow's best-known narratives are in these series, among them the +following selections. + +The story is self-explanatory. It is probably the best example of the +simple poetic narrative of an historic event. + +107-110. The reference is to one of the seven men who were killed at +Lexington--possibly to Jonathan Harrington, Jr., who dragged himself to +his own door-step before he died. Many books tell the story, but the +following are the most interesting; Gettemy, Chas. F. True "Story of Paul +Revere:" Colburn, F., The Battle of April 19, 1775. + + +THE SICILIAN'S TALE + +This story of King Robert of Sicily is very old, as it is found among the +short stories of the Gesta Romanorum written in the thirteenth and +fourteenth centuries. + +17. seditious: tending towards disorder and treason. + +52. besprent: poetic for besprinkled. + +66. seneschal: the official in the household of a prince of high noble +who had the supervision of feasts and ceremonies. + +106. Saturnian: the fabled reign of the god Saturn was the golden age of +the world, characterized by simplicity, virtue, and happiness. + +110. Enceladus, the giant. Longfellow's poem "Enceladus" emphasizes +this reference. For the story of the giants and the punishment of +Enceladus see any good Greek mythology. + + +THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE + +9. dial: the sun-dial was the clock of the time. + +41. iteration: repetition. + +49. dole: portion. + +bl. almoner: official dispenser of alms. + +100. See Matthew 25: 40. + + + + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-1892) + + "Best loved and saintliest of our singing train, + Earth's noblest tributes to thy name belong. + A lifelong record closed without a stain, + A blameless memory shrived in deathless song." + + -OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + +Born at East Haverhill, Mass., in surroundings which he faithfully +describes in "Snow-Bound," he had little education. At the age of +twenty-two he secured an editorial position in Boston and continued to +write all his life. For some years he devoted all his literary ability +to the cause of abolition, and not until the success of "Snow-Bound" in +1866 was he free from poverty. + +The poems by Whittier are used by permission of, and by special +arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his +works. + + +PROEM + +Proem: preface or introduction. + +3. Spenser, Edmund (1552-1599). His best-known work is the "Faerie +Queen." + +4. Arcadian Sidney: Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586); an English courtier, +soldier, and author. He stands as a model of chivalry. He was mortally +wounded at the battle of Zutphen. "Arcadia" was his greatest work; hence +the epithet here. + +23. plummet-line: a weight suspended by a line used to test the +verticality of walls, etc. Here used as if in a sounding process. + +30. Compare this opinion of his own work with Lowell's comments in "A +Fable for Critics." How do they agree? + +32. For Whittier's opinion of Milton see also " Raphael," I. 7 0, and " +Burns," 1. 104. + +33. Marvell, Andrew (1621-1678): an English statesman, poet, and +satirist, friend of Milton. + + +THE FROST SPIRIT + +Whittier has an intense love and appreciation of winter. With this poem +may be read "Snow Bound," the last stanzas of "Flowers in Winter," and +"Lumbermen." Many others may be added to this list. Do you find this +same idea in other poets? + +11. Hecla: a volcano in Iceland which has had 28 known eruptions--one as +late as 1878. It rises 5100 feet above the sea and has a bare irregular- +shaped cone. Its appearance is extremely wild and desolate. + + +SONGS OF LABOR. DEDICATION + +8. The o'er-sunned bloom.... In this collection of poems are a few +written in his youth, the more mature works of the "summer" of his life, +and the later works of his old age. The figure here is carefully carried +through and gives a clear, simplified picture of his literary life. + +22. Whittier himself noted that he was indebted for this line to +Emerson's "Rhodora" + +26-3b. Compare Longfellow's "The Day is Done" for another idea of the +influence of poetry. + +36. Compare Genesis 3: 17-19. + +43-45. Compare Luke 2: 51-52. + + +THE LUMBERMEN + +33. Ambijejis: lake in central Maine. + +35. Millnoket: a lake in central Maine. + +39. Penobscot: one of the most beutiful of Maine rivers. It is about +300 miles long and flows through the central part of the state. + +42. Katahdin: Mount Katahdin is 5385 feet in height and is usually snow- +covered. + + +BARCLAY of URY + +Barclay of Ury: David Barclay (1610-1686). Served under Gustavus +Adolphus, was an officer in the Scotch army during Civil War. He bought +the estate of Ury, near Aberdeen, in 1648. He was arrested after the +Restoration and for a short time was confined to Edinburgh Castle, where +he was converted to Quakerism by a fellow prisoner. His son, also a +Quaker, heard of the imprisonment mentioned in this poem and attempted to +rescue his father. During the years between this trouble in 1676 and his +death in 1686, the persecution seems to have been directed largely +against his son. (See Dictionary of National Biography for details.) +Whinier naturally felt keenly on this subject, as he himself was a +Quaker. + +1. Aberdeen: capital of Aberdeenshire, and chief seaport in north of +Scotland; fourth Scottish town in population, industry, and wealth. The +buildings of Aberdeen College, founded in 1494, are the glory of +Aberdeen. + +7. churl: a rude, low-bred fellow. + +10. carlin: a bluff, good-natured man. + +35. Lutzen: a town in Saxony where the Swedes under Gustavus Adolphus +defeated the Austrians, Nov. 16, 1632. + +36. Gustavus Adolphus, "The Great" (1594-1632). He was one of the great +Swedish kings, and was very prominent in the Thirty Years' War (1618- +1648). + +56. Tilly: Johann Tserklaes, Count von Tilly, a German imperial +commander in the Thirty Years' War. + +57. Walloon: a people akin to the French, inhabiting Belgium and some +districts of Prussia. They have great vivacity than the Flemish, and +more endurance than the French. + +66. Jewry: Judea. + +76. reeve: a bailiff or overseer. + +31. snooded. The unmarried women of Scotland formerly wore a band +around their heads to distinguish them from married women. + +99. Tolbooth: Scotch word for prison. + +126. This idea is expanded in the poem "Seed-time and Harvest." + + +RAPHAEL + +Raphael Sanzio (1483-1520), the great Italian painter. Trained first by +his father, later by the great Perugino. His work was done mainly in +Florence and Rome. + +6. This picture is the portrait of Raphael when scarcely more than a +boy. + +17. Gothland's sage: Sweden's wise man, Emanuel Swedenborg. + +36. Raphael painted many madonnas, but the word "drooped" limits this +description. Several might be included under this: "The Small Holy +Family," "The Virgin with the Rose," or, most probable of all to me, "The +Madonna of the Chair." + +37. the Desert John: John the Baptist. + +40. "The Transfiguration" is not as well known as some of the madonnas, +but shows in wonderful manner Raphael's ability to handle a large group +of people, without detracting from the central figure. It is now in the +Vatican Gallery, at Rome. + +42. There are few great Old Testament stories which are not depicted by +Raphael. Among them are The Passage Through Jordan, The Fall of Jericho, +Joshua Staying the Sun, David and Goliath, The Judgment of Solomon, The +Building of the Temple, Moses Bringing the Tables of the Law, the Golden +Calf, and many others equally well known. + +45. Fornarina. This well-known portrait is now in the Palazzo Barberini +in Rome. + +70. holy song on Milton's tuneful ear. Poetry and painting are here +spoken of together as producing permanent effects, and from the figure he +uses we may add music to the list. Compare Longfellow's "The Arrow and +the Song." In the last stanza the field is still further broadened until +his thought is that all we do lives after us. + + +SEED-TIME AND HARVEST + +Whittier's intense interest in Freedom is here apparent. His earlier +poems were largely on the slavery question in America. His best work was +not done until he began to devote his poetic ability to a wider range of +subjects. + +26. See Longfellow, "A Psalm of Life," 11. 9-12 and note. + + +THE PROPHECY of SAMUEL SEWALL + +12. Samuel Sewall is one of the most interesting characters in colonial +American history. He was born in England in 1652, but came to America +while still a child. He graduated from Harvard College in 1671 and finally +became a justice of the peace. He was instrumental in the Salem witchcraft +decision, but later bitterly repented. He made in 1697 a public confession +of his share in the matter and begged that God would "not visit the sin... +upon the Land." + +28. Hales Reports. Sir Matthew Hale (1609-1676) was one of the most +eminent judges of England. From 1671 to 1676 he occupied the position of +Chief Justice of the King's Bench, the highest judicial position in +England. Sewall was depending upon an authority of the day. + +32. warlock's: a wizard, one who deals in incantations; synonymous with +witch. + +46. Theocracy: a state governed directly by the ministers of God. + +58. hand-grenade: a hollow shell, filled with explosives, arranged to be +thrown by hand among the enemy and to explode on impact. + +73. Koordish robber. The Kurds were a nomadic people living in +Kurdistan, Persia, and Caucasia. They were very savage and vindictive, +specially towards Armenians. The Sheik was the leader of a clan or town +and as such had great power. + +81. Newbury, Mass. Judge Sewall's father was one of the founders of the +town. + +130-156. This prophecy is most effective in its use of local color for a +spiritual purpose. Beginning with local conditions which might be +changed, it broadens to include all nature which shall never grow old. + + +SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE + +Skipper Ireson's Ride. Whittier was told after this poem was published +that it was not historically accurate, since the crew and not Skipper +Ireson was to blame for the desertion of the wreck. He stated that he +had founded his poem on a song sung to him when he was a boy. + +3. Apuleius's Golden Ass. Apuleius was a Latin satirical writer whose +greatest work was a romance or novel called "The Golden Ass." The hero +is by chance changed into an ass,, and has all sorts of adventures until +he is finally freed from the magic by eating roses in the hands of a +priest of Isis. + +3. one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass. See the Arabian Nights' +Entertainments for the story of the one-eyed beggar. + +6. Al-Borak: according to the Moslem creed the animal brought by Gabriel +to carry Mohammed to the seventh heaven. It had the face of a man, the +body of a horse, the wings of an eagle, and spoke with a human voice. + +11. Marblehead, in Massachusetts. + +30. Maenads: the nymphs who danced and sang in honor of Bacchus, the god +of vegetation and the vine. + +35. Chalettr Bay, in Newfoundland, a part of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. + + +THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE of NEWBURY + +6. Deucalion flood. The python was a monstrous serpent which arose from +the mud left after the flood in which Deucalion survived. The python +lived in a cave on Mount Parnassus and there Apollo slew him. Deucalion +and his wife, Pyrrha were saved from the flood because Zeus respected +their piety. They obeyed the oracle and threw stones behind them from +which sprang men and women to repopulate the earth. + +9. See "The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall" for another story of Newbury +town. + +22. stones of Cheops: an Egyptian king, about 2900 b.c.; built the great +pyramid, which is called by his name. + +59. Each town in colonial days set aside certain land for free pasture- +land for the inhabitants. + +80. double-ganger: a double or apparition of a person; here, a reptile +moving in double form. + +76. Cotton Mather (1663-1728). This precocious boy entered Harvard +College at eleven and graduated at fifteen. At seventeen he preached his +first sermon and all his life was a zealous divine. He was undoubtedly +sincere in his judgments in the cases of witchcraft and was not +thoughtlessly cruel. He was a great writer and politician and a public- +minded citizen. + +85. Wonder-Book of Cotton Mather is his story of early New England life +called Magnalia Christi Americana. + + +MAUD MULLER + +94. astral: a lamp with peculiar construction so that the shadow is not +cast directly below it. + + +BURNS + +Burns. In connection with this poem may well be read the following poems +by Robert Burns (1759-1796): "The Twa Dogs," "A Man's a Man for A' That," +"Cotter's Saturday Night" (Selections), "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie +Doon," "Highland Mary." + +40. allegory: the expression of an idea indirectly by means of a story +or narrative. Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress is probably the best-known +allegory. What others can you name? + +67. Craigie-burn and Devon were favorite Scotch streams. + +71. Ayr: a river in Scotland. This whole region is full of associations +with Burns. Near it he was born and there is the Auld Brig of Doon of +Tam o' Shanter fame. Near the river is a Burns monument. Doon: a river +of Scotland 30 miles long and running through wild and picturesque +country. Burns has made it famous. + +91-92. The unpleasant facts of Burns's life, due to weakness of +character, should not be allowed to destroy our appreciation of what he +accomplished when he was his better self. + +99. Magdalen. See John 8:3-11 and many other instances in the Gospels. + +103. The mournful Tuscan: Dante, who wrote "The Divine Comedy." + + +THE HERO + +1. Bayard, Pierre Terrail (1473-1524): a French soldier who, on account +of his heroism, piety, and magnanimity was called "le chevalier sans noun +et sans reproche," the fearless and faultless knight. By his +contemporaries he was more often called "le bon chevalier," the good +knight. + +6. Zutphen: an old town in Holland, which was often besieged, especially +during the wars of freedom waged by the Dutch. The most celebtated fight +under its walls was in Septeember, 1586, when Sir Philip Sidney was +mortally wounded. + +12. See John 16: 21. + +28. Sidney. See note on line 6 and Proem, note on line 4. + +31. Cyllenian ranges: Mount Cyllene, in southern Greece, the fabled +birthplace of Hermes. + +36. Suliote. See Fitz-Greene Halleck, "Marco Bozzaris," note on line 13 + +42. The reference is to Samuel G. Howe, who fought as a young man for +the independence of Greece. + +46. Albanian: pertaining to Albania, a province of western Turkey. + +78. Cadmus: mythological king of Phoenicia; was regarded as the +introducer of the alphabet from Phoenicia into Greece. + +86. Lancelot stands for most of us as the example of a brave knight +whose life was ruined by a great weakness. Malory writes of him in "Mort +d'Arthur," and Tennyson has made him well known to us. + + +THE ETERNAL GOODNESS + +24. See John 19:23 and Matthew 9: 20-22. + +36. After David had suffered, he wrote the greatest of the Psalms which +are attributed to him. The idea of righteous judgement is to be found +throughout thoem all, but seems especially strong in 9 and 147. + +54. Compare Tennyson's Crossing the Bar. + + +THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW + +9. Lowland: the south and east of Scotland; distinguished from the +Highlands. + +13. pibroch: a wild, irregular martial music played on Scotch bagpipes. + +18. A small English garrison was in possession of the city of Lucknow at +the time of the great Sepoy Mutiny in India,. They were besieged, and +their rescue is described here. + +32. Sir Henry Havelock commanded the relieving army. + +36. Sepoy: a native East-Indian soldier, equipped like a European +soldier. + +51. Goomtee: a river of Hindustan. + +77. Gaelic: belonging to Highland Scotch or other Celtic people. + + +COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION + +The element of superstition which enters into many of Whittier's poems is +well illustrated here. + +19. the Brocken: in the Harz Mountains in Germany. + +35. swart: dark-colored. + +49. See "Prophecy of Samuel Sewall," note on line 32. + +52. Religion among the Pilgrim fathers was a harsh thing. What +illustrations of its character did you find in the early part of this +book + +84. Doctor Dee: an English astrologer (1527-1608). + +85. Agrippa, Heinrich Cornelius: German physician, theologian, and +writer (1486-1535), who tried to turn less precious metals into gold. + +89. Minnesinger. Hares Sachs (1494-I57b), the famous cobbler singer, is +probably referred to. For another famous minstrel see notes on +Longfellow, "Walter von der Vogelweide." + +139. Bingen, a city on the Rhine, has been made famous by the poem +written in 1799 by Southey, "God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop." +Longfellow refers to this legend in "The Children's Hour." + +140. Frankfort (on-the-Main), in Germany. + +147. droughty: thirsty, wanting drink. + + +THE MAYFLOWERS + +1. Sad Mayflower: the trailing arbutus. + +14. Our years of wandering o'er. The Pilgrim fathers sought refuge in +Holland, but found life there unsatisfactory, as they were not entirely +free. They then set out for Virginia and almost by chance settled in New +England. + + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON (1803-1882) + +"He shaped an ideal for the commonest life, he proposed an object to the +humblest seeker after truth. Look for beauty in the world around you, he +said, and you shall see it everywhere. Look within, with pure eyes and +simple trust, and you shall find the Deity mirrored in your own soul. +Trust yourself because you trust the voice of God in your inmost +consciousness." + --OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + +Born in Boston, Mass., of a family with some literary attainments, he +showed little promise of unusual ability during his years at Harvard. He +became pastor of the Second Church in Boston for a time and later settled +in Concord. He lectured extensively and wrote much, living a quiet, +isolated life. + +The poems by Emerson are used by permission of, and by special +arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his +works. + + +GOOD-BYE + +"Good-Bye" was written in 1823 when Emerson, a young boy, was teaching in +Boston. It does not refer to his retirement to the country twelve years +later, but seems a kind of prophecy. + +27. lore: learning. + +28. sophist: a professed teacher of wisdom. + + +EACH AND ALL + +26. noisome offensive. + + +THE PROBLEM + +18. canticles: hymns belonging to church service. + +19. The dome of St. Peter's was the largest in the world at the time of +its construction and was a great architectural achievement. Emerson +feels that it, like every other work that is worth-while, was the result +of a sincere heart. + +20. groined: made the roofs inside the churches according to a +complicated, intersecting pattern. + +28. Notice the figure of speech here. Is it effective? + +39-40. All the mighty buildings of the world were made first in the +minds of the builder or architect, and then took form. + +44. The Andes and Mt. Ararat are very ancient formations and belong to +Nature at her beginning on the earth. These great buildings are so in +keeping with Nature that she accepts them and forgets how modern they +are. + +51. Pentecost: Whitsunday, when the descent of the Holy Spirit is +celebrated. Emerson says here that this spirit animates all beautiful +music and sincere preaching, as it does we do at our noblest. + +65. Chrysostom, Augustine, and the more modern Taylor are all great +religious teachers of the world, and all urged men enter the service of +the church. Augustine: Saint Augustine, the great African bishop (354- +430). He was influential mainly through his numerous writings, which are +still read. His greatest work was his Confessions. + +68. Taylor: Dr. Jeremy Taylor, English bishop and author (1613-1667). +One writer assigns to him "the good humour of gentleman, the eloquence of +an orator, the fancy of a poet, acuteness of a schoolman, the +profoundness of a philosopher, the wisdom of a chancellor, the sagacity +of a prophet, reason of an angel, and the piety of a saint." Why should +a man so endowed be compared to Shakespeare? + + +THE HUMBLE-BEE + +6. What characteristics of the bumblebee make animated torrid-zone +applicable? Why doesn't he need to seek a milder climate in Porto Rico? + +16. Epicurean: one addicted to pleasure of senses, specially eating and +drinking. How does it apply to the bee? + + +THE SNOW-STORM + +Emerson called this poem "a lecture on God's architecture, one of his +beautiful works, a Day." + +9. This picture is strikingly like Whittier's description of a similar +day in "Snow-Bound." + +13. bastions: sections of fortifications. + +18. Parian wreaths were very white because the marble of Paros was pure. + +21. Maugre: in spite of. + + +FABLE + +This fable was written some years before its merits were recognized. +Since then it has steadily grown in popularity. + + +BOSTON HYMN + +16. fend: defend. + +24. boreal: northern. + +80. behemoth: very large beast. + +THE TITMOUSE + +76. impregnably: so that it can resist attack. + +97. wold: Rood, forest. + + + + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1819-1891) + +"As political reformer, as editor, as teacher, above all as an example of +the type of scholarly gentleman that the new world was able to produce, +he perhaps did more than any of his contemporaries to dignify American +literature at home and to win for it respect abroad." + + -W. B. CAIRNS. + +Born at Cambridge, Mass., he early showed a love of literature and says +that while he was a student at Harvard he read everything except the +prescribed textbooks. He opened a law office in Boston, but spent his +time largely in reading and writing poetry. He became professor of +literature at Harvard in 1854 and later edited the Atlantic Monthly. +Later he was minister to Spain and to England. In 1885 he returned to +his work at Harvard, where he remained until his death in the very house +in which he was born. + +The poems by Lowell are used by permission of, and by special arrangement +with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his works. + + +HAKON's LAY + +This poem is here given in its original form as published by Lowell in +Graham's Magazine in January, 1855. It was afterwards expanded into the +second canto of "The Voyage to Vinland." + +With what other poems in this book may "Hakon's Lay" be compared? + +3. Skald. See Longfellow, 'The Skeleton in Armor,' note on I. 19. + +10. Hair and beard were both white, we are told. Who is suggested in +this line as white? + +17. eyried. An eagle builds its aerie or nest upon a crag or +inaccessible height above ordinary birds. The simile here begun before +the eagle is mentioned, and the minstrel's thoughts are spoken of as born +in the aerie of his brain, high above his companions. + +20. One of the finest pictures of the singing of a minstrel before his +lord is found in Scott's "Waverly." + +21. fletcher: arrow-maker. + +31. The work of Fate cannot be done by a reed which is proverbially weak +or by a stick which is cut cross-grained and hence will split easily. +She does not take her arrow at random from all the poor and weak weapons +which life offers, but she chooses carefully. + +35. sapwood: the new wood next the bark, which is not yet hardened. + +37. Much of the value of an arrow lies in its being properly feathered. +So when Fate chooses, she removes all valueless feathers which will +hinder success. + +40. In these ways her aim Would be injured. + +43. butt's: target's. + +52. frothy: trivial. + +64. Leif, the son of Eric, near the end of the tenth century went from +Greenland to Norway and was converted to Christianity. About 1000 he +sailed southward and landed at what is perhaps now Newfoundland, then +went on to some part of the New England coast and there spent the winter. + +61. The coming of Leif Ericson with his brave ship to Vinland was the +first happening in the story of America. + +61. rune: a character in the ancient alphabet. + + +FLOWERS + +"Flowers" is another very early poem, but it was included by Lowell in +his first volume,"A Year's Life," in 1841. Compare this idea of a poet's +duty and opportunity with that of other American writers. + +12. Look up Matthew 13: 3-9. + +18. Condensed expression; for some of that seed shall surely fall in +such ground that it shall bloom forever. + + +THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS + +16. viceroy: ruler in place of the king. + +44. Apollo, while he was still young, killed one of the Cyclops of Zeus +and Zeus condemned him to serve a mortal Man as a shepherd. He served +Admetus, as is here described, and secured many special favors for him +from the gods. + + +COMMEMORATION ODE + +3. The men who fought for the cause they loved expressed their love in +the forming of a squadron instead of a poem, and wrote their praise of +battle in fighting-lines instead of tetrameters. + +17. guerdon: reward. + +36. A creed without defenders is lifeless. When to belief in a cause is +added action in its behalf, the creed lives. + +60. This is as life would be without live creeds and results that will +endure. Compare Whittier's "Raphael." + +67. aftermath: a second crop. + +79. Baal's: belonging to the local deities of the ancient Semitic race. + +105. With this stanza may well be compared "The Present Crisis." + +113. dote: have the intellect weakened by age. + +146. Plutarch's men. Plutarch wrote the lives of the greatest men of +Greece and Rome. + + +THE VISION of SIR LAUNFAL (PRELUDE) + +7. auroral: morning. + +12. Sinais. Read Exodus, Chapter 19. Why did Moses climb Mount Sinai? +What would be the advantage to us if we knew when we climbed a Mount +Sinai? + +9-20. Wordsworth says: + + "Heaven lies about us in our infancy! + Shades of the prison-house begin to close + Upon the growing boy," etc. + +Lowell does not agree with him, and in these lines he declares that +heaven is as near to the aged man as to the child, since the skies, the +winds, the wood, and the sea have lessons for us always. + +28. bubbles: things as useless and perishable as the child's soap- +bubbles. + +20-32. The great contrast! What does Lowell mean by Earth? Does he +define it? Which does he love better? + +79. Notice how details are accumulated to prove the hightide. Are his +points definite? + +91. sulphurous: so terrible as to suggest the lower world. + + +BIGLOW PAPERS + +Lowell attempted a large task in the "Biglow Papers," and on the whole he +succeeded well. He wished to discuss the current question in America +under the guise of humorous Yankee attack. The first series appeared in +1848 and dealt with the problem of the Mexican War; the second series in +1866 and refers to the Civil War. From the two series are given here +only three which are perhaps the best known. Mr. Hosea Biglow purports +to be the writer. He is an uneducated Yankee boy who "com home (from +Boston) considerabul riled." His father in No. 1, a letter, describes +the process of composition as follows: "Arter I'd gone to bed I hearn Him +a thrashin round like a shoot-tailed bull in flitime. The old woman ses +she to me ses she, Zekle, sos she, our Hosie's gut the drollery or suthin +anuther, ses she, don't you be skeered, ses I, he's oney a-makin poetery; +ses I, he's ollers on hand at that ere busyness like Da & martin, and +Shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on +eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to +Parson Wilbur." + + +WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS + +1. Guvener B.: George Nixon Briggs of Massachusetts. + +6. John P. Robinson was a lawyer (1. 59) of Lowell, Mass. Mr. Lowell +had no intention of attacking the individual here; Mr. Robinson changed +his party allegiance and the letter published over his signature called +Lowell's attention to him. + +lb. Gineral C.: General Caleb Gushing, who took a prominent part in the +Mexican War, and was at this time the candidate for governor opposed to +Governor Briggs. + +16. pelf: money. + +23. vally: value. + +32. eppyletts: epaulets, the mark of an officer in the army or navy. + +39. debit, per contry: makes him the debtor and on the other side +credits us. + + +THE COURTIN' + +17. crook-necks: gourds. + +19. queen's-arm: musket. + +33-34. He had taken at least twenty girls to the social events of the +town. + +68. sekle: sequel, result. + +94. The Bay of Fundy has an exceptionally high tide which rises with +great rapidity. + + +SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE + +2. precerdents: legal decisions previously made which serve as models +for later decisions. + +4. this-worldify. The women in early New England dressed very simply +and sternly, but the odor of musk would make them seem to belong to this +world, which has beauty as well as severity. + +7. clawfoot: a piece of furniture, here a chest, having clawfeet. + +38. pithed with hardihood. New England people had hardihood at the +center of their lives. + +50. The bloodroot leaf is curled round the tiny write flower bud to +protect it. + +56. haggle: move slowly and with difficulty. + +100. vendoo: vendue, public sale. + +117. What American poets express a similar need of nearness to nature? + +144. Lowell's own education was four-story: grammar school, high school, +college, law school. + +165. A good application of the old story of the man who killed the goose +that laid the golden eggs. + +157. Cap-sheaf: the top sheaf on a stack and hence the completion of any +act. + +165. Lowell, himself, seems to be talking in these last lines, and not +young Hosea Biglow. + +209. English Civil War (1642-1649), which ended in the establishment of +the Commonwealth. + +241. As Adam's fall "Brought death into the world, and all our woe," it +was considered by all Puritans as an event of highest importance; most +men agree that their wives' bonnets stand at the other end of the scale. + +2&I. Crommle: Oliver Cromwell, under whom the English fought for a +Commonwealth. See note on line 219. + +270. After the short period of the Commonwealth, Charles II became ruler +of England (1660-1685). + +272. Millennium: a period when all government will be free from +wickedness. + + +AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE + +5. Autumn personified as Hebe, the cupbearer of the Greek gods. + +11. projected spirit. The poet's own spirit seems to take on material +form in the landscape before him. + +28. See the book of Ruth in the Old Testament for this exquisite story. + +32. Magellan's Strait: passage discovered by Magellan when he sailed +around the southern end of South America. + +51. retrieves: remedies. + +59. lapt: wrapped. + +77. Explain this simile. Has color any part in it? + +83. ensanguined: made blood-red by frost. + +92. The Charles is so placid and blue that it resembles a line of the +sky. + +99. In connection with this description of the marshes. Lanier's "The +Marshes of Glynn" may well be read, as it is the best description of +marshes in American literature. + +133. Compare Bryant's "Robert of Lincoln." + +140. Compare this figure with Bryant's in "To a Waterfowl," 1. 2. + +157. Compare with the Prelude to the Second Part of "The Vision of Sir +Launfal." + +163. The river Charles near its mouth is affected by the ocean tides. + +178. Why is the river pictured as dumb and blind? + +182. Compare Whittier's "Snow-Bound." + +187. gyves: fetters. + +190. Druid-like device. At Stonehenge (1. 192) in England is a confused +mass of stones, some of which are in their original positions and which +are supposed to have been placed by the Druids. It is possible that the +sun was worshiped here, but everything about the Druids is conjecture. + +201. A view near at hand is usually too detailed to be attractive. But +in the twilight, near-by objects become softened, the distance fades into +the horizon, and a soothing picture is formed. + +209. The schools and colleges. Probably Harvard College is here +included, as Lowell graduated there. + +217. Compare this idea with that in the following lines from +Wordsworth's "The Daffodils": + + "I gazed--and gazed--but little thought + What wealth the show to me had brought; + For oft, when on my couch I lie + In vacant or in pensive mood, + They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude; + And then my heart with pleasure fills, + And dances with the daffodils." + +The justice of these opinions should be tested by each student from his +own experience. + + +A FABLE FOR CRITICS + +36. ignified: melted. + +40. An example of Lowell's puns, which are generally critcized as +belonging to a low order of humor. + +41. Parnassus: a mountain in Greece, sacred to Apollo and the Muses, and +hence the domain of the arts in general. + +49. inter nos: between us. + +bl. ices. Isis was the Egyptian goddess of the arts and of agriculture. + +60. bemummying: a word coined by Lowell to mean causing one to dry up +like a mummy. + +68.. Pythoness: woman with power of prophecy. + +69. tripod: a bronze altar over which the Pythoness at Delphi uttered +her oracles. + +"Most of his judgments are, however, those of posterity though often, as +in the case of Hawthorns, he was characterizing writers who had not done +their best work." --CAIRNS. + +92. scathe: injury. + +93. rathe: early in the season. + +96. John Bunyan Fouque is an extraordinary combination of names as of +characteristics. Bunyan is known everywhere for his devotion to truth as +he saw it; the oak in character. Friederich Heinrich Karl, Baron de +Lamotte-Fouque, was a German soldier, but is better known as a romantic +writer. His best-known work is "Undine," the anemone in daintiness of +fancy and delicacy of expression. + +A Puritan Tieck is another anomaly. From the early poems in this +anthology the Puritan type is evident; Tieck was a German writer who +revolted against the sternness of life and believed in beauty and +romance. + +110. In 1821 Scott published The Pilot, a novel of the sea, which was +very popular. Cooper, however, thought he could improve upon it and so +in 1823 he published "The Pilot," hoping to show his superiority. + +112. The bay was used for a garland of honor to a poet. + +124. Nathaniel Bumpo was "Leatherstocking," who gave his name to the +series of Cooper s novels. + +126. Long Tom Coffin was the hero in The Pilot. + +130. derniere chemise. A pun upon the word "shift," which here means +stratagem. + +148. Parson Adams is one of the most delightful of all notion +characters. Fielding pictures him in his novel Joseph Andrews in such a +manner that you always sympathize with him even if you must laugh at his +simplicity. + +Dr. Primrose in Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield is a direct literary +descendant of Parson Adams. He is one of the best-known characters in +English fiction. To be classed with these two men is high praise for +Natty Bumpo. + +161. Barnaby Rudge, the hero of Dickens's novel of that name, kept a +tame raven. + +162. fudge: nonsense, rubbish. + +180. Collins and Gray: English poets. William Collins, an English lyric +poet (1721-1759) was a friend of Dr. Johnson. Thomas Gray (1716-1771) is +best known by his "Elegy in a Country Churchyard." + +182. Theocritus, a Greek poet of the third century B.C., was the founder +of pastoral poetry. Since his idea was the original one, his judgment of +his followers would be better than that of any one else. + +190. Irving had been so long a resident in Europe that America almost +despaired of reclaiming him. He did return, however, in 1832, after +making himself an authority on Spanish affairs. + +196. Cervantes: the author of Don Quixote, and the most famous of all +Spanish authors. He died on the same day as Shakespeare, April 23, 1616. + +200. Addison and Steele together wrote the Spectator Papers (1711-1712), +which had a great influence on the English reading public. The Sir Roger +de Coverley papers are the most widely read of these essays at the +present time. + +224. New Timon, published in 1846; a satire in which Tennyson among +others was severely lampooned. + +237. The comparison suggests Bunyan's journey with his bundle of sin. + +252. no clipper and meter: no person who could cut short or measure the +moods of the poet. + +271. The story of Orpheus and Eurydice may be found in any Greek +mythology. + + + + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-1894) + +[In 1830] most of our writers were sentimental; a few were profound; and +the nation at large began to be deeply agitated over social reforms and +political problems. The man who in such a period showed the +possibilities of humor, and whose humor was invariably tempered by +culture and flavored with kindness, did a service to our literature that +can hardly be overestimated." + + -WILLIAM J. LONG + +Born at Cambridge, Mass., he was brought up under the sternest type of +New England theology. He graduated from Harvard College in 1829 after +writing much college verse. It was Lowell who stimulated him to his best +work. He himself says, "Remembering some crude contributions of mine to +an old magazine, it occurred to me that their title might serve for some +fresh papers, and so I sat down and wrote off what came into my head +under the title, 'The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.'" He practiced +medicine in Boston and taught Anatomy and Physiology in Harvard until +1882. The latter years of his life were spent happily in Boston, where +he died. + +The poems by Holmes are used by permission of, and by special arrangement +with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of his works. + + +OLD IRONSIDES + +The frigate Constitution was popularly known as "Old Ironsides" and this +poem was written when the naval authorities proposed to break it up as +unfit for service. + + +THE LAST LEAF + +Holmes says this poem was suggested by the appearance in Boston of an old +man said to be a Revolutionary soldier. + + +THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS + +14. irised: having colors like those in a rainbow. + +14. crypt: secret recess. + + +CONTENTMENT + +3. In 1857-1858, when this poem was written, the ideal of elegance in +eastern cities of America was a "brown stone front" house. The +possession of such a mansion indicated large wealth. In the light of +this fact the humor of the verse is evident. The same principle is used +throughout. + +22. The position of Minister Plenipotentiary to the court of St. James-- +England--was considered the highest diplomatic position in the disposal +of the United States. How would such a position compare with filling the +governor's chair of any state? + +35. marrowy: rich. + +48. The paintings of Raphael and Titian are beyond purchase price now. +Most of them belong to the great galleries of Europe. Turner is a modern +painter whose work is greatly admired and held almost above price. + +64. vellum: fine parchment made of the skin of calves and used for +manuscripts. It turns cream-color with age. + +59. Stradivarius: a violin made by Antonio Stradivari, who lived (1644- +1737) in Cremona, Italy. These instruments created a standard so that +they are now the most highly prized violins in existence. + +64. buhl: brass, white metal, or tortoise shell inlaid in patterns is +the wood of furniture. So named from the French woodworker who perfected +it. + + +THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE + +10. Georgius Secundus: King George II of England. He was the son of +George I, who was elector of Hanover, as well as king of England. + +20, felloe: a part of the rim of a wooden wheel in which the spokes are +inserted. + +92. encore: we can say the same thing about their strength. + + +THOMAS BUCHANAN READ (1822-1872) + +Born in Pennsylvania, he was early apprenticed to a tailor. He drifted +until at last he made his way to Italy, where he studied and painted for +several years. Later he made Rome his permanent residence, and died +there. He was known as a clever artist and sculptor, but his best work +is the two poem; here quoted. + +The poems by Read are used by special permission of J. B. Lippincott +Company, the authorized publishers of the poems. + + +STORM ON ST. BERNARD + +Storm on St. Bernard may be compared with Excelsior in general subject +matter. Do they affect you in the same way? Are they alike in purpose? +Which seems most real to you? Why is "Excelsior" the more familiar? + + +DRIFTING + +Read was essentially an artist, and in this poem he expressed his +artistic soul more truly than in anything else he ever did. + +19. Ischia: an island in the bay of Naples. + +22. Capri: an island in the Mediterranean, best known for the Blue +Grotto. + + + + +WALT WHITMAN (1819-1891) + +"Walt Whitman...the chanter of adhesiveness, of the love of man for man, +may not be attractive to some of us....But Walt Whitman the tender nurse, +the cheerer of hospitals, the saver of soldier lives, is much more than +attractive he is inspiring." + --W. P. TRENT. + +Born on Long Island, he entered a printer's office when he was thirteen. +By the time he was twenty, he was editing his own paper, but he soon gave +it up for work on a New York newspaper. When he was thirty, be traveled +through the west; in "Pioneers" we have a part of the result. During + +the Civil War he gave himself up to nursing as long as his strength +lasted. From 1873 to the time of his death he was a great invalid and +poor, but every trial was nobly borne. + +The selections from Walt Whitman are included by special permission of +Mitchell Kennerley, the publisher of the complete authorized editions of +Walt Whitman's Works. + + +PIONEERS! O PIONEERS + +18. debouch: go out into. + + +O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! + +Written to express the grief of the nation over the death of Abraham +Lincoln at the time when the joy over the saving of the union was most +intense. + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Selections of American Poetry +by Margaret Sprague Carhart + diff --git a/old/apoet10.zip b/old/apoet10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5c83b90 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/apoet10.zip |